Having read these few lines once, the author, still standing, read them
again, and yet again. Upon his lip was the faint smile it had worn when
he looked at Mary at the luncheon--before she began telling him things
for his good. He was fairly entitled to wear this smile; but now it
seemed in danger of becoming fixed for life.
He was selling write-ups of Mary like hot cakes; there was no other word
for it. He had written and sent out three write-ups--an unprecedented
number about a single person--and now he had sold two of them already.
He had hoped to plant, say, one write-up among the weeklies--to get
quick results--and now he had planted two in the weeklies. Moreover, the
third write-up had been in the hands of a famous weekly for ten days
now.
That he had managed it all with remarkable adroitness, the young man
could not conceal from himself. Cunningly enough, he had based all the
write-ups on the fact that Mary Wing, at thirty, had risen almost to the
top of a large city school system, where no woman had ever risen before.
For that made Mary a public figure; that justified the write-ups. But,
the bait thus thrown, he had given to each eulogy a special character
and thesis of its own, always with an eye to local effects. This piece
here, for example, which "Willcox's Weekly" found so extremely
interesting and entertaining, concerned Mary the Freewoman, and touched
delicately yet with vigor upon her late persecution for righteousness'
sake. And this piece, the most personal and the best of the lot, alone
bore the signature of Charles King Garrott. He had got Hartwell to sign
one, Elsie White Story, President of the State Equal Suffrage League,
to sign another. And only yesterday, Mrs. Story had telephoned that
_her_ piece (Mary the "Feminist"--only you may be sure Charles had not
used that horrible word) had been gobbled up by the "Saturday Review,"
and sent around the "Review's" delightful letter.
So Charles could recall Mary's hard saying, that day at the High School,
with a sense of triumph now. She, who had said he couldn't help her, had
rather overlooked this gift he had, his power and his art.
Unquestionably, the thing was going to break big: she would have the
surprise of her life....
"Great heavens! _How I can write!_" suddenly exulted the young man,
throwing out his arms. "I'll beat 'em all some day!"
Upon which, exactly as at a cue in a play, the door from the bedroom
opened, slowly and quietly. And there stood Judge Blenso in the crack, a
flat package in his hand.
Between uncle and nephew there passed a long stare. The uncle began to
turn a little pale. But it was the nephew who spoke first, nervously and
yet expectantly too:--
"Prepare yourself, Charles, my dear fellow! I much fear it's
'Bandwomen'!"
* * * * *
It was a long time before he was alone again.
There were moments in every writer's life, of course, when he was
obliged to wish frankly that he didn't have to have a secretary. What a
writer most wanted at times was solitude, just a chance to sit quietly
and think things over.
A great while Judge Blenso had pottered about under his little red
"Nothing But Business, Please" sign. Now he was posting elaborate
entries in his secretary's book, now he sang sweetly to himself over
wrapping-paper, paste, and twine. For if his sedentary employer's
failure to blow up, this time, had momentarily nonplussed the Judge, the
sight of the letter from "Willcox's Weekly" had raised him to the
highest spirits again at once. That distant people, entire strangers,
were actually proving willing to exchange real money for words written
by Charles there, and typed by him, Judge Blenso,--here was a delightful
thing, full of novelty and promise. And nothing would do, of course, but
that he must start the rejected novel out upon another journey to New
York without loss of a moment's time. Business _before_ pleasure, rain
_or_ shine. That was _his_ way.
But he went at last, to make his toilet for the express-office. And
Charles, alone, sat taking stock, with no more exultation.
Blank and Finney's letter had proved to be twin-sister to the remembered
letter from Willcox Brothers Company. That is to say, it was rejection,
flat and unqualified. But this time, after the first shock, Charles had
perceived that he did not seem to be much surprised. It appeared that
his expectation of the old novel had, after all, died violently on that
other day. It was almost as if he himself had come to despise the old
novel, because the publishers despised it--as if that were any
reason...
From the mantel he had plucked a thick ledger entitled (on a neatly
typed label), THE RECORD. This ledger was the great work of Judge
Blenso's life, and large enough for twenty authors. Here the Judge set
down, with much pains and a striking assortment of colored inks, the
detailed progress of each of Charles's manuscripts: "When Finished,"
"When Sent Out," "Where Sent," "Editor's Decision," "Editor's Comments
if Any," "Remarks," etc. On these pages, the essential part of
"Bondwomen's" career (officially known as Entry 2) was thus recorded:--
_Comments
_Decision._ if Any._
1. Willcox Brothers
Company Adverse. Declined for
financial reasons.