The yellow book: an illustrated quarterly (11.1896)

By Reginald Turner 247
“ Why not go abroad ! ” I suggested, though I saw clearly he
was far too ill.
“ I have given my life for that one story, but I don’t regret it.
Most men die and leave nothing behind. I have given the world a
possession. I have given it my best.”
Day after day I sat with him. As I watched him dying, I
realised how singularly simple and devoted his life had been. And
he, we both, waited eagerly for news of his life’s work.
One morning, a fortnight later, as I sat reading to him, a
passage from the Tentation de Saint Antoine, his landlady came in
with a note. I saw it was from the office of the-Review.
I stretched out my hand to take it, but he prevented me, crying
out with a petulant, childish anxiety.
“ No, no, it is for me,” he cried, clutching at it.
Thus the note ran: “Dear Sir,—We regret that your story,
which we have perused with interest, can find no place in our pages.
It is of no inconsiderable merit, but is somewhat crude and in
places ill-considered. We should advise you however to persevere
and in time no doubt you may produce something worthy.”
As he reached the end, Alan Herbert turned his face to the wall
and died.