"Oh," replied Henry in the grand manner, "I can read it to-morrow morning.
He said to himself that he was not going to get excited about a mere interview, though it was his first interview. During the past few days the world had apparently wakened up to his existence. Even the men at the office had got wind of his achievement, and Sir George had been obliged to notice it. At Powells everyone pretended that this was the same old Henry Knight who arrived so punctually each day, and yet everyone knew secretly that it was not the same old Henry Knight.
Everyone, including Henry, felt--and could not dismiss the feeling--that Henry was conferring a favour on the office by working as usual. There seemed to be something provisional, something unreal, something uncanny, in the continuance of his position there. And Sir George, when he demanded his services to take down letters in shorthand, had the air of saying apologetically: "Of course, I know you"re only here for fun; but, since you are here, we may as well carry out the joke in a practical manner." Similar phenomena occurred at Dawes Road. Sarah"s awe of Henry, always great, was enormously increased. His mother went about in a state of not being quite sure whether she had the right to be his mother, whether she was not taking a mean advantage of him in remaining his mother. Aunt Annie did not give herself away, but on her face might be read a continuous, proud, gentle surprise that Henry should eat as usual, drink as usual, talk simply as usual, and generally behave as though he was not one of the finest geniuses in England.
Further, Mr. Onions Winter had written to ask whether Henry was proceeding with a new book, and how pleased he was at the prospective privilege of publishing it. Nine other publishers had written to inform him that they would esteem it a favour if he would give them the refusal of his next work. Messrs. Antonio, the eminent photographers of Regent Street, had written offering to take his portrait gratis, and asking him to deign to fix an appointment for a seance. The editor of _Which is Which_, a biographical annual of inconceivable utility, had written for intimate details of his age, weight, pastimes, works, ideals, and diet.
The proprietary committee of the Park Club in St. James"s Square had written to suggest that he might join the club without the formality of paying an entrance fee. The editor of a popular magazine had asked him to contribute his views to a "symposium" about the proper method of spending quarter-day. Twenty-five charitable inst.i.tutions had invited subscriptions from him. Three press-cutting agencies had sent him cuttings of reviews of _Love in Babylon_, and the reviews grew kinder and more laudatory every day. Lastly, Mr. Onions Winter was advertising the thirty-first thousand of that work.
It was not to be expected that the recipient of all these overtures, the courted and sought-for author of _Love in Babylon_, should disarrange the tenor of his existence in order to read an interview with himself in a ladies" penny paper. And Henry repeated, as he sat in the midst of the zinc circle, that he would peruse Flossie Brighteye"s article on Sunday morning at breakfast. Then he began thinking about Flossie"s tight-fitting bodice, and wondered what she had written. Then he murmured: "Oh, nonsense! I"ll read it to-morrow. Plenty soon enough."
Then he stopped suddenly and causelessly while applying the towel to the small of his back, and stood for several moments in a state of fixity, staring at a particular spot on the wall-paper. And soon he dearly perceived that he had been too hasty in refusing Aunt Annie"s suggestion. However, he had made his bed, and so he must lie on it, both figuratively and factually....
The next thing was that he found himself, instead of putting on his pyjamas, putting on his day-clothes. He seemed to be doing this while wishing not to do it. He did not possess a dressing-gown--Sat.u.r.day-nighters and backbones seldom do. Hence he was compelled to dress himself completely, save that he a.s.sumed a silk m.u.f.fler instead of a collar and necktie, and omitted the usual stockings between his slippers and his feet. In another minute he unostentatiously entered the dining-room.
"Nay," his mother was saying, "I can"t read it." Tears of joyous pride had rendered her spectacles worse than useless. "Here, Annie, read it aloud."
Henry smiled, and he tried to make his smile carry so much meaning, of pleasant indifference, careless amus.e.m.e.nt, and benevolent joy in the joy of others, that it ended by being merely foolish.
And Aunt Annie began:
""It is not too much to say that Mr. Henry Knight, the author of _Love in Babylon_, the initial volume of the already world-famous Satin Library, is the most-talked-of writer in London at the present moment.
I shall therefore make no apology for offering to my readers an account of an interview which the young and gifted novelist was kind enough to give to me the other evening. Mr. Knight is a legal luminary well known in Lincoln"s Inn Fields, the right-hand man of Sir George Powell, the celebrated lawyer. I found him in his formidable room seated at a----""
"What does she mean by "formidable," Henry? "I don"t think that"s quite nice," said Mrs. Knight.
"No, it isn"t," said Aunt Annie. "But perhaps she means it frightened her."
"That"s it," said Henry. "It was Sir George"s room, you know."
"She doesn"t _look_ as if she would be easily frightened," said Aunt Annie. "However--"seated at a large table littered with legal doc.u.ments.
He was evidently immersed in business, but he was so good as to place himself at my disposal for a few minutes. Mr. Knight is twenty-three years of age. His father was a silk-mercer in Oxford Street, and laid the foundation of the fortunes of the house now known as Duck and Peabody Limited.""
"That"s very well put," said Mrs. Knight.
"Yes, isn"t it?" said Aunt Annie, and continued in her precise, even tones:
"""What first gave you the idea of writing, Mr. Knight?" I inquired, plunging at once _in medias res_. Mr. Knight hesitated a few seconds, and then answered: "I scarcely know. I owe a great deal to my late father. My father, although first and foremost a business man, was devoted to literature. He held that Shakspere, besides being our greatest poet, was the greatest moral teacher that England has ever produced. I was brought up on Shakspere," said Mr. Knight, smiling. "My father often sent communications to the leading London papers on subjects of topical interest, and one of my most precious possessions is a collection of these which he himself put into an alb.u.m."""
Mrs. Knight removed her spectacles and wiped her eyes.
"""With regard to _Love in Babylon_, the idea came to me--I cannot explain how. And I wrote it while I was recovering from a severe illness----"""
"I didn"t say "severe,"" Henry interjected. "She"s got that wrong."
"But it _was_ severe, dear," said Aunt Annie, and once more continued: """I should never have written it had it not been for the sympathy and encouragement of my dear mother----"""
At this point Mrs. Knight sobbed aloud, and waved her hand deprecatingly.
"Nay, nay!" she managed to stammer at length. "Read no more. I can"t stand it. I"ll try to read it myself to-morrow morning while you"re at chapel and all"s quiet."
And she cried freely into her handkerchief.
Henry and Aunt Annie exchanged glances, and Henry retired to bed with _Home and Beauty_ under his arm. And he read through the entire interview twice, and knew by heart what he had said about his plans for the future, and the state of modern fiction, and the tendency of authors towards dyspepsia, and the question of realism in literature, and the Stream of Trashy Novels Constantly Poured Forth by the Press. The whole thing seemed to him at first rather dignified and effective. He understood that Miss Foster was no common Fleet Street hack.
But what most impressed him, and coloured his dreams, was the final sentence: "As I left Mr. Knight, I could not dismiss the sensation that I had been in the presence of a man who is morally certain, at no distant date, to loom large in the history of English fiction.--FLOSSIE BRIGHTEYE."
A pa.s.sing remark about his "pretty suburban home" was the sauce to this dish.
CHAPTER XIV
HER NAME WAS GERALDINE
A few mornings later, in his post, whose proportions grew daily n.o.bler and more imposing, Henry found a letter from Mark Snyder. "I have been detained in America by illness," wrote Mark in his rapid, sprawling, inexcusable hand, "and am only just back. I wonder whether you have come to any decision about the matter which we discussed when you called here. I see you took my advice and went to Onions Winter. If you could drop in to-morrow at noon or a little after, I have something to show you which ought to interest you." And then there was a postscript: "My congratulations on your extraordinary success go without saying."
After Henry had deciphered this invitation, he gave a glance at the page as a whole, which had the air of having been penned by Planchette in a state of violent hysteria, and he said to himself: "It"s exactly like Snyder, that is. He"s a clever chap. He knows what he"s up to. As to my choosing Onions Winter, yes, of course it was due to him."
Henry was simple, but he was not a fool. He was modest and diffident, but, as is generally the case with modest and diffident persons, there existed, somewhere within the recesses of his consciousness, a very good conceit of himself. He had already learnt, the trout, to look up through the water from his hole and compare the skill of the various anglers on the bank who were fishing for the rise. And he decided that morning, finally: "Snyder shall catch me." His previous decision to the same effect, made under the influence of the personal magnetism of Miss Foster, had been annulled only the day before. And the strange thing was that it had been annulled because of Miss Foster"s share in it, and in consequence of the interview in _Home and Beauty_. For the more Henry meditated upon that interview the less he liked it. He could not have defined its offence in his eyes, but the offence was nevertheless there. And, further, the interview seemed now scarcely a real interview. Had it dealt with any other celebrity, it would have been real enough, but in Henry"s view Henry was different. He was only an imitation celebrity, and Miss Foster"s production was an imitation interview. The entire enterprise, from the moment when he gave her Sir George"s lead pencil to write with, to the moment when he gave her his own photograph out of the frame on the drawing-room mantelpiece, had been a pretence, and an imposition on the public. Surely if the public knew...! And then, "pretty suburban home"! It wasn"t ugly, the house in Dawes Road; indeed, he esteemed it rather a nice sort of a place, but "pretty suburban home" meant--well, it meant the exact opposite of Dawes Road: he was sure of that. As for Miss Foster, he suspected, he allowed himself to suspect, he audaciously whispered when he was alone in a compartment on the Underground, that Miss Foster was a pushing little thing. A reaction had set in against Flossie Brighteye.
And yet, when he called upon Mark Snyder for the purpose of being caught, he was decidedly piqued, he was even annoyed, not to find her in her chair in the outer room. "She must have known I was coming," he reflected swiftly. "No, perhaps she didn"t. The letter was not dictated.... But then it was press-copied; I am sure of that by the smudges on it. She must certainly have known I was coming." And, despite the verdict that she was a pushing young thing, Henry felt it to be in the nature of a personal grievance that she was not always waiting for him there, in that chair, with her golden locks and her smile and her tight bodice, whenever he cared to look in. His right to expect her presence seemed part of his heritage as a man, and it could not be challenged without disturbing the very foundations of human society. He did not think these thoughts clearly as he crossed the outer room into the inner under the direction of Miss Foster"s unexciting colleague, but they existed vaguely and furtively in his mind. Had anyone suggested that he cared twopence whether Miss Foster was there or not, he would have replied with warm sincerity that he did not care three halfpence, nor two straws, nor a bilberry, nor even a jot.
"Well," cried Mark Snyder, with his bluff and jolly habit of beginning interviews in the middle, and before the caller had found opportunity to sit down. "All you want now is a little bit of judicious engineering!" And Mark"s rosy face said: "I"ll engineer you."
Upon demand Henry produced the agreement with Onions Winter, and he produced it with a shamed countenance. He knew that Mark Snyder would criticise it.
"Worse than I expected," Mr. Snyder observed. "Worse than I expected. A royalty of twopence in the shilling is all right. But why did you let him off the royalty on the first five thousand copies? You call yourself a lawyer! Listen, young man. I have seen the world, but I have never seen a lawyer who didn"t make a d----d fool of himself when it came to his own affairs. Supposing _Love in Babylon_ sells fifty thousand--which it won"t; it won"t go past forty--you would have saved my ten per cent.
commission by coming to me in the first place, because I should have got you a royalty on the first five thousand. See?"
"But you weren"t here," Henry put in.
"I wasn"t here! G.o.d bless my soul! Little Geraldine Foster would have had the sense to get that!"
(So her name was Geraldine.)
"It isn"t the money," Mark Snyder proceeded. "It"s the idea of Onions Winter playing his old game with new men. And then I see you"ve let yourself in for a second book on the same terms, if he chooses to take it. That"s another trick of his. Look here," Mr. Snyder smiled persuasively, "I"ll thank you to go right home and get that second book done. Make it as short as you can. When that"s out of the way---- Ah!"
He clasped his hands in a sort of ecstasy.
"I will," said Henry obediently. But a dreadful apprehension which had menaced him for several weeks past now definitely seized him.
"And I perceive further," said Mr. Snyder, growing sarcastic, "that in case Mr. Onions Winter chooses to copyright the book in America, you are to have half-royalties on all copies sold over there. Now about America," Mark continued after an impressive pause, at the same time opening a drawer and dramatically producing several paper-covered volumes therefrom. "See this--and this--and this--and this! What are they? They"re pirated editions of _Love in Babylon_, that"s what they are. You didn"t know? No, of course not. I"m told that something like a couple of hundred thousand copies have been sold in America up to date.
I brought these over with me as specimens."
"Then Onions Winter didn"t copyright----"
"No, sir, he didn"t. That incredible a.s.s did not. He"s just issued what he calls an authorized edition there at half a dollar, but what will that do in the face of this at twenty cents, and this wretched pamphlet at ten cents?" Snyder fingered the piracies. "Twopence in the shilling on two hundred thousand copies at half a dollar means over three thousand pounds. That"s what you might well have made if Providence, doubtless in a moment of abstraction, had not created Onions Winter an incredible a.s.s, and if you had not vainly imagined that because you were a lawyer you had nothing to learn about contracts."
"Still," faltered Henry, after he had somewhat recovered from these shrewd blows, "I shall do pretty well out of the English edition."