The Record now showed nine entries, including the novel. Entry I was
"The Truth About Jennie," which the Judge had insisted on posting in, to
give a tone of success to his work at the outset. Entries 3, 4, 5, and 6
were short stories; Entries 7, 8, and 9, the write-ups of Mary. The
pages devoted to the write-ups made, as we know, stimulating reading,
but with the fiction entries the case was otherwise. Here under
"Comments if Any," the words "See printed form, on file," appeared with
monotonous, indeed sickening, regularity. The Record did show, indeed,
that the "Universal," in rejecting Entry 5,--"When Amy Left Home,"--had
written a personal letter furnishing the Judge with this "Comment":
"Excellently written, but claimed unsuited to his present needs. Let him
hear from us again." Otherwise, rejection was unmitigated.
A scant showing for the work of four years, look at it how you would.
One examining these coldly dispassionate annals would probably say,
offhand, that there was but one form of writing Charles King Garrott was
qualified to do: that was the write-up form. He had just read his two
letters again, his acceptance and his rejection, side by side. Unusual
and peculiar it seemed that the only writing he had sold for money,
since "Jennie," was this series of articles designed to bring fame to
Mary Wing. Of course, as far as that went, a man would like a little
fame for himself, now and then....
"Why, I'm a fool to think I can write!" groaned the young man, suddenly.
"I'm wasting my life! I ought to be carrying bricks up a ladder."
His fall from complacence was, indeed, complete. However, every writer
knows these little ups and downs. It may be, that Charles did not
believe his bitter words, even then. And now his secretary reëntered,
checking thought.
"Well! Now for the express!"
Judge Blenso wore a new English mackintosh and an olive felt hat,
rakishly turned up in front. No board of social investigators could have
commended him for spending virtually all his wage upon his back; but the
results seemed always to justify him none the less.
"And, my dear fellow!--you shouldn't worry, as the expression goes!
Bandwomen's a charmin' novel, a charmin' sweet love-story, and James
Potter Sons'll be sure to take it--gad, by the first mail!"
Having seen it with his own eyes in Willcoxes' famous letter, the Judge
was now finally convinced that "Bandwomen" was the correct title of
Entry 2, just as he had said in the beginning. Further argument being
useless, the young man returned a vague reply.
"And there's that other idea of mine, too," said the Judge genially,
halting with his package under his arm--"bringing your sketches of Miss
Wing out in book form! Put in Entry 1, too 'Jennie's Truth,' if we
liked--make a regular holiday giftbook! Gad, you know, Miss Wing's
little pupils at the school would give us a whackin' sale!"
He went out blithe upon his duty. After an interval, the adoring voice
of Mrs. Herman floated up, beseeching him to put on his ar'tics.
At the Studio table Charles sat, struggling to get down to work. He had
put away The Record, put away embittered thoughts. But he did not get
down to work with much success all the same, the reason being that his
great Subject, unluckily, was no longer clear in his mind.
From the table-drawer he had produced a stack of manuscript, an inch
high; and now he sat, not reading it, but merely disapproving it _en
masse_. The stack was his premature effort to begin, really to begin his
new novel--six chapters of the new novel written, fifteen thousand
words. Launching upon this draft an hour after he finished Mary the
Freewoman, he had pushed on, night after night, at first with confident
rapidity. Latterly, he had become conscious of an increasing sense of
resistance. And now he knew that all this was mere waste stuff,
accomplishing nothing but to show him what not to write.
Well, but what to write then? What did he really want to say? It was
absurd; but he did not know. It really seemed that he saw too much to
settle, with enthusiasm, upon anything. By constant accessions of fresh
understanding, his centre of balance, his novel's chief prerequisite,
was kept in a continuous state of flux....
Of "material" on the Unrest, Charles possessed a superfluity; of
"plots," of "significant characters" and "illustrative incidents," his
head was fuller than his pencil would ever write. His problem, of
course, had always been for the fixed point of view and the moral
"line." No longer could he be satisfied with that crude, simple line
which had contented him in his first book, which still contented the
other fellows: the line which "proved," as _Lily Stender_ proved, that
economic independence was the automatic salvation of women. He knew that
wasn't the whole story now. As for writing a book to show that Woman's
Place was the Home, of course that had never crossed his mind, even when
most strongly gripped by conservative reactions. His quest was for a
framework which should develop conflicting values on a far finer scale.
Of course, what he should have liked to show was a wholly admirable
woman: one who combined all the sane competence and human worth of the
best new women, with the soft faculty for supplying beauty and charm of
her old-fashioned sister. But that day in Mary's office had left him
with the honest suspicion that such a goddess did not exist, and
couldn't. From the other direction also, as noted, his delicate scales
had been joggled, with unsettling literary effects. The too hasty
manuscript on the writing-table by no means followed the "line" the
author had first plotted, prior to his meditations in the Green Park,
after the bridge-party. No, in this draft the Home-Maker was married and
had three children in Chapter One. Through all, the desire to rebuke the
egoism of the day had persisted, as clearly the point of view most
inviting to him, fullest of possibilities. And now Miss Trevenna, in
some way, had disturbed and unsettled him there too....
The rain beat against the Studio windows. The green-shaded lamp burned
dully on the author's table. Big Bill, without surcease, ticked off the
author's minutes. Charles rubbed the bridge of his nose, pondering
deeply. Just now, as he turned the pages of his private book--where the
essay form had long since been abandoned, where appeared the most
surprising vacillations of authoritative opinion--he had made a somewhat
striking discovery. It had suddenly come upon him that "Notes on Women"
had, gradually but distinctly, dwindled down into "Notes on Mary,"
"Notes on Angela Flower," and "Notes on Flora Trevenna." In short, it
appeared that, in the most unconscious way, he had been seeking to
extract his "line" from his own story, as it were, from "life."
The discovery came upon the young man as most arresting and significant.
"And I don't know where I stand, that's just the trouble! I ought to
wait awhile," he thought, aloud. "See how it all works out.... Things'll
be turning up...."
On which--once more--Judge Blenso's picturesque head came sticking
through the Studio door, and Judge Blenso's rich voice said,
officially:--
"Young gentleman here with a letter, Mr. Garrott. Admit him?"
Returning to actuality with a slight start, Charles replied, "Admit
him--certainly!" A day for letters, indeed!
Forthwith, the Judge standing aside, the young gentleman stepped into
the Studio. A grave-looking young gentleman he proved to be, of some
sixteen years, perhaps, with a dome-like forehead, a resolute mouth, and
thick spectacles. He entered in silence, in silence held out the missive
referred to.
"Good-evening," said Charles. "Thank you. This comes from--?"
"My sister, Angela Flower."
The young man's heart seemed to drop a little.
"Ah, yes! And--ah--is there--an answer?--"
"I'll wait and see," said Wallie Flower, following instructions, in a
deep, calm voice.
"Ah, yes. Sit down a moment, won't you?"
He essayed a bright negligence which he was far from feeling: this thing
had come suddenly. No amount of scientific argument, no recollection of
sharp rebukes received, had ever convinced Charles that he had cut a
fine figure in the affair on the sofa. Indeed, the very ease with which
he had avoided all further consequences of his Rash Act, by the purely
mechanical device of street-cars, had deepened, rather than diminished
his consciousness of obligations unfulfilled, of caddishness, in short.
To salute a girl tenderly after her bridge-party, and then never go
within a mile of her again--well, that _was_ a little crude, say what you
would.
Hence Mr. Garrott, opening Angela's envelope with the blurred "Mr.,"
anticipated bitter reproaches, anticipated being termed a brute again,
and called on to be honorable without further delay. Hence again, as his
eye leapt over the neat lines, and found only sweet forgiveness and
generous friendliness, he felt a sudden upstarting of relief and
gratitude. A more perfect note had never been written! Why, the charming
girl wasn't expecting anything of him at all!
Or, rather, nothing at all worth mentioning. On a second glance through
the perfect note, the hypercritical young man did observe an expression
or two not up to the general standard, perhaps. "I did not think it
would be so long before I would see you again." "When you are not so
busy, you must come in to see me." On the whole, it could be argued that
it was rather a mistake to put those sentences in. Fine as the note was,
it would have been a little finer still without them. Yet, under the
circumstances, what more natural? And of course, as far as that went, he
and the city traction system had the issue in their hands.
So Charles looked up buoyantly at the bearer of good tidings, to speak.
The bearer, however, had clearly forgotten his presence. He had remained
standing, three feet from the table-end, and was found to be gazing, in
the most pointed manner, at the old Studio lamp. The grave face of Miss
Angela's brother plainly expressed amusement, and a certain good-natured
contempt.
"Hello!" said Charles, diverted. "Anything wrong there?"
Without turning, the boy answered with a small dry chuckle: "Yes.
Pretty near everything."
"Well! I've noticed it hasn't been burning well. Need a new mantel, I
suppose--"
"New mantel won't do you any good long's your air-draft's choked that
way."
"Oh! So that's the trouble, is it?"
"That's one of them. P'r'aps you like it that way?"
The proprietor of the lamp having disclaimed such a fancy, the strange
lad said: "Well, I'll fix it for you, then. Sit steady."
He reached up an arm long as a monkey's, which shed drops of water on
the writing-table, and the green glow suddenly faded out, leaving the
Studio in total darkness.
Out of the Stygian gloom Charles said: "There's another light there.
I'll--"
"I know. Thought I might as well look into that one, too, while I'm at
it. Just give your globe and chimney a minute to cool."
"Oh, of course!--certainly."
"Don't s'pose you want to stand a new mantel for the lamp?"
"I'm enough of a sport, but I fear there's not a new one in the house."
"Hold it for me, please," said the boy.
A pinpoint of light had appeared in the blackness; it moved toward
Charles's hand. He received the little searchlight, let it go out,
hastily found and pushed the button again. And then Miss Angela's
brother began to take his lamp all apart, cleaning it, blowing through
it at unexpected places, and wiping the parts with a dark oily rag,
which, luckily enough, he seemed to have in his coat-pocket.
The lad's single-mindedness, his un-selfconscious matter-of-factness had
attracted Charles at sight. He recalled what Mary Wing had told him of
Wallie Flower's struggles to get an education. Thus, as the
light-repairing proceeded in the almost total darkness, a conversation
grew up, at first largely question and answer. And the upshot of it was
that Charles, as a tutor, offered to instruct Wallie Flower, free
gratis, in German and English, the two college entrance subjects in
which he was still somewhat deficient.
This odd development came at the end of the talk, when the illuminating
power of both Charles's and the Judge's lights had been notably
improved. When the brother understood that further education was being
offered him for nothing, a gleam came suddenly into his oddly mature
gaze.