It would be slavery worse than any penal
servitude, and even now she shudders at the prospect of prostituting her
great abilities to the necessities of such work as Meeson's made their
thousands out of--work out of which every spark of originality was
stamped into nothingness, as though it were the mark of the Beast. Yes,
it would be dreadful--it would break her heart; but she was prepared to
have her heart broken and her genius wrung out of her by inches, if only
she could get two hundred pounds wherewith to take Jeannie away to the
South of France. Mr. Meeson would, no doubt, make a hard bargain--the
hardest he could; but still, if she would consent to bind herself for a
sufficient number of years at a sufficiently low salary, he would
probably advance her a hundred pounds, besides the hundred for the
copyright of the new book.
And so having made up her mind to the sacrifice, she went to bed, and,
wearied out with misery, to sleep. And even as she slept, a Presence that
she could not see was standing near her bed, and a Voice that she could
not hear was calling through the gloom. Another mortal had bent low at
the feet of that Unknown God whom men name Death, and been borne away on
his rushing pinions into the spaces of the Hid.
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