Constance did not find Johnson without asking her way many times, and
losing it nearly as often, in the huge new building which was the
residence and habitation of the newspaper. Nor did her appearance fail
to excite surprise and admiration in the numerous reporters, messengers
and other members of the establishment who had glimpses of her as she
passed rapidly on, from corridor to corridor. It happened that Johnson
was in the room allotted to his department, which was not always the
case at that hour, for he did much of his work at his home.
“Come in!” he said sharply, without looking up from his writing.
“Well—what is it? Oh!” as he saw Miss Fearing standing before him. “I
beg your pardon, madam!”
“Are you Mr. Johnson? Am I disturbing you?” Constance asked. She was
beginning to be surprised at her own audacity, and almost wished she had
not come.
“Yes madam. My name is Johnson, and my time is at your service,” said
the pale young man, moving forward his best chair and offering it to
her.
“Thank you. I will not trouble you long. I have here a novel in
manuscript——”
Johnson interrupted her promptly.
“Excuse me, madam, but to avoid all misunderstanding, I should tell you
frankly from the first that we never publish fiction——”
“No, of course not,” Constance broke in. “Let me tell my story.”
Johnson bowed his head and assumed an attitude of attention.
“A friend of yours,” the young girl continued, “has written this book.
His name is Mr. George Winton Wood——”
“I know him very well.” Johnson wondered why George had not come
himself, and wondered especially how he happened to dispose of so young
and beautiful an ambassadress.
“Yes—he has often told me about you,” said Constance. “Very well. He has
written this novel, and I have read it. He thinks it is not worth
publishing, and I think it is. I want to ask a great favour of you. Will
you read it yourself?”
The pale young man hesitated. He was intensely conscientious, and he
feared there was something queer about the business.
“Pardon me,” he said, “does Mr. Wood know that you have brought it to
me?”
“No indeed! I would not have him know it for the world!”
“Then I would rather not——”
“But you must!” Constance exclaimed energetically. “It is splendid, and
he wants to burn it. It will make his reputation in a day—I assure you
it will! And besides, I would not promise him not to show it. Please,
please, Mr. Johnson——”
“Well, if you are quite sure there is no promise——”
“Oh, quite, quite sure. And will you give me your opinion very soon? If
you begin to read it you will not be able to lay it down.”
Johnson smiled as he thought of the hundreds of manuscripts he had read
for publishers. He had never found much difficulty in laying aside any
of them.
“It is true,” Constance insisted. “It is a great book. There has been
nothing like it for ever so many years.”
“Very well, madam. Give me the screed and I will read it. When shall I
send—or would you rather——”
He stopped, not knowing whether she wished to give her name. Constance
hesitated, too, and blushed faintly.
“I am Miss Fearing,” she said. “I live in Washington Square. Will you
write down the address? Come and see me—or are you too busy?”
“I will bring you the manuscript the day after to-morrow, Miss Fearing.”
“Oh please, yes. Not later, because I cannot go out of town until I
know—I mean, I want to go to Newport as soon as possible. Come after
five. Will you? I mean if it is not giving you really too much
trouble——”
“Not in the least, Miss Fearing,” said the pale young man with alacrity.
He was thinking that for the sake of conversing a quarter of an hour
with such an exceedingly amiable young lady, he would put himself to
vastly more trouble than was involved in stopping at Washington Square
on his way up town in the afternoon.
“Thank you. You are so kind. Good-bye, Mr. Johnson.” She held out her
hand, but Johnson seized his hat and prepared to accompany her.
“Let me take you to the Elevated, Miss Fearing,” he said.
“Thank you very much, but I have a carriage downstairs,” said Constance.
“If you would show me the way—it is so very complicated.”
“Certainly, Miss Fearing.”
Constance wondered why he repeated her name so often, whether it was a
habit he had, or whether he was nervous, or whether he thought it good
manners. She was not so much impressed with him at first sight as she
had expected to be. He had not said anything at all clever, though it
was true that there had not been many opportunities for wit in the
conversation that had taken place. He belonged to a type with which she
was not familiar, and she could not help asking herself whether George
had other friends like him, who, if she knew them, would call her by her
name half a dozen times in three minutes, and if he had many of them
whether, in the event of her marrying him, she would be expected to know
them all and to like them for his sake. Not that there was anything
common or vulgar about this Johnson whom George praised so much. He
spoke quietly, without any especial accent, and quite without
affectation. He was dressed with perfect simplicity and good taste,
there was nothing awkward in his manner—indeed Constance vaguely wished
that he might have shown some little awkwardness or shyness. He was
evidently a man of the highest education, and George said he was a man
of the highest intelligence, but as Constance gave him her hand and he
closed the door of the brougham, the impression came over her with
startling vividness, that Mr. Johnson was emphatically not a man she
would ask to dinner. She felt sure that if she met him in society she
should feel a vague surprise at his being there, though she might find
it impossible to say why he should not. On the other hand, though she
was aware that she put herself in his power to some extent, since it was
impossible that he should not guess that her interest in George Wood was
the result of something at least a little stronger than ordinary
friendship, yet she very much preferred to trust this stranger rather
than to confide in any of the men she knew in society, not excepting
John Bond himself.
At five o’clock on the day agreed upon, Constance was informed that “a
gentleman, a Mr. Johnson,” had called, saying that he came by
appointment.
“You are so kind,” said Constance, as he sat down opposite to her. He
held the manuscript in his hand. “And what do you think of it? Am I not
right?”
“I am very much surprised,” said the pale young man. “It is a remarkable
book, Miss Fearing, and it ought to be published at once.”
Constance had felt sure of the answer, but she blushed with pleasure, a
fact which did not escape Johnson’s quiet scrutiny.
“You really think Mr. Wood has talent?” she asked, for the sake of
hearing another word of praise.
“There is more talent in one of his pages than in the whole aggregate
works of half a dozen ordinarily successful writers,” Johnson answered
with emphasis.
“I am so glad you think so—so glad. And what is the first thing to be
done in order to get this published? You see, I must ask your help, now
that you have given your opinion.”
“Will you leave the matter in my hands, Miss Fearing?”
Constance hesitated. There was assuredly no one who would be more likely
to do the proper thing in the matter, and yet she reflected that she
knew nothing or next to nothing of the man before her, except from
George’s praise of his intelligence.
“Suppose that a publisher accepts the book,” she said warily, “what will
he give Mr. Wood for it?”
“Ten per cent on the advertised retail price,” Johnson answered
promptly.
“Of every copy sold, I suppose,” said Constance, who had a remarkably
good head for business. “That is not much, is it? And besides, how is
one to know that the publisher is honest? One hears such dreadful
stories about those people.”
Johnson laughed a little.
“Faith is the evidence of things unseen, supported by reasonable and
punctual payments,” he said. “Publishers are not all Cretans, Miss
Fearing. There be certain just men among them who have reputations to
lose.”
“And none of them would do better than that by the book? But of course
you know. Have you ever published anything yourself? Forgive my
ignorance——”
“I once published a volume of critical essays,” Johnson answered.
“What was the title? I must read it—please tell me.”
“It is not worth the trouble, I assure you. The title was that—_Critical
Essays_ by William Johnson.”
“Thank you, I will remember. And will you really do your very best for
Mr. Wood’s book? Do you think it could be published in a fortnight?”
“A fortnight!” exclaimed Johnson, aghast at Constance’s ignorance.
“Three months would be the shortest time possible.”
“Three months! Dear me, what a length of time!”
Johnson rapidly explained as well as he could the principal reasons why
it takes longer to publish a book than to write one. He exchanged a few
more words with Constance, promising to make every effort to push on the
appearance of the novel, but advising her to expect no news whatever for
several months. Then he took his leave.
Half an hour later Constance was at her bookseller’s.
“I want a book called _Critical Essays_, by William Johnson,” she said.
“Have you got it, Mr. Popples?”
She waited some time before it was brought to her. Then she pretended to
look through it carefully, examining the headings of the papers that
were collected in it.
“Is it worth reading?” she asked carelessly.
“Excellent, Miss Fearing,” answered the grey-haired professional
bookseller. He had known Constance since she had been a mere child with
a passion for Mr. Walter Crane’s picture-books. “Excellent,” he
repeated, emphatically. “A little dry perhaps, but truly excellent.”
“Has it been a success, do you know?”
“Yes, I know, Miss Fearing,” answered Mr. Popples, with a meaning smile.
“I know very well. I happen to know that it did not pay for the
printing.”
“Did the author not even get ten per cent on the advertised retail
price?” Constance inquired.
Mr. Popples stared at her for a moment, evidently wondering where she
had picked up the phrase. He immediately suspected her of having
perpetrated a literary misdeed in one volume.
“No, Miss Fearing. I happen to know that Mr. Johnson did not get ten per
cent on the advertised retail price of his book; in point of fact, he
got nothing at all for it, excepting a number of very flattering
notices. But excuse me, Miss Fearing, if you were thinking of venturing
upon publishing anything——” His voice dropped to a confidential pitch.
“I?” exclaimed Constance.
“Well, Miss Fearing, it could be done very discreetly, you know. Just a
little volume of sweet verse? Is that it, Miss Fearing? Now, you know,
that kind of thing would have a run in society, and if you would like to
put it into my hands, I know a publisher——”
“But, Mr. Popples,” interrupted Constance, recovering from her amusement
so far as to be able to interrupt the current of the bookseller’s
engaging offers, “I never wrote anything in my life. I asked out of
sheer curiosity.”
Mr. Popples smiled blandly, without the least appearance of
disappointment.
“Well, well, Miss Fearing, you are quite right,” he said. “In point of
fact those little literary ventures of young ladies very rarely do come
to much, do they? To misquote the Laureate, Miss Fearing, we might say
that ‘Men must write and women must read’! Eh, Miss Fearing?”
The old fellow chuckled at his bad joke, as he wrapped up the volume of
_Critical Essays_ by William Johnson, and handed it across the table.
There were only tables in Mr. Popples’s establishment; he despised
counters.
“Anything else to serve you, Miss Fearing? A novel or two, for the May
weather? No? Let me take it to your carriage.”
“Thanks. I am walking, but I will carry it. Good evening.”
“Good evening, Miss Fearing. Your parasol is here. Walking this evening!
In the May weather! Good evening, Miss Fearing.”
And Mr. Popples bowed his favourite customer out of his establishment,
with a very kindly look in his tired old spectacled eyes.
Constance had got what she had come for. If William Johnson, author of
_Critical Essays_, a journalist and a man presumably acquainted with all
the ins and outs of publishing, had made nothing by his successful book,
George would be doing very well in obtaining ten per cent on the
advertised retail price of every copy of his novel which was sold.
Constance had been mistaken when she had doubted Johnson, but she did
not regret her doubt in the least. After all, she had undertaken the
responsibility of George’s book, and she could not conscientiously
believe everything she was told by strangers concerning its chances. Mr.
Popples, however, was above suspicion, and had, moreover, no reason for
telling that the _Critical Essays_ had brought their author no
remuneration. Johnson’s face, too, inspired confidence, as well as
George’s own trust in him. Constance felt that she had done all she
could, and she accordingly made her preparations for going out of town.
She was glad to get away, in order to study herself. The habit of
introspection had grown upon her, for she had encouraged herself in it,
ever since she had begun to feel that George was something more to her
than a friend. Her over-conscientious nature feared to make some mistake
which might embitter his life as well as her own. She was in constant
dread of letting herself be carried away by the impulse of a moment to
say something that might bind her to marry him, before she could feel
that she loved him wholly as she wished to love him. On looking back,
she bitterly regretted having allowed him to kiss her cheek on that
morning in the Park. She had been under the influence of a strong
emotion, produced by the conclusion of his book, and she seemed in her
own eyes to have acted in a way quite unworthy of herself. Had she been
able to carry her analysis further, she would have discovered that
behind her distrust of herself she felt a lingering distrust of George.
A year earlier she had thought it possible that he was strongly
attracted by her fortune. Now, however, she would have scouted the idea,
if it had presented itself in that shape. But it was present,
nevertheless, in a more subtle form.
“He loves me sincerely,” she said to herself. “He would marry me now, if
I were a pauper. But would he have loved me from the first if I had been
poor?”
It was not often that she put the question, even in this way, but as it
belonged to that class of vicious inquiries which it is impossible to
answer, it tormented her perpetually by suggesting a whole series of
doubts, useless in themselves and mischievous in their consequences. She
was convinced of two things. First, that she was unaccountably
influenced by George’s presence to say and do things which she was
determined at other times that she would never say or do; and, secondly,
that whether she loved him truly or not she could not imagine herself as
loving any one else nearly so much. Under these circumstances, it was
clearly better that she should not see him for a considerable time. She
would thus withdraw herself from the sphere of his direct influence, and
she would have leisure to study and weigh her own feelings, with a view
to reaching a final decision. Nevertheless she looked forward to the
moment of parting from him with something that was very like pain.
Contrary to her expectations, the interview passed off with little show
of emotion on either side.
They talked for some time about the book, Constance assuming an air of
mystery as regards its future and George speaking of it with the utmost
indifference. At the last minute, when he had risen to go and was
standing beside her, she laid her hand upon his arm.
“You do not think I am heartless, do you?” she asked, looking at a
particular button on his coat.
“No,” George answered. “I think you are very sincere. I sometimes wish
you would forget to be so sincere with yourself. I wish you would let
yourself run away with yourself now and then.”
“That would be very wrong. It would be very unfair and unjust to you.
Suppose—only suppose, you know—that I made up my mind to marry you, and
then discovered when it was too late that I did not love you. Would not
that be dreadful? Is it not better to wait a little longer?”
“You shall never say that I have pressed you into a decision against
your will,” said George, betraying in one speech his youth, his
ignorance of woman in general and his almost quixotic readiness to obey
Constance in anything and everything.
“You are very generous,” she answered, still looking at the button. “But
I will not feel that I am spoiling your life—no, let me speak—to keep
you in this position much longer would be doing that, indeed it would.
In six months from now you will be famous. I know it, though you laugh
at me. Then you will be able to marry whom you please. I cannot marry
you now, for I do not love you enough. You are free, you must not feel
that I want to bind you, do you understand. You will travel this summer,
for you have told me that you are going to make several visits in
country-houses. If you see any one you like better than me, do not feel
that you are tied by any promises. It would not break my heart, if you
married some one else.”
In spite of her calmness there was a slight tremor in her voice which
did not escape George’s ear.
“I shall never love any one else,” he said simply.
“You may. I may. But waiting must have a limit——”
“Say this, Constance,” said George. “Say that if, by next May, you do
not love me less than you do now, you will be my wife.”
“No. I must love you more. If I love you better than now, it will show
that my love is always to increase, and I will marry you.”
“In May?”
“In May, next year. But this is no engagement. I make no promise, and I
will take none from you. You are free, and so am I, until the first of
May——”
“I shall never be free again, dear,” said George, happily, for he
anticipated great things of the strange agreement she proposed. He put
his arm about her and drew her to him very tenderly. Another second and
his lips would have touched her cheek, just where they had touched it
once before. But Constance drew back quickly and slipped from his arm.
“No, no,” she laughed, “that is not a part of the agreement. It is far
too binding.”
George’s face was grave and sad. Her action had given him a sharp thrust
of painful disappointment, and he did his best not to hide it. Constance
looked at him a moment.
“Am I not right?” she asked.
“You are always right—even when you give me pain,” he answered with a
shade of bitterness.
“Have I given you pain now?”
“Yes.”
“Did you think, from the way I behaved, that I would let you kiss me for
good-bye?”
“Yes.”
“You shall not say that I hurt you, and you shall not go away believing
that I deceived you,” said Constance, coming back to him.
She put her two hands round his neck and drew down his willing face.
Then she kissed him softly on both cheeks.
“Forgive me,” she said. “I did not mean to hurt you. Good-bye—dear.”
George left the house feeling very happy, but persuaded that neither he
nor any other man could ever understand the heart of woman, which, after
all, seemed to be the only thing in the world worth understanding. He
had ample time for reflection in the course of the summer, but without
the reality before him the study of the problem grew more and more
perplexing.
The weather grew very warm in the end of June, and George left New York.
He had written much in the course of the year and had earned enough
money to give himself a rest during the hot months. He tried to persuade
his father to accompany him and to spend the time by the seaside while
George himself made his promised visits. But Jonah Wood declared that he
preferred New York in the summer and that nothing would induce him to
waste money on such folly as travelling. To tell the truth, the old
gentleman had grown accustomed to rigid economy in his little house in
town, but he could not look forward with any pleasure to the discomforts
of second-rate hotels in second-rate places. So George went away alone.
He had already begun another book. He did not look upon his first effort
in the light of a book at all, but he had tasted blood, and the thirst
was upon him, and he must needs quench it. This time, however, he set
himself steadily to work to do the very best he could, labouring to
repress his own vivacity and trying to keep out of the fever that was
threatening to carry him away outside of himself. He limited his work
strictly to a small amount every day, polishing every sentence and
thinking out every phrase before it was set down. Working in this way he
had written about half a volume by the end of August, when he found
himself in a pleasant country-house by the sea in the midst of a large
party of people. He had all but forgotten his first book, and had
certainly but a very dim recollection of what it contained. He looked
back upon its feverish production as upon a sort of delirious dream
during which he had raved in a language now strange to his memory.
One afternoon, in the midst of a game of lawn-tennis, a telegram was
brought to him.
“Rob Roy and Co. publish book immediately England and America. Have
undertaken that you accept royalty ten per cent retail advertised price.
Wire reply. C. F.”
George possessed a very considerable power of concealing his emotions,
but this news was almost too much for his equanimity. He thrust the
despatch into his pocket and went on playing, but he lost the game in a
shameful fashion and was roundly abused by his cousin Mamie Trimm, who
chanced to be his partner. Mamie and her mother were stopping in the
same house, by what Mrs. Sherrington Trimm considered a rather
unfortunate accident, since Mamie was far too fond of George already. In
reality, the excellent hostess had an idea that George loved the girl,
and as the match seemed most appropriate in her eyes, she had brought
them together on purpose.
As soon as possible he slipped away, put on his flannel jacket and went
to the telegraph office, reading the despatch he had received over and
over again as he hurried along the path, and trying to compose his
answer at the same time. Constance’s message seemed amazingly neat,
business-like and concise, and he wondered whether some one else had not
been concerned in the affair. The phrase about the royalty did not sound
like a woman’s expression, though she might have copied it from the
publisher’s letter.
George had formerly imagined that if his first performance were really
in danger of being published, he should do everything in his power to
prevent such a catastrophe. He felt no such impulse now, however.
Messrs. Rob Roy and Company were very serious people, great publishers,
whose name alone gave a book a chance of success. They bore an
exceptional reputation in the world of books, and George knew very well
that they would not publish trash. But he was not elated by the news,
however much surprised he might be. It was strange, indeed, that a firm
of such good judgment should have accepted his novel, but it could not
but be a failure, all the same. He would get the proofs as soon as
possible, and he would do what he could to make the work decently
presentable by inserting plentiful improvements.
His answer to Constance’s telegram was short.
“Deplore catastrophe. Pity public. Thank publisher. Agree terms. Where
are proofs? G. W.”
By the time the proofs were ready, George was once more in New York,
though Constance had not yet returned. He was hard at work upon his
second book and looked with some disgust at the package of printed
matter that lay folded as it had come, upon his table. Nevertheless he
opened the bundle and looked at them.
“Confound them!” he exclaimed. “They have sent me a paged proof instead
of galleys!”
It was evident that he could not insert many changes, where the matter
was already arranged in book form, and he anticipated endless annoyance
in pasting in extensive “riders” of writing-paper in order to get room
for the vast changes he considered necessary.
An hour later he was lying back in his easy-chair reading his own novel
with breathless interest. He had not yet made a correction of any kind
in the text. It was not until the following day that he was able to go
over it all more calmly, but even then, he found that little could be
done to improve it. When he had finished, he sent the proofs back and
wrote a letter to Constance.
“I have read the book over,” he wrote, among other things, “and it is
not so bad as I supposed. I know that it cannot be good, but I am
convinced that worse novels have found their way into print, if not into
notice. I take back at least one-tenth of all I said about it formerly,
and I will not abuse it in the future, leaving that office to those who
will doubtless command much forcible language in support of their just
opinion. Am I to thank you, too? I hardly know. There are other things
for which I would rather be in a position to owe you thanks. However,
the die is cast, you have made a skipping-rope of the Rubicon and have
whisked it under my feet without my consent. Let the poor book take its
chance. Its birth was happy, may its death at least be peaceful.”
To this Constance replied three weeks later.
“I am glad to see that a disposition to repentance has set in. You are
wise in not abusing my book any more. You ought to be doing penance in
sackcloth and ashes before that bench in Central Park on which I sat
when I told you it was good. The children would all laugh at you, and
throw stones at you, and I should be delighted. I am not coming to town
until it is published and is a success. Grace thinks I have gone into
speculations, because I get so many letters and telegrams about it. I
shall not tell you what the people who read the manuscript said about
it. You can find that out for yourself.”
George awoke one morning to find himself, if not famous, at least the
topic of the day in more countries than one. A week had not elapsed
before the papers were full of notices of his book and speculations as
to his personality. No one seemed to consider that George Winton Wood,
the novelist, could be the same man as G. W. Wood, the signer of modest
articles in the magazines. The first review called him an unknown person
of surprising talent, the second did not hesitate to describe him as a
man of genius, and the third—branded him as a plagiarist who had stolen
his plot from a forgotten novel of the beginning of the century and had
somehow—this was not clear in the article—made capital out of the
writings of Macrobius, he was a villain, a poacher, a pickpocket
novelist, a literary body-snatcher, in fact in the eyes of all but the
over-lax law, little short of a thief. George knew that sort of style,
and he read the abuse over again and again with unmitigated delight. He
had done as much himself in the good old days when the editors would let
him. He did not show this particular notice to his father, however, and
only handed him those that were favourable—and they were many. Jonah
Wood sat reading them all day long, over and over again.
“I am very glad, George,” he said, repeatedly. “I am very proud of you.
It is splendid. But do you think all this will bring you much pecuniary
remuneration?”
“Ten per cent on the advertised retail price of each copy,” was George’s
answer.
He entered the railway station one day and was amazed to see the walls
of the place covered with huge placards, three feet square, bearing the
name of his book and his own, alternately, in huge black letters on a
white ground. The young man at the bookstall was doing a thriving
business. George went up to him.
“That book seems to sell,” he said quietly.
“Like hot cakes,” answered the vendor, offering him his own production.
“One dollar twenty-five cents.”
“Thank you,” said George. “I would not give so much for a novel.”
“Well, there are others will, I guess,” answered the young man. “Step
aside if you please and give these ladies a chance.”
George smiled and turned away.