If something less had depended on my impression I daresay I should have
communicated it as soon as I had swallowed my breakfast; but the
case was so embarrassing that I spent the first half of the day in
reconsidering it, dipping into the book again, almost feverishly turning
its leaves and trying to extract from them, for my friend’s benefit,
some symptom of reassurance, some ground for felicitation. This rash
challenge had consequences merely dreadful; the wretched volumes,
imperturbable and impeccable, with their shyer secrets and their second
line of defence, were like a beautiful woman more denuded or a great
symphony on a new hearing. There was something quite sinister in the way
they stood up to me. I couldn’t however be dumb--that was to give the
wrong tinge to my disappointment; so that later in the afternoon, taking
my courage in both hands, I approached with a vain tortuosity poor
Limbert’s door. A smart victoria waited before it in which from the
bottom of the street I saw that a lady who had apparently just issued
from the house was settling herself. I recognised Jane Highmore and
instantly paused till she should drive down to me. She presently met me
half-way and as soon as she saw me stopped her carriage in agitation.
This was a relief--it postponed a moment the sight of that pale, fine
face of our friend’s fronting me for the right verdict. I gathered from
the flushed eagerness with which Mrs. Highmore asked me if I had heard
the news that a verdict of some sort had already been rendered.
“What news?--about the book?”
“About that horrid magazine. They’re shockingly upset. He has lost his
position--he has had a fearful flare-up with Mr. Bousefield.”
I stood there blank, but not unaware in my blankness of how history
repeats itself. There came to me across the years Maud’s announcement
of their ejection from the _Beacon_, and dimly, confusedly the same
explanation was in the air. This time however I had been on my guard;
I had had my suspicion. “He has made it too flippant?” I found breath
after an instant to inquire.
Mrs. Highmore’s vacuity exceeded my own. “Too ‘flippant’? He has made it
too oracular. Mr. Bousefield says he has killed it.” Then perceiving my
stupefaction: “Don’t you know what has happened?” she pursued; “isn’t it
because in his trouble, poor love, he has sent for you that you’ve come?
You’ve heard nothing at all? Then you had better know before you see
them. Get in here with me--I’ll take you a turn and tell you.” We were
close to the Park, the Regent’s, and when with extreme alacrity I had
placed myself beside her and the carriage had begun to enter it she went
on: “It was what I feared, you know. It reeked with culture. He keyed it
up too high.”
I felt myself sinking in the general collapse. “What are you talking
about?”
“Why, about that beastly magazine. They’re all on the streets. I shall
have to take mamma.”
I pulled myself together. “What on earth then did Bousefield want? He
said he wanted intellectual power.”
“Yes, but Ray overdid it.”
“Why, Bousefield said it was a thing he _couldn’t_ overdo.”
“Well, Ray managed: he took Mr. Bousefield too literally. It appears
the thing has been doing dreadfully, but the proprietor couldn’t say
anything, because he had covenanted to leave the editor quite free. He
describes himself as having stood there in a fever and seen his ship go
down. A day or two ago the year was up, so he could at last break out.
Maud says he did break out quite fearfully; he came to the house and let
poor Ray have it. Ray gave it to him back; he reminded him of his own
idea of the way the cat was going to jump.”
I gasped with dismay. “Has Bousefield abandoned that idea? Isn’t the cat
going to jump?”
Mrs. Highmore hesitated. “It appears that she doesn’t seem in a
hurry. Ray at any rate has jumped too far ahead of her. He should have
temporised a little, Mr. Bousefield says; but I’m beginning to think,
you know,” said my companion, “that Ray _can’t_ temporise.” Fresh
from my emotions of the previous twenty-four hours I was scarcely in a
position to disagree with her. “He published too much pure thought.”
“Pure thought?” I cried. “Why, it struck me so often--certainly in a due
proportion of cases--as pure drivel!”
“Oh, you’re more keyed up than he! Mr. Bousefield says that of course
he wanted things that were suggestive and clever, things that he could
point to with pride. But he contends that Ray didn’t allow for human
weakness. He gave everything in too stiff doses.”
Sensibly, I fear, to my neighbour I winced at her words; I felt a prick
that made me meditate. Then I said: “Is that, by chance, the way he
gave _me?_” Mrs. Highmore remained silent so long that I had somehow the
sense of a fresh pang; and after a minute, turning in my seat, I laid my
hand on her arm, fixed my eyes upon her face and pursued pressingly:
“Do you suppose it to be to my ‘Occasional Remarks’ that Mr. Bousefield
refers?”
At last she met my look. “Can you bear to hear it?”
“I think I can bear anything now.”
“Well then, it was really what I wanted to give you an inkling of. It’s
largely over you that they’ve quarrelled. Mr. Bousefield wants him to
chuck you.”