The morning after The Puritan Nun was out, as Philip sat at his office
desk, conscious that the eyes of the world were on him, Mr. Mavick
entered, bowed to him absent-mindedly, and was shown into Mr. Hunt's
room.
Philip had dreaded to come to the office that morning and encounter the
inquisition and perhaps the compliments of his fellow-clerks. He had
seen his name in staring capitals in the book-seller's window as he came
down, and he felt that it was shamefully exposed to the public gaze, and
that everybody had seen it. The clerks, however, gave no sign that the
event had disturbed them. He had encountered many people he knew on the
street, but there had been no recognition of his leap into notoriety.
Not a fellow in the club, where he had stopped a moment, had treated him
with any increased interest or deference. In the office only one person
seemed aware of his extraordinary good fortune. Mr. Tweedle had come
to the desk and offered his hand in his usual conciliatory and unctuous
manner.
“I see by the paper, Mr. Burnett, that we are an author. Let me
congratulate you. Mrs. Tweedle told me not to come home without bringing
your story. Who publishes it?”
“I shall be much honored,” said Philip, blushing, “if Mrs. Tweedle will
accept a copy from me.”
“I didn't mean that, Mr. Burnett; but, of course, gift of the
author--Mrs. Tweedle will be very much pleased.”
In half an hour Mr. Mavick came out, passed him without recognition, and
hurried from the office, and Philip was summoned to Mr. Hunt's room.
“I want you to go to Washington immediately, Mr. Burnett. Return by the
night train. You can do without your grip? Take these papers to Buckston
Higgins--you see the address--who represents the British Argentine
syndicate. Wait till he reads them and get his reply. Here is the money
for the trip. Oh, after Mr. Higgins writes his answer, ask him if you
can telegraph me 'yes' or 'no.' Good-morning.”
While Philip was speeding to Washington, an important conference was
taking place in Murad Ault's office. He was seated at his desk, and
before him lay two despatches, one from Chicago and a cable from London.
Opposite him, leaning forward in his chair, was a lean, hatchet-faced
man, with keen eyes and aquiline nose, who watched his old curbstone
confidant like a cat.
“I tell you, Wheatstone,” said Mr. Ault, with an unmoved face, bringing
his fist down on the table, “now is the time to sell these three
stocks.”
“Why,” said Mr. Wheatstone, with a look of wonder, “they are about the
strongest on the list. Mavick controls them.”
“Does he?” said Ault. “Then he can take care of them.”
“Have you any news, Mr. Ault?”
“Nothing to speak of,” replied Ault, grimly. “It just looks so to me.
All you've got to do is to sell. Make a break this afternoon, about two
or three points off.”
“They are too strong,” protested Mr. Wheatstone.
“That is just the reason. Everybody will think something must be the
matter, or nobody would be fool enough to sell. You keep your eye on the
Spectrum this afternoon and tomorrow morning. About Organization and one
or two other matters.”
“Ah, they do say that Mavick is in Argentine up to his neck,” said the
broker, beginning to be enlightened.
“Is he? Then you think he would rather sell than buy?”
Mr. Wheatstone laughed and looked admiringly at his leader. “He may have
to.”
Mr. Ault took up the cable cipher and read it to himself again. If
Mr. Hunt had known its contents he need not have waited for Philip to
telegraph “no” from Washington.
“It's all right, Wheatstone. It's the biggest thing you ever struck.
Pitch 'em overboard in the morning. The Street is shaky about Argentine.
There'll be h---to pay before half past twelve. I guess you can safely
go ten points. Lower yet, if Mavick's brokers begin to unload. I guess
he will have to unless he can borrow. Rumor is a big thing, especially
in a panic, eh? Keep your eye peeled. And, oh, won't you ask Babcock to
step round here?”
Mr. Babcock came round, and had his instructions when to buy. He had the
reputation of being a reckless broker, and not a safe man to follow.
The panic next day, both in London and New York, was long remembered.
In the unreasoning scare the best stocks were sacrificed. Small country
“investors” lost their stakes. Some operators were ruined. Many men were
poorer at the end of the scrimmage, and a few were richer. Murad Ault
was one of the latter. Mavick pulled through, though at an enormous
cost, and with some diminution of the notion of his solidity. The wise
ones suspected that his resources had been overestimated, or that they
were not so well at his command as had been supposed.
When he went home that night he looked five years older, and was too
worn and jaded to be civil to his family. The dinner passed mostly in
silence. Carmen saw that something serious had happened. Lord Montague
had called.
“Eh, what did he want?” said Mavick, surlily.
Carmen looked up surprised. “What does anybody after a reception call
for?”
“The Lord only knows.”
“He is the funniest little man,” Evelyn ventured to say.
“That is no way, child, to speak of the son of a duke,” said Mavick,
relaxing a little.
Carmen did not like the tone in which this was said, but she prudently
kept silent. And presently Evelyn continued:
“He asked for you, papa, and said he wanted to pay his respects.”
“I am glad he wants to pay anything,” was the ungracious answer. Still
Evelyn was not to be put down.
“It was such a bright day in the Park. What were you doing all day,
papa?”
“Why, my dear, I was engaged in Research; you will be pleased to know.
Looking after those ten millions.”
When the dinner was over, Carmen followed Mr. Mavick to his study.
“What is the matter, Tom?”
“Nothing uncommon. It's a beastly hole down there. The Board used to
be made up of gentlemen. Now there are such fellows as Ault, a
black-hearted scoundrel.”
“But he has no influence. He is nothing socially,” said Carmen.
“Neither is a wolf or a cyclone. But I don't care to talk about him.
Don't you see, I don't want to be bothered?”
While these great events were taking place Philip was enjoying all the
tremors and delights of expectation which attend callow authorship.
He did not expect much, he said to himself, but deep down in his heart
there was that sweet hope, which fortunately always attends young
writers, that his would be an exceptional experience in the shoal of
candidates for fame, and he was secretly preparing himself not to be
surprised if he should “awake one morning and find himself famous.”
The first response was from Celia. She wrote warm-heartedly. She wrote
at length, analyzing the characters, recalling the striking scenes,
and praising without stint the conception and the working out of
the character of the heroine. She pointed out the little faults of
construction and of language, and then minimized them in comparison with
the noble motive and the unity and beauty of the whole. She told Philip
that she was proud of him, and then insisted that, when his biography,
life, and letters was published, it would appear, she hoped, that his
dear friend had just a little to do with inspiring him. It was exactly
the sort of letter an author likes to receive, critical, perfectly
impartial, and with entire understanding of his purpose. All the author
wants is to be understood.
The letter from Alice was quite of another sort, a little shy in
speaking of the story, but full of affection. “Perhaps, dear Phil,” she
wrote, “I ought not to tell you how much I like it, how it quite makes
me blush in its revelation of the secrets of a New England girl's heart.
I read it through fast, and then I read it again slowly. It seemed
better even the second time. I do think, Phil, it is a dear little book.
Patience says she hopes it will not become common; it is too fine to be
nosed about by the ordinary. I suppose you had to make it pathetic. Dear
me! that is just the truth of it. Forgive me for writing so freely.
I hope it will not be long before we see you. To think it is done by
little Phil!”
The most eagerly expected acknowledgment was, however, a disappointment.
Philip knew Mrs. Mavick too well by this time to expect a letter from
her daughter, but there might have been a line. But Mrs. Mavick wrote
herself. Her daughter, she said, had asked her to acknowledge the
receipt of his very charming story. When he had so many friends it was
very thoughtful in him to remember the acquaintances of last summer. She
hoped the book would have the success it deserved.
This polite note was felt to be a slap in the face, but the effect of
it was softened a little later by a cordial and appreciative letter from
Miss McDonald, telling the author what great delight and satisfaction
they had had in reading it, and thanking him for a prose idyl that
showed in the old-fashioned way that common life was not necessarily
vulgar.
The critics seemed to Philip very slow in letting the public know of the
birth of the book. Presently, however, the little notices, all very much
alike, began to drop along, longer or shorter paragraphs, commonly in
undiscriminating praise of the beauty of the story, the majority of them
evidently written by reviewers who sat down to a pile of volumes to be
turned off, and who had not more than five or ten minutes to be lost.
Rarely, however, did any one condemn it, and that showed that it was
harmless. Mr. Brad had given it quite a lift in the Spectrum. The notice
was mainly personal--the first work of a brilliant young man at the bar
who was destined to go high in his profession, unless literature should,
fortunately for the public, have stronger attractions for him. That
such a country idyl should be born amid law-books was sufficiently
remarkable. It was an open secret that the scene of the story was the
birthplace of the author--a lovely village that was brought into notice
a summer ago as the chosen residence of Thomas Mavick and his family.
Eagerly looked for at first, the newspaper notices soon palled upon
Philip, the uniform tone of good-natured praise, unanimous in the
extravagance of unmeaning adjectives. Now and then he welcomed one that
was ill-natured and cruelly censorious. That was a relief. And yet there
were some reviews of a different sort, half a dozen in all, and half
of them from Western journals, which took the book seriously, saw
its pathos, its artistic merit, its failure of construction through
inexperience. A few commended it warmly to readers who loved ideal
purity and could recognize the noble in common life. And some,
whom Philip regarded as authorities, welcomed a writer who avoided
sensationalism, and predicted for him an honorable career in letters,
if he did not become self-conscious and remained true to his ideals. The
book clearly had not made a hit, the publishers had sold one edition and
ordered half another, and no longer regarded the author as a risk. But,
better than this, the book had attracted the attention of many lovers of
literature. Philip was surprised day after day by meeting people who had
read it. His name began to be known in a small circle who are interested
in the business, and it was not long before he had offers from editors,
who were always on the lookout for new writers of promise, to send
something for their magazines. And, perhaps more flattering than all, he
began to have society invitations to dine, and professional invitations
to those little breakfasts that publishers give to old writers and
to young whose names are beginning to be spoken of. All this was very
exhilarating and encouraging. And yet Philip was not allowed to be
unduly elated by the attention of his fellow-craftsmen, for he soon
found that a man's consequence in this circle, as well as with the great
public, depended largely upon the amount of the sale of his book. How
else should it be rated, when a very popular author, by whom Philip sat
one day at luncheon, confessed that he never read books?
“So,” said Mr. Sharp, one morning, “I see you have gone into literature,
Mr. Burnett.”
“Not very deep,” replied Philip with a smile, as he rose from his desk.
“Going to drop law, eh?”
“I haven't had occasion to drop much of anything yet,” said Philip,
still smiling.
“Oh well, two masters, you know,” and Mr. Sharp passed on to his room.
It was not, however, Mr. Sharp's opinion that Philip was concerned
about. The polite note from Mrs. Mavick stuck in his mind. It was a
civil way of telling him that all summer debts were now paid, and that
his relations with the house of Mavick were at an end. This conclusion
was forced upon him when he left his card, a few days after the
reception, and had the ill luck not to find the ladies at home. The
situation had no element of tragedy in it, but Philip was powerless.
He could not storm the house. He had no visible grievance. There was
nothing to fight. He had simply run against one of the invisible social
barriers that neither offer resistance nor yield. No one had shown him
any discourtesy that society would recognize as a matter of offense.
Nay, more than that, it could have no sympathy with him. It was only the
case of a presumptuous and poor young man who was after a rich girl. The
position itself was ignoble, if it were disclosed.
Yet fortune, which sometimes likes to play the mischief with the best
social arrangements, did give Philip an unlooked-for chance. At a dinner
given by the lady who had been Philip's only partner at the Mavick
reception, and who had read his story and had written to “her partner” a
most kind little note regretting that she had not known she was dancing
with an author, and saying that she and her husband would be delighted
to make his acquaintance, Philip was surprised by the presence of
the Mavicks in the drawing-room. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Mavick seemed
especially pleased when they encountered him, and in fact his sole
welcome from the family was in the eyes of Evelyn.
The hostess had supposed that the Mavicks would be pleased to meet the
rising author, and in still further carrying out her benevolent purpose,
and with, no doubt, a sympathy in the feelings of the young, Mrs. Van
Cortlandt had assigned Miss Mavick to Mr. Burnett. It was certainly a
natural arrangement, and yet it called a blank look to Mrs. Mavick's
face, that Philip saw, and put her in a bad humor which needed an effort
for her to conceal it from Mr. Van Cortlandt. The dinner-party was
large, and her ill-temper was not assuaged by the fact that the young
people were seated at a distance from her and on the same side of the
table.
“How charming your daughter is looking, Mrs. Mavick!” Mr. Van Cortlandt
began, by way of being agreeable. Mrs. Mavick inclined her head. “That
young Burnett seems to be a nice sort of chap; Mrs. Van Cortlandt says
he is very clever.”
“Yes?”
“I haven't read his book. They say he is a lawyer.”
“Lawyer's clerk, I believe,” said Mrs. Mavick, indifferently.
“Authors are pretty plenty nowadays.”
“That's a fact. Everybody writes. I don't see how all the poor devils
live.” Mr. Van Cortlandt had now caught the proper tone, and the
conversation drifted away from personalities.
It was a very brilliant dinner, but Philip could not have given much
account of it. He made an effort to be civil to his left-hand neighbor,
and he affected an ease in replying to cross-table remarks. He fancied
that he carried himself very well, and so he did for a man unexpectedly
elevated to the seventh heaven, seated for two hours beside the girl
whose near presence filled him with indescribable happiness. Every look,
every tone of her voice thrilled him. How dear she was! how adorable she
was! How radiantly happy she seemed to be whenever she turned her face
towards him to ask a question or to make a reply!
At moments his passion seemed so overmastering that he could hardly
restrain himself from whispering, “Evelyn, I love you.” In a hundred
ways he was telling her so. And she must understand. She must know that
this was not an affair of the moment, but that there was condensed in it
all the constant devotion of months and months.
A woman, even any girl with the least social experience, would have
seen this. Was Evelyn's sympathetic attention, her evident enjoyment in
talking with him, any evidence of a personal interest, or only a young
girl's enjoyment of her new position in the world? That she liked him
he was sure. Did she, was she beginning in any degree to return
his passion? He could not tell, for guilelessness in a woman is as
impenetrable as coquetry.
Of what did they talk? A stenographer would have made a meagre report
of it, for the most significant part of this conversation of two fresh,
honest natures was not in words. One thing, however, Philip could bring
away with him that was not a mere haze of delicious impressions. She had
been longing, she said, to talk to him about his story. She told him how
eagerly she had read it, and in talking about its meaning she revealed
to him her inner thought more completely than she could have done in any
other way, her sympathy with his mind, her interest in his work.
“Have you begun another?” she asked, at last.
“No, not on paper.”
“But you must. It must be such a world to you. I can't imagine anything
so fine as that. There is so much about life to be said. To make people
see it as it is; yes, and as it ought to be. Will you?”
“You forget that I am a lawyer.”
“And you prefer to be that, a lawyer, rather than an author?”
“It is not exactly what I prefer, Miss Mavick.”
“Why not? Does anybody do anything well if his heart is not in it?”
“But circumstances sometimes compel a man.”
“I like better for men to compel circumstances,” the girl exclaimed,
with that disposition to look at things in the abstract that Philip so
well remembered.
“Perhaps I do not make myself understood. One must have a career.”
“A career?” And Evelyn looked puzzled for a moment. “You mean for
himself, for his own self?” There is a lawyer who comes to see papa.
I've been in the room sometimes, when they don't mind. Such talk about
schemes, and how to do this and that, and twisting about. And not a word
about anything any of the time. And one day when he was waiting for papa
I talked with him. You would have been surprised.
“I told papa that I could not find anything to interest him. Papa
laughed and said it was my fault, he was one of the sharpest lawyers in
the city. Would you rather be that than to write?”
“Oh, all lawyers are not like that. And, don't you know, literature
doesn't pay.”
“Yes, I have heard that.” And then she thought a minute and with a
quizzical look continued: “That is such a queer word, 'pay.' McDonald
says that it pays to be good. Do you think, Mr. Burnett, that law would
pay you?”
Evidently the girl had a standard of judging people that was not much in
use.
Before they rose from the table, Philip asked, speaking low, “Miss
Mavick, won't you give me a violet from your bunch in memory of this
evening?”
Evelyn hesitated an instant, and then, without looking up, disengaged
three, and shyly laid them at her left hand. “I like the number three
better.”
Philip covered the flowers with his hand, and said, “I will keep them
always.”
“That is a long time,” Evelyn answered, but still without looking up.
But when they rose the color mounted to her cheeks, and Philip thought
that the glorious eyes turned upon him were full of trust.
“It is all your doing,” said Carmen, snappishly, when Mavick joined her
in the drawing-room.
“What is?”
“You insisted upon having him at the reception.”
“Burnett? Oh, stuff, he isn't a fool!”
There was not much said as the three drove home. Evelyn, flushed with
pleasure and absorbed in her own thoughts, saw that something had gone
wrong with her mother and kept silent. Mr. Mavick at length broke the
silence with:
“Did you have a good time, child?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Evelyn, cheerfully, “and Mrs. Van Cortlandt was very
sweet to me. Don't you think she is very hospitable, mamma?”
“Tries to be,” Mrs. Mavick replied, in no cordial tone. “Good-natured
and eccentric. She picks up the queerest lot of people. You can never
know whom you will not meet at her house. Just now she goes in for being
literary.”
Evelyn was not so reticent with McDonald. While she was undressing she
disclosed that she had had a beautiful evening, that she was taken out
by Mr. Burnett, and talked about his story.
“And, do you know, I think I almost persuaded him to write another.”
“It's an awful responsibility,” dryly said the shrewd Scotch woman,
“advising young men what to do.”