"Just a small favor at the docks," Arthur said with a smile, the day's fatigue seemingly vanishing in his sister's smile. "But the pay was good. Tonight, we'll eat well."
He cut a large piece of soft bread and handed it to Lilian.
Lilian took it, but only held it carefully, hesitant to take a bite.
"Why aren't you eating?" Arthur asked.
"This... this must be very expensive, right?" Lilian whispered. "We should buy black bread, and save the rest of the money for your ink and manuscript paper."
Arthur reached out and ruffled his sister's hair.
"Listen, Lilian. Right now, your most important job is to eat and get well. Leave the money matters to me."
He picked up the bread and personally brought it to his sister's mouth. "Eat it. Think of it as medicine. This is my biggest trophy today, and you must help me enjoy it."
Lilian's eyes reddened slightly. She finally opened her mouth and began to eat in small bites. The soft, sweet taste was something she hadn't experienced in a long time. Arthur then handed her some milk.
The siblings enjoyed this simple but warm dinner by the dim oil lamp light.
All the disappointment and fatigue seemed to be healed by the aroma of the food and the warmth of family.
Late at night, Arthur lay on the cold bed, planning which magazine office to try his luck at tomorrow, when a series of urgent coughs, as if choking on water, came from the adjacent bed, followed by painful gasps as if trying to inhale.
"Lilian!" Arthur sat up abruptly and rushed over.
"Cough... cough... I..." Lilian was curled up in a ball, one hand clutching her chest tightly, the other reaching out weakly to him, seemingly wanting to say something, but it was broken into fragments by her violent gasps. She was like a fish thrown onto the shore, mouth open, but unable to draw air into her lungs.
Arthur quickly helped her up, letting her lean against him, while stroking her back, trying to help her catch her breath. He could clearly feel the fragile heart beneath his palm beating with a frantic and chaotic rhythm, as if it would break free from her chest the next second.
By the faint light seeping in from the window, he saw his sister's lips—they were a shocking purplish-blue.
Lack of oxygen!
"I'm fine... brother..." Lilian's voice was weak. "It's an old problem..."
Arthur knew this wasn't an "old problem." This was a warning from Death.
He didn't speak. He just wrapped his sister tightly in a blanket, then found all the clothes from the box and covered her with them. He kept her in a semi-sitting position, because he remembered the doctor saying it would lighten the burden on her heart. He sat by the bed, holding his sister's cold hand, and didn't close his eyes all night.
The next morning, Arthur's eyes were bloodshot.
He left the last bit of food for Lilian, then went out again. He first went to the docks, hoping to earn some emergency money like yesterday, at least enough to buy Lilian some better medicine.
However, yesterday's luck did not return.
He stood there all morning, not even getting a single translation opportunity.
At noon, Arthur stood in the cold wind of the docks, looking up in the direction of Fleet Street.
This was his last chance.
The last literary magazine—The Fortnightly Review.
Unlike the gloomy atmosphere of The Gentleman's Monthly and the other three magazine offices, The Fortnightly Review's office was filled with a tense and efficient atmosphere. Editors and reporters hurried to and fro, and the air was filled with a mixed scent of ink and coffee.
The Editor-in-Chief of the magazine, Mr. John Morley, received him.
He was a sharp-eyed, serious middle-aged man.
Arthur was somewhat distracted when he met this Editor-in-Chief.
Because, in his previous life, he seemed to have heard this name.
This person later seemed to become a Member of Parliament, a rather famous politician.
Of course, Arthur only had a vague impression, not very accurate.
Mr. Morley did not slight Arthur because of his youth and attire; he simply took the manuscript in a businesslike manner.
"So, a critique of Edgar Allan Poe?" Mr. Morley glanced at the title, adjusted his glasses. "A very bold subject. Poe's reputation in Britain... is not exactly good."
"I believe that stems from misunderstanding, sir," Arthur said.
Mr. Morley said nothing more, but began to read intently. His fingers were long and strong, and as he read deeper, the speed at which he turned the pages noticeably slowed.
The office was quiet, with only the ticking of the wall clock and the clamor of people from Fleet Street outside the window.
Arthur stood there, quietly awaiting judgment.
Mr. Morley's expression, from an initial calm, gradually turned to surprise, then to intense interest, and finally, when he finished the last page, his eyes gleamed with a light Arthur knew very well—the excitement and thrill of discovering a treasure.
He looked up, his sharp gaze re-examining the young man before him, as if wanting to see through him completely.
"Mr. Collins," Mr. Morley's voice was a little hoarse, but full of power, "I must admit, this is the most profound, most... most subversive literary critique I have read in nearly a year."
He stood up, walked around the desk, and approached Arthur, handing him back the manuscript paper.
No, he pushed it towards him.
"This article, we at The Fortnightly Review will take it!" Mr. Morley said decisively. "Not only will I publish it as the lead story in the next issue, I will also give you the highest standard of commentary fees in all of Britain—two pounds per thousand words!"
Arthur's heart pounded violently at that moment.
Two pounds per thousand words.
This figure exploded like a sweet bomb in Arthur's mind.
In this era, a skilled textile worker's weekly wage, after hard work, was about one pound. And the price offered by the Editor-in-Chief of The Fortnightly Review, known for his seriousness and rigor, was almost double the industry's top standard.
Arthur's article was about three thousand words, which meant he would receive a huge sum of six pounds—enough to cover his and Lilian's rent and living expenses in the countryside for three months.
In an instant, the cold of the attic, the hustle of the docks, the disdain of the old editors, all turned into a distant and blurry background. Arthur suppressed his inner euphoria: "Thank you very much for your generosity, Mr. Morley. However... I have a small request..."
Mr. Morley looked at him with interest, motioning for him to continue.
"I hope to receive the manuscript fee as soon as possible, at least a portion of it as an advance," Arthur said candidly. "To be honest with you, my sister is seriously ill and urgently needs money to improve her recuperation environment. Her heart is failing, sir. Last night, she almost suffocated because she couldn't breathe. I need money, I need money now to hire a real doctor for her."
He didn't fabricate any lofty reasons, but directly laid out his real predicament.
Mr. Morley was silent for a moment, then made a decision that even surprised Arthur.
He pulled three crisp one-pound banknotes from his wallet and placed them on the table.
"For this article, I will personally advance half of the manuscript fee," Mr. Morley said. "The rest will be settled by the magazine after publication. Additionally, I know a friend who works at the National Heart Hospital, which is the best place for treating heart conditions. If you need it, I can write you a letter of introduction."
Arthur was completely stunned.
He had anticipated many outcomes, but never one so... full of kindness and respect.
This liberal politician and man of letters, known in history for his toughness and rationality, showed him, a young man he had just met, the most brilliant side of Victorian gentlemanly conduct.
"Mr. Morley..." Arthur's throat was dry. "I... I don't know what to say. Thank you!"
"Don't thank me, Mr. Collins," Mr. Morley sat back in his chair, resuming the serious expression of an Editor-in-Chief. "I am investing in a future genius. Your article is not just an exoneration of Edgar Allan Poe; it proposes a brand new method of literary criticism. I believe it will cause an earthquake. I am simply reserving the epicenter of the next earthquake for my magazine in advance."
He paused, looking at Arthur with those sharp eyes: "I only have one request. I hope that your future manuscripts will prioritize The Fortnightly Review."
"Of course, sir," Arthur replied without hesitation, "It would be my honor."