CHAPTER II. HOW EUSTACE WAS DISINHERITED
CHAPTER III. AUGUSTA’S LITTLE SISTER
CHAPTER IV. AUGUSTA’S DECISION
CHAPTER V. THE R.M.S. KANGAROO
CHAPTER VI. MR. TOMBEY GOES FORWARD
CHAPTER VII. THE CATASTROPHE
CHAPTER VIII. KERGUELEN LAND
CHAPTER IX. AUGUSTA TO THE RESCUE
CHAPTER X. THE LAST OF MR. MEESON
CHAPTER XI. RESCUED
CHAPTER XII. SOUTHAMPTON QUAY
CHAPTER XIII. EUSTACE BUYS A PAPER
CHAPTER XIV. AT HANOVER-SQUARE
CHAPTER XV. EUSTACE CONSULTS A LAWYER
CHAPTER XVI. SHORT ON LEGAL ETIQUETTE
CHAPTER XVII. HOW AUGUSTA WAS FILED
CHAPTER XVIII. AUGUSTA FLIES
CHAPTER XIX. MEESON _v._ ADDISON AND ANOTHER
CHAPTER XX. JAMES BREAKS DOWN
CHAPTER XXI. GRANT AS PRAYED
CHAPTER XXII. ST. GEORGE’S, HANOVER-SQUARE
CHAPTER XXIII. MEESON’S ONCE AGAIN
CHAPTER I.
AUGUSTA AND HER PUBLISHER.
Everybody who has any connection with Birmingham will be acquainted
with the vast publishing establishment still known by the short title
of “Meeson’s,” which is perhaps the most remarkable institution of the
sort in Europe. There are—or rather there were, at the date of the
beginning of this history—three partners in Meeson’s—Meeson himself,
the managing partner; Mr. Addison, and Mr. Roscoe—and people in
Birmingham used to say that there were others interested in the affair,
for Meeson’s was a “company” (limited).
However this may be, Meeson and Co. was undoubtedly a commercial
marvel. It employed more than two thousand hands; and its works, lit
throughout with the electric light, cover two acres and a quarter of
land. One hundred commercial travellers, at three pounds a week and a
commission, went forth east and west, and north and south, to sell the
books of Meeson (which were largely religious in their nature) in all
lands; and five-and-twenty tame authors (who were illustrated by
thirteen tame artists) sat—at salaries ranging from one to five hundred
a year—in vault-like hutches in the basement, and week by week poured
out that hat-work for which Meeson’s was justly famous. Then there were
editors and vice-editors, and heads of the various departments, and
sub-heads, and financial secretaries, and readers, and many managers;
but what their names were no man knew, because at Meeson’s all the
employees of the great house were known by numbers; personalities and
personal responsibility being the abomination of the firm. Nor was it
allowed to anyone having dealings with these items ever to see the same
number twice, presumably for fear lest the number should remember that
he was a man and a brother, and his heart should melt towards the
unfortunate, and the financial interests of Meeson’s should suffer. In
short, Meeson’s was an establishment created for and devoted to
money-making, and the fact was kept studiously and even insolently
before the eyes of everybody connected with it—which was, of course, as
it should be, in this happy land of commerce. After all that has been
written, the reader will not be surprised to learn that the partners in
Meeson’s were rich beyond the dreams of avarice. Their palaces would
have been a wonder even in ancient Babylon, and would have excited
admiration in the corruptest and most luxurious days of Rome. Where
could one see such horses, such carriages, such galleries of sculpture
or such collections of costly gems as at the palatial halls of Messrs.
Meeson, Addison, and Roscoe?
“And to think,” as the Mighty Meeson himself would say, with a lordly
wave of his right hand, to some astonished wretch of an author whom he
has chosen to overwhelm with the sight of this magnificence, “to think
that all this comes out of the brains of chaps like you! Why, young
man, I tell you that if all the money that has been paid to you
scribblers since the days of Elizabeth were added together it would not
come up to my little pile; but, mind you, it ain’t so much fiction that
has done the trick—it’s religion. It’s piety as pays, especially when
it’s printed.”
Then the unsophisticated youth would go away, his heart too full for
words, but pondering how these things were, and by-and-by he would pass
into the Meeson melting-pot and learn something about it.
One day King Meeson sat in his counting house counting out his money,
or, at least, looking over the books of the firm. He was in a very bad
temper, and his heavy brows were wrinkled up in a way calculated to
make the counting-house clerks shake on their stools. Meeson’s had a
branch establishment at Sydney, in Australia, which establishment had,
until lately, been paying—it is true not as well as the English one,
but, still, fifteen or twenty per cent. But now a wonder had come to
pass. A great American publishing firm had started an opposition house
in Melbourne, and their “cuteness” was more than the “cuteness” of
Meeson. Did Meeson’s publish an edition of the works of any standard
author at threepence per volume the opposition company brought out the
same work at twopence-halfpenny; did Meeson’s subsidise a newspaper to
puff their undertakings, the opposition firm subsidised two to cry them
down, and so on. And now the results of all this were becoming
apparent: for the financial year just ended the Australian branch had
barely earned a beggarly net dividend of seven per cent.
No wonder Mr. Meeson was furious, and no wonder that the clerks shook
upon their stools.
“This must be seen into, No. 3,” said Mr. Meeson, bringing his fist
down with a bang on to the balance-sheet.
No. 3 was one of the editors; a mild-eyed little man with blue
spectacles. He had once been a writer of promise; but somehow Meeson’s
had got him for its own, and turned him into a publisher’s hack.
“Quite so, Sir,” he said humbly. “It is very bad—it is dreadful to
think of Meeson’s coming down to seven per cent—seven per cent!” and he
held up his hands.
“Don’t stand there like a stuck pig, No. 3,” said Mr. Meeson, fiercely;
“but suggest something.”
“Well, Sir,” said No. 3 more humbly than ever, for he was terribly
afraid of his employer; “I think, perhaps, that somebody had better go
to Australia, and see what can be done.”
“I know one thing that can be done,” said Mr. Meeson, with a snarl:
“all those fools out there can be sacked, and sacked they shall be;
and, what’s more, I’ll go and sack them myself. That will do No. 3;
that will do;” and No. 3 departed, and glad enough he was to go.
As he went a clerk arrived, and gave a card to the great man.
“Miss Augusta Smithers,” he read; then with a grunt, “show Miss Augusta
Smithers in.”
Presently Miss Augusta Smithers arrived. She was a tall, well-formed
young lady of about twenty-five, with pretty golden hair, deep grey
eyes, a fine forehead, and a delicate mouth; just now, however, she
looked very nervous.
“Well, Miss Smithers, what is it?” asked the publisher.
“I came, Mr. Meeson—I came about my book.”
“Your book, Miss Smithers?” this was an affectation of forgetfulness;
“let me see?—forgive me, but we publish so many books. Oh, yes, I
remember; ‘Jemima’s Vow.’ Oh, well, I believe it is going on fairly.”
“I saw you advertised the sixteenth thousand the other day,” put in
Miss Smithers, apologetically.
“Did we—did we? ah, then, you know more about it than I do,” and he
looked at his visitor in a way that conveyed clearly enough that he
considered the interview was ended.
Miss Smithers rose, and then, with a spasmodic effort, sat down again.
“The fact is, Mr. Meeson,” she said—“The fact is, that, I thought that,
perhaps, as ‘Jemima’s Vow’ had been such a great success, you might,
perhaps—in short, you might be inclined to give me some small sum in
addition to what I have received.”
Mr. Meeson looked up. His forehead was wrinkled till the shaggy
eyebrows nearly hid the sharp little eyes.
“What!” he said. “_What_!”
At this moment the door opened, and a young gentleman came slowly in.
He was a very nice-looking young man, tall and well shaped, with a fair
skin and jolly blue eyes—in short, a typical young Englishman of the
better sort, aetate suo twenty-four. I have said that he came slowly
in, but that scarcely conveys the gay and _dégagé_ air of independence
which pervaded this young man, and which would certainly have struck
any observer as little short of shocking, when contrasted with the
worm-like attitude of those who crept round the feet of Meeson. This
young man had not, indeed, even taken the trouble to remove his hat,
which was stuck upon the back of his head, his hands were in his
pockets, a sacrilegious whistle hovered on his lips, and he opened the
door of the sanctum sanctorum of the Meeson establishment _with a
kick_!
“How do, uncle?” he said to the Commercial Terror, who was sitting
there behind his formidable books, addressing him even as though he
were an ordinary man. “Why, what’s up?”
Just then, however, he caught sight of the very handsome young lady who
was seated in the office, and his whole demeanour underwent a most
remarkable change; out came the hands from his pockets, off went the
hat, and, turning, he bowed, really rather nicely, considering how
impromptu the whole performance was.
“What is it, Eustace?” asked Mr. Meeson, sharply.
“Oh, nothing, uncle; nothing—it can bide,” and, without waiting for an
invitation, he took a chair, and sat down in such a position that he
could see Miss Smithers without being seen of his uncle.
“I was saying, Miss Smithers, or rather, I was going to say,” went on
the elder Meeson, “that, in short, I do not in the least understand
what you can mean. You will remember that you were paid a sum of fifty
pounds for the copyright of ‘Jemima’s Vow.’”
“Great Heavens!” murmured Master Eustace, behind; “what a do!”
“At the time an alternative agreement, offering you seven per cent on
the published price of the book, was submitted to you, and, had you
accepted it, you would, doubtless, have realized a larger sum,” and Mr.
Meeson contracted his hairy eyebrows and gazed at the poor girl in a
way that was, to say the least, alarming. But Augusta, though she felt
sadly inclined to flee, still stood to her guns, for, to tell the
truth, her need was very great.
“I could not afford to wait for the seven per cent, Mr. Meeson,” she
said humbly.
“Oh, ye gods! seven per cent, when he makes about forty-five!” murmured
Eustace, in the background.
“Possibly, Miss Smithers; possibly;” went on the great man. “You must
really forgive me if I am not acquainted with the exact condition of
your private affairs. I am, however, aware from experience that the
money matters of most writing people are a little embarrassed.”
Augusta winced, and Mr. Meeson, rising heavily from his chair, went to
a large safe which stood near, and extracted from it a bundle of
agreements. These he glanced at one by one till he found what he was
looking for.
“Here is the agreement,” he said; “let me see? ah, I thought
so—copyright fifty pounds, half proceeds of rights of translation, and
a clause binding you to offer any future work you may produce during
the next five years to our house on the seven per cent agreement, or a
sum not exceeding one hundred pounds for the copyright. Now, Miss
Smithers, what have you to say? You signed this paper of your own free
will. It so happens that we have made a large profit on your book:
indeed, I don’t mind telling you that we have got as much as we gave
you back from America for the sale of the American rights; but that is
no ground for your coming to ask for more money than you agreed to
accept. I never heard of such a thing in the whole course of my
professional experience; never!” and he paused, and once more eyed her
sternly.
“At any rate, there ought to be something to come to me from the rights
of translation—I saw in the paper that the book was to be translated
into French and German,” said Augusta, faintly.
“Oh! yes, no doubt—Eustace, oblige me by touching the bell.”
The young gentleman did so, and a tall, melancholy-looking clerk
appeared.
“No. 18,” snarled Mr. Meeson, in the tone of peculiar amiability that
he reserved for his employés, “make out the translation account of
‘Jemima’s Vow,’ and fill up a cheque of balance due to the author.”
No. 18 vanished like a thin, unhappy ghost, and Mr. Meeson once more
addressed the girl before him. “If you want money, Miss Smithers,” he
said, “you had better write us another book. I am not going to deny
that your work is good work—a little too deep, and not quite orthodox
enough, perhaps; but still good. I tested it myself, when it came to
hand—which is a thing I don’t often do—and saw it was good selling
quality, and you see I didn’t make a mistake. I believe ‘Jemima’s Vow’
will sell twenty thousand without stopping—here’s the account.”
As he spoke the spectre-like clerk put down a neatly-ruled bit of paper
and an unsigned cheque on the desk before his employer, and then smiled
a shadowy smile and vanished.
Mr. Meeson glanced through the account, signed the cheque, and handed
it, together with the account to Augusta, who proceeded to read it. It
ran thus:—
AUGUSTA SMITHERS _in account with_ MEESON & Co.
£ s d To Sale of Right
of Translation of
7 0 0 “Jemima’s
Vow” into French......
Do. do. do. into
German
7 0 0 ———— £14 0 0
======== £ s d Less
amount due to Messrs.
Meeson, being 7 0
0 one-half of net
proceeds Less
Commission, &c
3 19 0
————— £10 19 0
========== Balance due
to Author, as per cheque
£ 3 1 0
herewith.
————
Augusta looked, and then slowly crumpled up the cheque in her hand.
“If I understand, Mr. Meeson,” she said, “you have sold the two rights
of translation of my book, which you persuaded me to leave in your
hands, for £14; out of which I am to receive £3 1s.?”
“Yes, Miss Smithers. Will you be so kind as to sign the receipt; the
fact is that I have a good deal of business to attend to.”
“No, Mr. Meeson,” suddenly said Augusta, rising to her feet and looking
exceedingly handsome and imposing in her anger. “No; I will not sign
the receipt, and I will not take this cheque. And, what is more, I will
not write you any more books. You have entrapped me. You have taken
advantage of my ignorance and inexperience, and entrapped me so that
for five years I shall be nothing but a slave to you, and, although I
am now one of the most popular writers in the country, shall be obliged
to accept a sum for my books upon which I cannot live. Do you know that
yesterday I was offered a thousand pounds for the copyright of a book
like ‘Jemima’s Vow’?—it’s a large sum; but I have the letter. Yes, and
I have the book in manuscript now; and if I could publish it I should
be lifted out of poverty, together with my poor little sister!” and she
gave a sob. “But,” she went on, “I cannot publish it, and I will not
let you have it and be treated like this; I had rather starve. I will
publish nothing for five years, and I will write to the papers and say
why—because I have been _cheated_, Mr. Meeson!”
“Cheated!” thundered the great man. “Be careful, young lady; mind what
you are saying. I have a witness; Eustace, you hear, ‘_cheated_’!
Eustace, ‘_cheated_’!”
“_I_ hear,” said Eustace, grimly.
“Yes, Mr. Meeson, I said ‘_cheated_’; and I will repeat it, whether I
am locked up for it or not. Good morning, Mr. Meeson,” and she
curtseyed to him, and then suddenly burst into a flood of tears.
In a minute Eustace was by her side.
“Don’t cry, Miss Smithers; for Heaven’s sake, don’t. I can’t bear to
see it,” he said.
She looked up, her beautiful grey eyes full of tears, and tried to
smile.
“Thank you,” she said; “I am very silly, but I am so disappointed. If
you only knew—. There, I will go. Thank you,” and in another instant
she had drawn herself up and left the room.
“Well,” said Mr. Meeson, senior, who had been sitting at his desk with
his great mouth open, apparently too much astonished to speak. “Well,
there is a vixen for you. But she’ll come round. I’ve known them to do
that sort of thing before—there are one or two down there,” and he
jerked his thumb in the direction where the twenty and five tame
authors sat each like a rabbit in his little hutch and did hat-work by
the yard, “who carried on like that. But they are quiet enough now—they
don’t show much spirit now. I know how to deal with that sort of
thing—half-pay and a double tale of copy—that’s the ticket. Why, that
girl will be worth fifteen hundred a year to the house. What do you
think of it, young man, eh?”
“I think,” answered his nephew, on whose good-tempered face a curious
look of contempt and anger had gathered, “I think that you ought to be
ashamed of yourself!”