Theodore Edwards.
Janet looked at the editor's flowing signature in amazement. “Three
Is Company” was her own story. And there, in the _Colonial Magazine's_
envelope, lay the revered pages of Godfrey's masterpiece, returned.
The “fresh and spontaneous originality” was hers! A flush of exultation
thrilled her: she could almost feel the pert little hat on her head.
Instinctively she looked at herself in the mirror over the hall
mantelpiece. Was it possible that she was a literary genius, and had
never known it?
But then a pang of horror chilled her. What dreadful mistake had
happened? Alas, it was only too plain--the two stories had been
confused. The editor had thought that her story was Godfrey's. He had
read it expecting to find the skill of Godfrey's trained hand. And
now how was she to spare her husband the mortification of having his
painstaking work rejected, while her prentice sketch had won favour by
some fluke? Her loyal heart, entirely devoid of selfish satisfaction,
could not bear the thought of this grotesque and unhappy climax for her
innocent venture. It was all her fault for meddling with what did not
concern her. What business had she to write a better story than Godfrey,
anyway? She knew that her husband would be honestly proud of her success
and would not grudge her the triumph for an instant, but she felt that
the poignance of the situation would be intolerable for her. Much better
do without all the pert little hats on Chestnut Street than win one at
the expense of Godfrey's feelings.
How could she prevent the bad tidings from reaching him? Even now it
might be too late. She flew to the telephone, and with pricking pulses
asked for the office of the _Colonial_. One nervous hand unconsciously
flew to her hair, as though she were about to enter the august sanctum
of the editor.
“Is this Mr. Edwards?
“Oh, Mr. Edwards, this is Mrs. Hemming, Mrs. Godfrey Hemming, the wife
of one of your authors----
“Why, there's been a terrible mistake about our manuscripts, Mr.
Edwards, the stories that Mr. Hemming sent you. I've just had your
letter, and that story you sent back wasn't mine at all, it was
Godfrey's----
“I don't see how you can have made the mistake--
“Yes, the story called 'Three Is Company' is mine, I wrote it, but
really it can't possibly be better than the other one because I wrote it
in such a hurry, it's my first attempt----
“You want to publish it? But, Mr. Edwards, you simply mustn't,
because----
“I can't explain over the telephone. I know you only like it because you
thought----
“Will you promise not to do anything about it, and not to tell Mr.
Hemming anything, until you get a letter from me?
“You _will_ promise? Oh, thank you so much! I'll write at once.
“Good-bye!”
She hurried to the little white enamelled desk, the same desk where the
ill-starred “Three Is Company” had been written.
“This will cure me of trying to write,” she thought; “why, I never heard
of such a thing--to have one's first story accepted! Mr. Edwards must be
mad.”
Luckily there was one sheet of her engraved stationery left--the paper
that Godfrey had given her, she thought remorsefully. All about her were
evidences of his loving care, and she had repaid him by undermining his
prestige with the one editor who had been nice to him. A fine way for an
author's wife to behave! She seized her pen and wrote:
Dear Mr. Edwards:
As I just told you over the phone, there has been some horrible mistake.
How it happened I can't guess. The manuscript you sent back to me is
Mr. Hemming's story. The one you say you like and want me to study as a
model is my own story, “Three Is Company”. I'm sorry you like it, I mean
I'm sorry you think it is better than Mr. Hemming's story, which can't
be so as it is the first story I ever tried to write. I have decided
to withdraw it, I don't want it published, so please send it back to
me instantly, and write me a letter saying how amateurish it is. I am
sending Mr. Hemming's story back to you, so that now you know who wrote
it you can reconsider it. Of course, if you thought it was by me, you
naturally considered it as the work of a beginner, and only a poor
imitation of Mr. Hemming's style.
I don't want you ever to tell Mr. Hemming that I have written this
letter. Just tell him you sent my story back to me because it was not
good enough.
Sincerely yours,
Janet Colton Hemming.
The importance Janet attached to this letter may be judged from the fact
that she left the baby alone in the house, asleep, while she hurried
down to the post-office to mail it, together with Godfrey's manuscript,
back to Mr. Edwards. And not even the sympathetic Mr. Edwards ever
guessed that on the first page, where Godfrey's careful typing ran in
neat lines, she had printed a good luck kiss.
The editor was an honourable man, and though he chuckled a little over
Janet's breathless letter he really meant to keep the innocent secret.
We hope that no young wives will be lured to destruction by our telling
the truth, which was simply this, that Janet's little story was much
better than Godfrey's. It might not have happened again in a lifetime,
but the enthusiasm of her girlish zeal had carried her pen into a very
pretty and moving tale, which the _Colonial_ would have been glad to
print. But since she wanted it back, there was nothing for Mr. Edwards
to do but comply. Then, that very morning, while he was dictating a note
of polite refusal to accompany “Three Is Company” back to the suburbs,
who should call at the office but Godfrey, to know what the editor
thought of the two stories. The coincidence was too much for Edwards,
and thinking that it could do no harm to let Hemming know of his wife's
devotion--for young husbands are too likely to be selfish--he told him
the whole incident. And Godfrey, with a faint sensation of burning under
his eyelids, related the dream of a new bonnet that had inspired “Three
Is Company”.
“Well, now, look here,” said Edwards, “I'm not so awfully keen on this
story of yours. It isn't anywhere near up to what you can do--or rather,
up to what Mrs. Hemming can do,” he added, chuckling. “But you go home
and write me a yarn about the pert little hat, and I'll put it in the
January number. It'll come out just before Christmas, and I hope you'll
get that wife of yours the best bonnet in town on the proceeds. If all
writers had wives like yours, perhaps the magazines would make better
reading. But for heaven's sake don't tell Mrs. Hemming I gave her away.
Wait until she sees the story in the magazine, it'll be a Christmas
surprise for her.”
On the Saturday before Christmas Hemming took Janet to the city to
solemnize the purchase of the pert little hat. Any one who happened to
see her wearing it down Chestnut Street that bright winter afternoon
knew that the elated pink in her cheek was not all reflected from the
red bow on the bonnet's neat brim. As they sat down for a matinée and
Janet removed the precious creation, giving it to Godfrey to hold for a
moment, he said admiringly:
“Well, the old typing bus isn't such a bad milliner after all, hey,
monk?”
And Janet, who would then have denied that such a story as “Three Is
Company” ever existed, replied innocently:
“I'm so glad Mr. Edwards turned down my story, grump. I like the pert
little hat ever so much better because it came all from you.”
Even if the pert little hat should live to be a great-great-grandbonnet,
none of its descendants will ever give Janet such pleasure.