Yearn Read Online Free PDF

observation, love affair, or even a base sexual liaison between those well-worn pages. It was futile. His biography would have to stand as it was written thus far. He was condemned. No doubt Horace Tuttle’s biography, whether superior or not, would eclipse his own by mere dint of Mr. Tuttle’s reputation. It was an unfair world, he reflected, and now one in which he was convinced he was about to lose reputation, hearth, and possibly his engagement. He might even be reduced to working for his father. Deeply depressed, the young biographer stared out the window. As if in response the sky was darkening with a summer storm. He would have to run home to avoid the downpour.
    He arrived half an hour later at his aunt’s house, half-drenched from the deluge (which he hadn’t managed to avoid). He shook himself dry in the entrance hall, only to be informed by the housekeeper that there was a gentleman waiting for him. “A financial gentleman judging by his frock coat and miserable demeanor, sir,” she added in a lowered voice.
    Convinced his life was about to engender further misery as well as a possible new creditor, D’Arcy contemplated climbing out a side window and escaping to Calais, but as he turned back his father’s lawyer confronted him in the entrance hall. The lawyer—an austere, humorless individual whose face wore an expression of perpetual disappointment, as if life had cheated him of some great prominence despite his professional success—snorted in disapproval.
    â€œMaster Hammer. Going somewhere?” D’Arcy winced; he hated the way all of his father’s employees still addressed him as “master.”
    â€œI had just remembered I had forgotten something. . . .”
    â€œIt can wait; we are due for a little talk.” With a notable lack of decorum, the lawyer pulled him into the drawing room. They stood in uncomfortable silence until the lawyer, realizing no hospitality would be offered voluntarily, took it upon himself to help himself to a small glass of port from a bottle sitting on a side table. “As you are aware, your father has, for some time now, expressed considerable unhappiness at your choice of profession, eager as he was to have his only son join him in partnership at the shipping company.”
    â€œCome to the point, Stanley; I am damp and there is supper waiting,” D’Arcy interrupted rudely, eager to avoid one of the longiloquent monologues the lawyer was prone to.
    â€œThe ‘point,’ Master Hammer, is simply that your stipend will cease altogether by the fourth of next month, after which your father expects you to be able to support both yourself and your future wife through the profits of your profession. He also expects your stipend to be paid back in total by the time you are thirty-five. There is a biography due to be published, is there not?”
    â€œThere is, but—”
    â€œThere are no buts, Master Hammer, not this time. Your father’s decision is final,” the lawyer concluded, and then, after reading the young man’s expression, placed a clammy hand on his arm. He was not a cruel man and, having known the writer since he was a child, was rather fonder of D’Arcy than the writer was of him. “I am sorry, Master Hammer.”
    Overwhelmed by this latest turn of events, D’Arcy sat down abruptly. Then, in a feeble attempt to conceal his reaction, he covered his brow with his hand. It felt as if the whole world was conspiring to cause his downfall. How could he possibly afford to marry Clementine now, never mind keep her as a wife, without his father’s financial support? And how could he possibly rely on his biography being a success now that his rival planned to publish the same biography? And as for the stipend to be repaid within three years—the only way he could imagine that to be possible would be to sell his very soul, an option that would not, in any