A purpose had instantly formed itself in Ray’s mind which he instantly
set himself to carry out. It was none the less a burden because he tried
to think it heroic and knew it to be fantastic; and it was in a mood of
equally blended devotion and resentment that he disciplined himself to
fulfil it. It was shocking to criticise the dying man’s prayer from any
such point of view, but he could not help doing so, and censuring it for
a want of taste, for a want of consideration. He did not account for the
hope of good to the world which Hughes must have had in urging him to
befriend his book; he could only regard it as a piece of literature, and
judge the author’s motives by his own, which he was fully aware were
primarily selfish.
But he went direct to Mr. Brandreth and laid the matter before him.
“Now I’m going to suggest something,” he hurried on, “which may strike
you as ridiculous, but I’m thoroughly in earnest about it. I’ve read Mr.
Hughes’s book, first and last, all through, and it’s good literature, I
can assure you of that. I don’t know about the principles in it, but I
know it’s very original and from a perfectly new stand-point, and I
believe it would make a great hit.”
Mr. Brandreth listened, evidently shaken. “I couldn’t do it, now. I’m
making a venture with your book.”
“That’s just what I’m coming to. Don’t make your venture with my book;
make it with his! I solemnly believe that his would be the safest
venture of the two; I believe it would stand two chances to one of
mine.”
“Well, I’ll look at it for the fall.”
“It will be too late, then, as far as Hughes is concerned. It’s now or
never, with him! You want to come out with a book that will draw
attention to your house, as well as succeed. I believe that Hughes’s
book will be an immense success. It has a taking name, and it’s a novel
and taking conception. It’ll make no end of talk.”
“It’s too late,” said Mr. Brandreth. “I couldn’t take such a book as
that without passing it round among all our readers, and you know what
that means. Besides, I’ve begun to make my plans for getting out your
book at once. There isn’t any time to lose. I’ve sent out a lot of
literary notes, and you’ll see them in every leading paper to-morrow
morning. I’ll have Mr. Hughes’s book faithfully examined, and if I can
see my way to it--I tell you, I believe I shall make a success of the
_Modern Romeo_. I like the title better and better. I think you’ll be
pleased with the way I’ve primed the press. I’ve tried to avoid all
vulgar claptrap, and yet I believe I’ve contrived to pique the public
curiosity.”
He went on to tell Ray some of the things he had said in his paragraphs,
and Ray listened with that mingled shame and pleasure which the artist
must feel whenever the commercial side of his life presents itself.
“I kept Miss Hughes pretty late this afternoon, working the things into
shape, so as to get them to the papers at once. I just give her the main
points, and she has such a neat touch.”
Ray left his publisher with a light heart, and a pious sense of the
divine favor. He had conceived of a difficult duty, and he had
discharged it with unflinching courage. He had kept his word to Hughes;
he had done all that he could for him, even to offering his own chance
of fame and fortune a sacrifice to him. Now he could do no more, and if
he could not help being glad that the sacrifice had not been accepted of
him, he was not to be blamed. He was very much to be praised, and he
rewarded himself with a full recognition of his virtue; he imagined some
words, few but rare, from Peace, expressing her sense of his
magnanimity, when she came to know of it. He hoped that a fact so
creditable to him, and so characteristic, would not escape the notice of
his biographer. He wished that Hughes could know what he had done, and
in his revery he contrived that his generous endeavor should be brought
to the old man’s knowledge; he had Hughes say that such an action was
more to him than the publication of his book.
Throughout his transport of self-satisfaction there ran a nether torment
of question whether Peace Hughes could possibly suppose that he was
privy to that paragraphing about his book, and this finally worked to
the surface, and become his whole mood. After his joyful riot it was
this that kept him awake till morning, that poisoned all his pleasure in
his escape from self-sacrifice. He could only pacify himself and get
some sleep at last by promising to stop at the publisher’s on his way
down to the _Every Evening_ office in the morning, and beseech her to
believe that he had nothing to do with priming the press, and that he
wished Mr. Brandreth had not told him of it. Nothing less than this was
due him in the character that he desired to appear in hereafter.
He reached the publisher’s office before Mr. Brandreth came down, and
when he said he would like to see Miss Hughes, the clerk answered that
Miss Hughes had sent word that her father was not so well, and she would
not be down that day.
“He’s pretty low, I believe,” the clerk volunteered.
“I’m afraid so,” said Ray.
He asked if the clerk would call a messenger to take a note from him to
his office, and when he had despatched it he went up to see Hughes.
“Did you get our message?” Peace asked him the first thing.
“No,” said Ray. “What message?”
“That we sent to your office. He has been wanting to see you ever since
he woke this morning. I knew you would come!”
“O yes. I went to inquire of you about him at Chapley’s, and when I
heard that he was worse, of course I came. Is he much worse?”
“He can’t live at all. The doctor says it’s no use. He wants to see you.
Will you come in?”
“Peace!” Ray hesitated. “Tell me! Is it about his book?”
“Yes, something about that. He wishes to speak with you.”
“Oh, Peace! I’ve done all I could about that. I went straight to Mr.
Brandreth and tried to get him to take it. But I couldn’t. What shall I
tell your father, if he asks me?”
“You must tell him the truth,” said the girl, sadly.
“Is that Mr. Ray?” Mrs. Denton called from the sick-room. “Come in, Mr.
Ray. Father wants you.”
“In a moment. Come here, Mrs. Denton,” Ray called back.
She came out, and he told her what he had told Peace. She did not seem
to see its bearing at once. When she realized it all, and had spent her
quick wrath in denunciation of Mr. Brandreth’s heartlessness, she said
desperately: “Well, you must come now. Perhaps it isn’t his book;
perhaps it’s something else. But he wants you.”
She had to rouse her father from the kind of torpor in which he lay like
one dead. She made him understand who was there, and then he smiled, and
turned his eyes appealingly toward Ray. “Put your ear as close to his
lips as you can. He can’t write any more. He wants to say something to
you.”
Ray stooped over and put his ear to the drawn lips. A few whiffs of
inarticulate breath mocked the dying man’s endeavor to speak. “I’m
sorry; I can’t catch a syllable,” said Ray.
A mute despair showed itself in the old man’s eyes.
“Look at me father!” cried Mrs. Denton. “Is it about your book?”
The faintest smile came over his face.
“Did you wish to ask Mr. Ray if he would speak to Mr. Brandreth about
it?”
The smile dimly dawned again.
“Well, he has spoken to him. He went to see him last night, and he’s
come to tell you”--Ray shuddered and held his breath--“to tell you that
Mr. Brandreth will take your book, and he’s going to publish it right
away!”
A beatific joy lit up Hughes’s face; and Ray drew a long breath.
Peace looked at her sister.
“I don’t care!” said Mrs. Denton, passionately, dropping her voice. “You
have your light, and I have mine.”