d that I would make a name, and
not come back until I had done so. I refused all assistance; I only
wanted their good-will and belief in me, and this I knew neither of
them could honestly give me. The Dad implored me to let him assist me;
they both begged me to live at home until I could rely upon myself,
feel my own feet, or lastly, the most fatal sentence they could have
uttered in my state of pride, to remain at home until I realised the
_failure_ I was about to make and alter my mind.

"What a hopeless and silly thing is pride. It must be a dangerous
thing, too, if it can suddenly choke years of love and devotion.

"Pride was uppermost then when I left the house where we had all been
so happy, and went out into the world, and I told them both I would
only return when I had made myself famous, and not before. I believe
they both broke down when I left, but I was a selfish young brute, and
I never saw their view of things, nor how bitterly it must have hurt
them. Retribution was not long in coming; I found as time went on that
there were dozens of men, and women too, who could write better than I
could. I found a living was not easy to get. I went even further
still, and found at last that it was impossible to get any living at
all. Education--there were hundreds of men, highly educated men, too,
without any means of earning a living. Inspiration--and I had prated
about inspiration often enough; inspiration only became inspiration
when it was recognised as such. Luck, chance--I found there were no
such things, save as words. Money--I never made any now, and gradually
I went down and down, grew shabby, was passed hurriedly by friends of
my own choosing; then followed shabby rooms and little food, only to
give place in turn to an attic and no food at all. Pride must have
been still at work with a vengeance, for whatever I suffered there was
not a single day or night that I could not have rushed home and been
welcomed like the Prodigal of old, and been rejoiced over. But the
very idea of this gave me a chill feeling of horror. How could I go
home with all my boasts unfulfilled? Was I to creep home a
self-confessed failure, with the alternative of acknowledging it and
mending my ways and becoming the head of a business firm with a heart
embittered for life? I felt I would never do this. I would prefer to
starve upon the Embankment, and when I made that resolution I knew only
too well what I was in for.