Blind Love

On the day after Lord Harry's description of the state of his mind

reached London, a gentleman presented himself at the publishing office

of Messrs. Boldside Brothers, and asked for the senior partner, Mr.

Peter Boldside. When he sent in his card, it bore the name of "Mr.

Vimpany."

"To what fortunate circumstance am I indebted, sir, for the honour of

your visit?" the senior partner inquired. His ingratiating manners, his

genial smile, his roundly resonant voice, were personal advantages of

which he made a merciless use. The literary customer who entered the

office, hesitating before the question of publishing a work at his own

expense, generally decided to pay the penalty when he encountered Mr.

Peter Boldside.

"I want to inquire about the sale of my work," Mr. Vimpany replied.

"Ah, doctor, you have come to the wrong man. You must go to my

brother."

Mr. Vimpany protested. "You mentioned the terms when I first applied to

you," he said, "and you signed the agreement."

"That is in my department," the senior partner gently explained. "And

I shall write the cheque when, as we both hope, your large profits

shall fall due. But our sales of works are in the department of my

brother, Mr. Paul Boldside." He rang a bell; a clerk appeared, and

received his instructions: "Mr. Paul. Good-morning, doctor."

Mr. Paul was, personally speaking, his brother repeated--without the

deep voice, and without the genial smile. Conducted to the office of

the junior partner, Mr. Vimpany found himself in the presence of a

stranger, occupied in turning over the pages of a newspaper. When his

name was announced, the publisher started, and handed his newspaper to

the doctor.

"This is a coincidence," he said. "I was looking, sir, for your name in

the pages which I have just put into your hand. Surely the editor can't

have refused to publish your letter?"

Mr. Vimpany was sober, and therefore sad, and therefore (again) not to

be trifled with by a mystifying reception. "I don't understand you," he

answered gruffly. "What do you mean?"

"Is it possible that you have not seen last week's number of the

paper?" Mr. Paul asked. "And you a literary man!" He forthwith produced

the last week's number, and opened it at the right place. "Read that,

sir," he said, with something in his manner which looked like virtuous

indignation.

Mr. Vimpany found himself confronted by a letter addressed to the

editor. It was signed by an eminent physician, whose portrait had

appeared in the first serial part of the new work--accompanied by a

brief memoir of his life, which purported to be written by himself. Not

one line of the autobiography (this celebrated person declared) had

proceeded from his pen. Mr. Vimpany had impudently published an

imaginary memoir, full of false reports and scandalous inventions--and

this after he had been referred to a trustworthy source for the

necessary particulars. Stating these facts, the indignant physician

cautioned readers to beware of purchasing a work which, so far as he

was concerned, was nothing less than a fraud on the public.