"What about the novel? Might we hope for speedy, though posthumous,
publication? We were greedy; the world should know how great a literary
genius it had lost. Was it ready for press, as--did she
remember?--she'd assured me it would certainly be by the time I came
back?"
Mrs. Pogson did not betray any sign of emotion. Her thin hands remained
perfectly still in her crape-covered lap.
"There is no novel," she calmly told me. "There never has been any
novel. Heber did not finish it because he never began it. He did not
possess the creative faculty. You were not content with what he gave.
You asked of him that which he could not give. At first he played with
you--it amused him. You were so gullible, so absurdly ignorant. Then he
hesitated to undeceive you--in that, I admit, he was weak. But he
suffered for his weakness. It made him unhappy. Oh I how I have
hated--how I still hate you!--for I saved him from poverty, from hard
work. I secured him a peaceful, beautiful life, till you came and
spoilt it.... All the money was mine," she said.
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