'Oh, no, thank you. I never take anything. I just don't feel very well.
It's been a--a hard day.'
'Lie down on the sofa then. Rest a little while. For I'm afraid you've
got a bit of excitement coming.'
Henry did this.
Shortly the great little Mr Galbraith returned. He came straight
to Henry; stood over' him; glared--angrily, Henry thought, with a
fluttering of his wits--down at him.
It seemed to Henry that it would be politer to sit up. He did this, but
the editor caught his shoulder and pushed him down again.
'No,' he cried, 'stay as you were. If you're tired, rest! Nothing so
important--nothing! If I had learned that one small lesson twenty years
ago, I'd be sole owner of my business to-day. Rest--that's the thing!
And the stomach. Two-thirds of our troubles are swallowed down our
throats. What do you eat?'
'I--I don't know's I----'
'For breakfast, say! What did you eat this morning for breakfast?'
'Well, I had an orange, and some oatmeal, and----'
'Wait! Stop right there! Wrong at the beginning. I don't doubt you had
cream on the oatmeal?'
'Well--milk, sorta.'
'Exactly! Orange and milk! Now really--think that over--orange and milk!
Isn't that asking a lot of your stomach, right at the beginning of the
day?'
Mr Merchant broke in here.
'Galbraith, for heaven's sake! Don't bulldoze him.'
'But this is important. It's health! We've got to look out for that.
Right from the start! Here, Calverly--how old are you?'
'I'm--well--most--twenty-one.'
'Most twenty-one! And you have to lie down before nine o'clock! Good
God, boy, don't you see----'
'Oh, come, Galbraith!'
'Well, I'll put it this way:--Here's a young man that can work magic.
Magic!' He waved the bundle of clippings. 'Nothing like it since Kipling
and Stevenson! First thing's to take care of him, isn't it?'
Mr Merchant winked at the staring, crushed youth on the sofa.
'Then you like the stories, Galbraith?'
'Like'em! Of course I like 'em. What do you think I'm talking about?...
Like 'em! Hmpf! Tell you what I'm going to do. A new thing in American
publishing. But they're a new kind of stories. I'm going to reprint
'em, as they stand, in _Galbraith's_. What do you think o' that? A bit
original, eh? I'll advertise that they've been printed before. Play it
up. Tell how I found 'em. Put over my new author.' He shook his finger
again at the author in question. 'Understand, I'm going to pay you just
as if you'd submitted the script to me. That's how I work. Cut out all
the old editorial nonsense. Red tape. If I like a thing I print it. I
edit _Galbraith's_ to suit myself.
I succeed because there are a million and a half others like me. And I
print the best. I'm the editor of _Galbraith's_ Oh, I keep a few desk
men down there at the office. For the details. One of 'em thought he
was the editor. Little short fellow. I stood him a month. Had to go to
England. The day I landed I walked in on him and said, “Frank, pack up!
Get out! Take a month's pay. I'm the editor.”'
He snorted at the memory, and paced down the room, waving the clippings.
Henry sat up, following him with anxious eyes.
When the extraordinary little man came back he said, shortly: 'All
tyrants have short legs.' And walked off again.
'Who's Calverly?' he asked, the next time around.
'It's on the paper here--“Weaver and Calverly”? Father? Uncle?'
'No,' Henry managed to reply, 'it's--it's me.'
'You? Good heavens! We must stop that.' He tapped Henry's shoulder.
'Don't be a desk man! You're an artist! You don't seem to understand
what we're getting at. Man, I'm going to make you! You're going to be
famous in a year.'
He stopped short; took another swing around the room.
'How many of these stories are there, Calverly?'
'Twenty.'
'Fine. Short, snappy, and enough of 'em to make a very neat book. By the
way, I'm starting a book department in the spring. 'What do you want for
'em?'
Henry could only look appealingly at his host.
'I'll pay liberally. I tell you frankly I mean to hold you. Make it
worth your while. You're going to be my author? Henry Calverly, a
Galbraith author. What do you say to a hundred apiece. That's two
thousand.'
Henry would have gasped had he not felt utterly spent.
He sat motionless, hands limp on his knees, chin down.
'Not enough,' said Merchant.
Henry shifted one hand in ineffectual protest. He was frightened.
'It's pretty near enough. After all, Merchant, it's a case of a new
writer. I've got to make him. It'll cost money.'
'True. But I should think----'
'Say a hundred and fifty. That's three thousand. Will you take that,
Calverly?
'What for?' asked Merchant. 'What are you buying exactly?'
'Oh, serial rights. Pay a reasonable royalty on the book, of course.
But I've got to publish the book, too. And I want a long-term contract.
Here!' He sat down and figured with a pencil on the edge of the evening
paper. 'How about this? I'm to have exclusive control of the Henry
Calverly matter for five years----'
'Too long,' said Mr Merchant.
'Well--three years. I'm to see every word before he offers it elsewhere.
And for what I accept I'd pay at the same rate per word as for these
stories. And books at the same royalty as we agree on for this.'
'Fine for you. Guarantees your control of him. But he gets nothing. No
guarantee.'
'What would be right then? I'd do the fair thing. He'll never regret
tying up with me.'
'You'd better agree to pay him something--say twenty-five a week--as a
minimum, to be charged against serial payments. That is, if you want to
tie him up. I'm not sure I'd advise him to do even that, now.'
'I'm going to tie him up, all right. I'd go the limit. Twenty-five
a week, minimum, for three years. That's agreed... How're you fixed,
Calverly? Want any money now?'
Henry looked again at his cool, accomplished host. 'Yes. Better advance
a little. He could use it. Couldn't you, Calverly?'
'Why---why----'
'What do you say to five hundred. That'd clinch the bargain.
Here--wait!'
He produced a pocket cheque-book and a fountain pen, and wrote out the
cheque.
'Here you are, Calverly. That'd take care of you for the present.
Mustn't forget to send the stub to Miss Peters to-morrow. You'd better
go now. Go home. Get a good night's sleep. And watch that stomach.
Cereal's good, at your age. But cut out the orange.... I'm going to bed,
Merchant. Been travelling hard. Tired out myself.... Calverly, I'll send
you the contract from New York.'
'First, though'--this from Mr Merchant--'I think you'd better write a
letter--here, to-night--confirming the arrangement. You and I can do
that. We'll let Mr Calverly go.'
Mr Galbraith didn't say good-night. Henry thought he was about to, and
stood up, expectantly; but the little man suddenly dropped his
eyes; looked hurriedly about; muttered--'Where'd I lay that fountain
pen?'--found it; and rushed off down the hall, trailing the clippings
behind him.
Out in the hall, Mr Merchant pulled the door to.
'Calverly,' he said, 'I congratulate you. And I shall congratulate
Galbraith.'
Henry looked at him out of wan eyes.
Then suddenly he giggled aloud.
'I know how you feel,' said the older man kindly. 'It is pleasant to
succeed.'
'I felt a little bad about--you know, what you said about making him
write that letter. He might think I----'
'Don't you worry about that. I'll have the letter for you in the
morning. I'm going to pin him right to it. He'll never get out of this.'
'You--you don't mean that he'd--he'd----'
'Oh, he might forget it.'
'Nor after he _promised!_'
'Galbraith's a genius. He gets excited. Over-cerebrates at times.
Sometimes he offers young fellows more than he can deliver. Then he
wakes up to it and takes a sudden trip to Europe.'
'He acts very strange,' said Henry critically. 'I wonder if all geniuses
are that way.'
'They're apt to be queer. But never forget that he's a real one.
No matter how mad he may seem to you, no matter how irresponsible,
Galbraith is a great editor. He is wild about you. When he said he'd
make you, I believe he meant it. And I believe he'll do it. You're on
the high road now, Calverly. Through a lucky accident. But that's how
most men hit the high road. They happen to be where it is. They stumble
on it. Within a year you'll be known everywhere.... Well, good-night!'
6
The immediate effect of this experience on Henry was acute depression.
Perhaps because his excitement had passed its bearable summit. Though
great good fortune always did depress him, even in his later life.
It had the effect of suddenly delimiting the boundaries of his widely
elastic imagination. It brought him sharply down to the actual.
He hadn't enjoyed the bargaining for him. And the actual Galbraith was
a shock from which he didn't recover for years, an utter destruction of
cherished illusions.
He walked down to Lake Shore Drive, struggling with these thoughts and
with himself. The problem was to get himself able to think at all, about
anything. His nerves were bow-strings, his mind a race-track. He was
frightened for himself. Over and over he told himself that this amazing
adventure was not a dream; that he had seen Galbraith, _the_ Galbraith;
that he had sold his stories, the work of a few weeks--he recalled how
he had written the first ten during three mad days and nights; they had
come tumbling out of his brain faster than he could write them down, as
if an exuberant angel were dictating to him--had sold them for thousands
of dollars; that an income, of a sort, was assured for three years.
The stories, even now, seemed an accident. They were a thing that had
happened to him. Such a thing might or might not happen again. Though he
knew it would. But between times he wasn't a genius; he wasn't anything;
just Henry Calverly, of Sunbury.... He pushed back his hat; rubbed his
blazing forehead; pressed his thumping temples.
'I've got congestion,' he muttered.
He stood at the railing and stared out ever the lake. It was lead black
out there, with a tossing light or two; ore freighters or lumber boats
headed for Chicago harbour. Beneath him, down the beach, great waves
were pounding in, quickly, endlessly, tirelessly, one after the other.
He could see the ghostly foam of each. He could feel the spindrift
cutting at his face. The wind was so strong he had to lean against it.
A gust tore off his glasses; he let them hang over his shoulder. He
welcomed the rush and roar of it in his stormy soul.
After a time, having decided nothing, he hurried across town to the
Dexter Smith place.
It was dark, upstairs and down.
He slipped in among the trees; drew near the great house. All the time
the little box from Welding's was gripped in his burning hand.
He stood by a large soft maple. He loved the trees of Sunbury; every
year he budded, flowered, and died with them. He looked up; the great
straight branches were bending before the wind. Leaves were falling
about him; the bright yellow leaves of October. He caught at one; missed
it. Caught at another. And another.
He laid a hand on the bark; then rested his cheek against it. It was
cool to the touch. He stood thus, his arm about the tree, looking up at
the dark house. Tears came; blinded him.
'They've shut her up,' he said. 'They're going to take her away. Because
she loves me. They're breaking her heart--and mine. Martha'll be back
to-morrow. And Mary'n' her mother. It'll be out then--what--what I
did. Everybody'll be talking. I'll have to go away too. I can't live
here--not after that.'
A new and fascinating thought came.
'The watchman'll be coming around. Pretty soon, maybe. He'll find me
here. I s'pose he'll shoot me. I don't care. Let him. In the morning
they'll find my body. And the ring'll be in my pocket. And Mr
Galbraith's cheque. And in the morning Mr Merchant'll have that letter.
Maybe they'll discover I was some good after all. Maybe they'll be sorry
then.'
But on second thought this notion lost something of its appealing
quality. He went away; after hours more appeared in the rooms and kept
his long-suffering partner awake during much of the night.
At half-past eight the next morning he mounted the front steps of the
Smith place and rang the bell. A mildly surprised butler showed him into
the spacious parlour.
He waited, fiercely.
A door opened and closed. He heard a heavy step. Madame Watt entered the
room, frowning a little. 'What is it, Henry? Why did you come?'
'I want you to see this,' he said, thrusting the cheque into her hand.
Then, before she could more than glance at the figures, he was forcing
another paper on her. 'And this!' he cried. 'Please read it!'
She, still frowning, turned the pages.
'But what's all this, Henry?'
'Can't you see? I went around this morning. Mr Merchant had it all ready
for me. It's _Galbraith's Magazine_. They're going to print my stories
and pay me three thousand. That cheque's for part of it. I get book
royalties besides. And twenty-five a week for three years against the
price of new work. That's just so I won't write for anybody else. And
Mr Galbraith himself promised me he'd make me famous. He's going to
advertise me all over the country. Right away. This year. He says
there's been nothing like me since Kipling and Stevenson!' Printed here,
coldly, this impassioned outburst may seem to border on absurdity. But
shrewd, strong-willed Madame Watt, taking it in, studying him, found it
far from absurd. The egotism in it, she perceived, was that of youth as
much as of genius. And the blazing eyes, the working face, the emotional
uncertainty in the voice, these were to be reckoned with. They were
youth--gifted, uncontrolled, very nearly irresistible youth. And as she
said, brusquely--'Sit down, Henry!'--and herself dropped heavily into
a chair and began deliberately reading the document of the great
Galbraith, she knew, in her curiously storm-beaten old heart, that she
was sparring for time. Before her, still on his feet, apparently unaware
that she had spoken, unaware of everything on earth outside of his own
turbulent breast, stood an incarnation of primal energy.
She sighed, as she turned the page. Once she shook her head. She found
momentary relief in the thought, so often the only comfort of weary old
folk, that youth, at least, never knows its power.
I think he was talking all the time--pouring out an incoherent,
tremulous torrent of words. Once or twice she moved her hand as if to
brush him away.
When she finally raised her head, he was taking the wrappings from a
little box.
'Well, Henry? Just what do you want? Where are we getting, with all
this?'
'I want you to let me see Cicely. Just one minute. Let her say. I
can't--I _can't_--leave it like this!'
'You promised----'
'That I wouldn't try to see her. But I can come to you can't I? That's
fair, isn't it?'
Madame Watt sighed again.
Suddenly Henry leaped forward; caught himself; stepped back; cried out,
in a passionately suppressed voice:--
'There she is! Now!'
Cicely was crossing the hall toward the stairs. They could see her
through the doorway.
She went up as far as the first landing, a few steps up; then, a hand on
the railing, she hesitated and slowly turned her head.
'Will you ask her to come!' Henry moaned. 'Ask her! Let her say! Don't
break our hearts like this!'
Madame raised her hand.
Cicely, slowly, pale and gentle of face, came across the wide hall and
into the room. She stopped then, hands hanging at her sides, her head
bent forward a little, glancing from one to the other.
She looked unexpectedly frail. Henry knew, as his eyes dwelt on her,
that she, too, was suffering.
She seemed about to speak; but instead threw out her hands in a little
questioning gesture and raised her mobile eyebrows. But she didn't
smile.
Henry glanced again at Madame. She was re-reading the Galbraith letter.
He waited for her to look up.
Then, all at once, he knew that she meant not to look up. Youth is
unerringly keen in its own interest. She was evading the issue. He had
beaten her.
He dropped the little box on a chair; stepped forward, ring in hand. He
saw Cicely gazing at it, fascinated.
Then his own voice came out--a shy, even polite, if breathless, little
voice:--
'I was just wondering, Cicely, if you'd let me give you this ring.'
She lifted very slowly her left hand; still gazing intently at the ring.
He held it out.