DREAMS
It is highly necessary, having regard to the fact that we have a
hero--albeit a doubtful one--that we should not lose sight of him. Jimmy
in a sense had almost lost sight of himself for a time, if the
expression may be pardoned; lost sight, in fact, of that large
personage, James Larrance, who had blossomed forth so well in print at
one time.
For Jimmy had grown ambitious; and Jimmy had left behind him something
of the old safe hack work, and had launched out a little. Fortune had
smiled upon him a little to begin with; but he had soon discovered that
in this more ambitious work editors were not so reasonable as that young
man in the shirt-sleeves had once been, nor so ready to give advice and
assistance. When the money did come in, it came in, as Jimmy would have
expressed it, "in lumps"; but then the lumps were few and far between,
and a man might well starve while he was waiting for the next lump to
come to him. Jimmy almost starved, with some amount of cheerfulness; but
he went on. For Jimmy had a way of setting his teeth, and going at the
work in a bullet-headed fashion--and coming up whenever he was knocked
down, and going at it again. Which was highly serviceable in the long
run.
Also--wonder of wonders!--Jimmy had contrived, in the interval of work
of a smaller order, to write a novel; a novel that always reminded him
in after days of a cold room, and a lamp that smoked, and the collar of
an overcoat scraping his ears; because those were the conditions under
which it was produced. It was a blessed relaxation that Jimmy promised
himself during each long day; a something to be tenderly brought forth
at night, and gone over lovingly; something that was in an indefinite
fashion to make his fortune, in a surprising way, immediately on its
publication.
And the thing was finished--absolutely staring at him, from its first
page to its last; and he told himself in his soul that it was good; that
into it he had put something of himself--something of the vital essence
of life, as he had known it, and lived it, and suffered it. The only
question now in his mind was which particular publisher should have the
privilege of making a fortune over it, alike for himself and for Jimmy.
For that it would be a huge success Jimmy never doubted for a moment;
there was in it that mysterious thing commended originally by the young
man in the shirt-sleeves--an Idea!
The first publisher failed to find the Idea; in fact, he refused to see
it when it was carefully pointed out to him. He suggested that if anyone
had sixty pounds to throw away, this seemed to be a noble way of losing
that sum, or perhaps more; but he was not rash by nature himself. Jimmy
carried it to another--and yet another; it became a little worn in the
process, and the first and last sheets had to be rewritten. Then it went
to a fourth man, and lost itself in some unaccountable way among other
wandering manuscripts; until Jimmy in despair ventured at last, after
months, to write a letter that should recall it. And had a letter in
reply, asking him to call personally.
He went, and was received after some delay by a big-bearded man in a
great wilderness of an office; there were books lying all about--books
that the great one had published, and others that he had acquired, in
order to study questions of binding and paper; and there were many
photographs framed upon the walls. The big man was courteous to a
fault; actually apologised for having kept Jimmy waiting!
"Well, Mr. Larrance," he began--"I have read your book--after my
reader's report upon it--and I may say that I have read it with very
great pleasure." He coughed, and added, as an afterthought--"with very
great pleasure indeed."
Jimmy had a feeling that this was the sort of man he would like to shake
by the hand, if he got an opportunity. And oh--he should have the book
cheap! Which thought, it may be noted as a rare coincidence, was also in
the mind of the large-bearded man.
"At the same time, Mr. Larrance," went on the other--"I have a doubt
whether the public will take to it. The public, my dear sir, is tricky;
prefers, I fear, books which are not good for it; is something like a
spoilt child, crying for sweets when it should be fed on oatmeal. On the
other hand, there is a possibility that the book might catch on; one
never can tell."
"We could hope that that would be so," suggested Jimmy.
The large man shook his head sadly. "Even a publisher cannot live on
hope," he said. "However, Mr. Larrance, I am half inclined to take the
risk--I am, indeed. People will probably call me foolish--but I must put
up with that. Now--shall we talk about terms?"
He pulled a sheet of paper towards him, and took up a pencil, and began
to make figures upon the paper--figures over which he shook his large
head, and pursed up his lips. Jimmy watched him, fascinated; for, of
course, it was a well-known fact that if once you got a book published,
you sat still for ever afterwards, while the publisher sent you cheques;
or, at all events, you sat still until you felt inclined to write
another book. Jimmy held his breath in awe of the great man who could
do these things; and incidentally wondered whether he paid monthly, or
quarterly, or half yearly.
"I like to deal fairly with people--especially young people," said the
big man, beaming upon Jimmy, the while Jimmy's heart expanded to him. "I
would propose that we do this thing together."
"Together?" Jimmy looked at him in some perplexity.
"Yes"--the big man was absolutely warming with his subject and
benevolence stirred his very beard--"together. We'll share the thing;
we'll share expenses, and we'll share profits. How do you like that
proposal?"
"Well"--Jimmy looked at him, and was conscious that his face was
burning--"I should be delighted; but I'm not a capitalist. I have no
money that I could expend."
"I have not asked you to expend anything," retorted the other, with a
smile. "I will pay for everything; I will produce the book--pay for
advertisements--everything. Then, when the profits come in, everything
will be divided, after deducting expenses. You pay nothing--and you may
receive something--if we're lucky. The only risk taken will be by me."
Jimmy began to feel that here was a man who should at least be canonised
at the earliest opportunity; a man about whom the world ought to know.
It was wonderful that a man of this character should sit in this place,
doing good with a large heart and a large hand, and that so few people
knew about it. Jimmy's pleasure must have shown itself in his face; for
the large man held up a warning hand.
"Now, don't thank me; this is a matter of business," he said. "You may
get nothing out of it, although that is very unlikely; and I may lose a
lot of money--which is very likely indeed. But in any case we shall know
that we have done our best. Say the word, and I'll have an agreement
drawn up, and send it to you."
Jimmy said the word; in his gratitude he said many words. Finally he
went out of the office with a light heart and a light step, feeling that
he had made another great and powerful friend.
There came the time--the time that comes only once in one's life!--when
the first proofs of the book were received; proofs to be lingered over
lovingly, and left conspicuously on Jimmy's desk for the edification of
chance callers. Finally the book itself, with some copies which belonged
to him by right.
Curiously enough, according to the melancholy account given by the
big-bearded man, the thing fell flat; he said the public wasn't ripe for
it. Jimmy saw it in book-sellers' windows now and then; and some of the
notices were kind, and one actually dug out that Idea, and made the most
of it; said there was something new about it. Jimmy ventured, after a
decent interval, to go and see the publisher; was kept waiting a little
longer than before, but was finally shown in. There he learned for the
first time the disastrous thing he had done--so far, that is, as the big
man was concerned.
"I told you there was a risk," said the man, smiling as cheerfully as
ever; "and I made it clear, I think, that I took the risk, and you
didn't. My dear young friend"--the big man dived among a heap of papers,
and brought out one particular sheet, which he perused with his head on
one side--"you owe me quite a decent sum of money."
"But you said----"
"Only on paper, of course," broke in the other quickly. "I didn't mean
to frighten you; there's nothing for you to pay. _I_ attend to that part
of the business, and I may say that from an artistic point of view I am
proud to have brought the book out--proud to feel that I have, even at
a loss, put such a story before the public. I shall have another go at
it, and see if I can't make it hum a little yet."
Whether the big man ever really did make it "hum" or not it is
impossible to say; but it may be mentioned here that at the end of some
months Jimmy received an account from the publisher, informing him that
there was a sum against him in their books of a mere trifle of £6 5s.
9d.; and the account was accompanied by a cheery letter from the big
man, informing him kindly that this was a mere formality, to enable them
to keep their books straight. And wound up with a casual
suggestion--"When are we to have another book from you?"
But this by the way. It only happened, of course, some months after that
first interview; but it left its sting on Jimmy nevertheless. It is only
mentioned here because indirectly it was to change Jimmy's life;
indirectly it was to bring him on the path his wandering feet had been
seeking for so long. Before he knew the disaster he felt he had brought
upon the big-bearded man, Jimmy received a letter, sent through the
office of that gentleman; a letter which caused him to catch his breath,
and to open his eyes, and to feel that the world was still a wonderful
place, despite all that the cynics might say.
Someone had actually discovered the Idea!
The letter was headed with the name of a theatre; it was written in a
sprawling hand difficult to decipher; and it was signed by a certain Mr.
Bennett Godsby. As everyone knew the name of Mr. Bennett Godsby, Jimmy
for a moment or two felt the room going round him, and wondered, after
that glance at the signature, what so great a man could possibly have to
say to him. Then he tackled the letter.
It appeared that Mr. Bennett Godsby had happened to have his attention
called to the book; had read it; and had dug out of it that Idea which
had for others been so carefully concealed. With a feeling of pity for
the probable ignorance of Mr. James Larrance in regard to such matters,
Mr. Bennett Godsby begged to inform that gentleman that the name of
Bennett Godsby was known on two sides of the Atlantic, as an actor who
had played many parts, and who, as it happened, was at that time in want
of a play. If any dramatic version of the story had been done, Mr.
Bennett Godsby would be glad to see it; in any case, it might be well if
he could see Mr. Larrance. The Idea appeared to be a strong one, and
something ought to be made of it. So Jimmy, greatly elated, went off to
the theatre at a time that had been suggested by the great man himself.
Inquiring at the stage door, he was kept waiting for a time, in company
with a man who was smoking a pipe--a gas stove--and a very old dog.
While he waited, a harsh little swing-door kept banging backwards and
forwards on its hinges, to admit or to let out various men and women,
who all seemed to be in a great hurry, and who all seemed also to know
each other remarkably well. Presently Jimmy was requested by the man
(who laid down his pipe at a summons from someone within) to step with
him; and stepping accordingly, found himself, after traversing various
long passages and flights of stone steps, stumbling among the
holland-covered stalls of the theatre, in semi-darkness, on his way to
find Mr. Bennett Godsby, who was seated, muffled in an overcoat, in the
second row.
On the dimly-lighted stage some sort of rehearsal was going forward,
conducted for the most part by a pale and anxious young man, who was
darting hither and thither among a crowd of people, endeavouring to get
them into some semblance of order. Just as Jimmy reached Mr. Bennett
Godsby's side, and stood quaking, the great man stood up to roar out
some instructions to the pale and anxious young man, while the latter
craned forward over the footlights, at the imminent risk of his neck, to
listen.
"Very good, sir," exclaimed the young man, with several emphatic nods;
and plunged again among the crowd. Mr. Godsby, bending his head the
better to read Jimmy's card, held out a hand to him, and drew him down
beside him. This being Jimmy's first experience of a theatre in its
morning wrappers, he looked up curiously at the shrouded boxes and
circles, and then at the stage; came back from that inspection, to find
that Mr. Godsby was speaking to him in a strong deep voice that could be
heard easily even above the racket on the stage.
Mr. Bennett Godsby was a small, spare man, with a rather lined face, and
with deep-set eyes; he seemed to look Jimmy over carefully while he
talked to him. The talk was difficult, because it was interrupted every
now and then by Mr. Godsby himself, when he stood up to shout at the
stage, and by various people who came from time to time into the row of
stalls behind, and whispered to Mr. Godsby over his shoulder.
"Well, Mr. Larrance--I'm very glad to see you," he said. "Perhaps my
letter was a little impulsive," he went on, with an indulgent
smile--"but then I am nothing if not impulsive; it's the life, you know.
But there is something in your book that seems to appeal to me;
something in that particular character that seems to move me. Have you
had any experience with stage work?"
Jimmy was learning wisdom; Jimmy was giving over that habit of showing
his hand on all occasions. Now he shrugged his shoulders, and spoke with
what carelessness he might.
"I have studied it a great deal--from an outside point of view," he
said. "You see, I am still rather--rather young."
"That is in your favour," said the other, with another smile. "Now, how
does your work appeal to you in the sense of a play? Have you, for
instance, thought of me in regard to it at all?"
Jimmy, again with wisdom, said that the idea had certainly occurred to
him, and that he thought Mr. Bennett Godsby would be the one man to
interpret the character. Mr. Godsby nodded, and smiled; then suddenly
started up in a fury, and roared out at the young man on the stage:
"What in the world have you got those people up there for?" he shouted.
"Take 'em all back; show 'em exactly what I showed you yesterday. How do
you think I'm going to make that entrance through that crowd, when
they're all fighting together up in that corner? And teach 'em how to
jeer; remember they've got to jeer at me at the beginning of that scene,
or it goes for nothing." Absolute silence on the stage, while the pale
young man craned his neck over the footlights, and nodded emphatically,
and looked more anxious than ever. "Oh, my God!" concluded Mr. Bennett
Godsby, as he sank back into his stall--"the amount of work that I have
to do with you people, because you won't remember from one day to the
other----There--get on--get on, please!"
"Now, Mr. Larrance--what was I saying? Oh, to be sure--I wanted to know
whether you had thought of me; and it seems you have. Very well,
then--do you think that it is possible for you to make a play out of
this--or have you already done anything in the way of a play with it?"
On Jimmy confessing that he had not yet done anything with it, the actor
pulled a long face; on Jimmy assuring him that it would not take very
long, his face lengthened still more. But it came at last to the point
that the great man stated, in urgent whispers, what he was prepared to
do.
Jimmy was to set about and prepare that extraordinary thing known as a
"synopsis"; was to set out, act by act, and scene by scene, what the
play was to be; and, on that proving satisfactory, was to have twenty
pounds. After that, on the completion of the play, another twenty--and
there was to be a small percentage every time it was played.
"What you have to consider chiefly is to build the play"--Mr. Bennett
Godsby formed his hands roughly into the shape of a cup, as though he
moulded the play within them--"to build the play round me. It may seem
strange; but there is a certain public, I am given to understand, which
wants me and demands me; and I have to consider that public. I think as
a matter of fact"--Bennett Godsby looked up at the proscenium arch, and
raised his eyebrows, and smoothed the hair back from his forehead--"I
really think there is a large section of the public that would be better
satisfied if I was never off at all; if, in fact, I carried the whole
thing on my shoulders. And mind you"--this very confidentially, with a
hand upon Jimmy's arm--"on many occasions it has been my fate to _have_
to carry a play on my shoulders!"
Jimmy went back to his rooms, feeling that at last Fortune was treading
hard upon his heels, and that his chance had really come. Already, as he
walked, he seemed to see in the near future people turning in the street
to glance at him; nudging each other as he went by. He saw himself
seated at the theatre (he thought it wouldn't be a bad plan to appear
rather bored, and to wear his honours coldly) and other people bowing to
him, and saying who he was. He went back to his rooms, and seized the
book, and plunged into it with fresh zest, although he knew it by
heart.
So far as he could judge, it would take at a rough estimate at least six
full acts to develop the Idea; and in three of those acts Mr. Bennett
Godsby, as the leading character, could not appear at all.
This was awkward, remembering the injunction laid upon him by that
gentleman that the play must be built round him; Jimmy decided that many
things would have to be left out--valuable things at that. But the Jimmy
who had learnt his lesson in the old days, what time a certain gentleman
in shirt-sleeves had compelled him to cut down and alter work
ruthlessly, was a Jimmy who had learnt something of his business, and
had left behind him a good deal that was unmarketable. It may sound
shameful; but Jimmy had about him an adaptability that was surprising,
and that had long since sounded the first notes of his success.
So while Jimmy, heedless of anything but the great prospect that was
looming before him, set to work then and there, making copious notes,
and lifting passages out of the wonderful book that must not by any
chance be omitted from the still more wonderful play that was to be
written; and while the day drew on to a close, and the lamps were lit in
the streets, and he still worked; someone set out for his rooms with the
purpose of seeing him, someone who had been forgotten by Jimmy for the
time, in the pressure of more urgent things. She came eagerly, and yet
with a certain reluctance; she was turning to Jimmy in a crisis in her
life, as to someone who might put a different complexion upon that life.
The girl was Moira.
She came almost straight from that momentous interview with Charlie; for
in a curious way she felt that this was a matter upon which Jimmy must
have a word to say. Charlie had held her in his arms, and had kissed
her; and almost, as she walked through the lighted streets, she was a
child again in the garden of the rectory, with Charlie's arm about her,
and his lips striving to meet hers; almost, too, she was the girl who
had hidden among the trees and seen Jimmy fight for her. Oh, yes--Jimmy
must have a word to say!
What that word would be or what she desired it to be, she scarcely knew
or cared to think. It is safe at least to say that in that inmost heart
of hers--that heart she had kept concealed from everyone, and which it
might be her fate never to show at all, Jimmy stood first. She had
passionately longed to see him; it had been Jimmy she was going to meet
in London when first she came there with Patience; it was of Jimmy she
had been so anxious to hear. On the other hand, of course, there was the
natural girlish gratitude to the man who had spoken the first words of
love to her--the man who had stepped brightly into her life, and
stripped away her loneliness. An additional factor, too, in the case,
and one which weighed with her heavily, was that Charlie needed help and
guidance; had indeed asked for her strength to lean upon. Jimmy
apparently needed no help and no guidance, and had strength enough for
himself. Nevertheless, Jimmy must have a word to say in the matter.
Jimmy heard the tap upon the door; felt in his own mind that it heralded
a visitor who would interrupt the important work--that work at the end
of which lay a much-needed twenty pounds, to say nothing of fame and
success. Glancing round impatiently from his desk, he called to the
unknown one to come in.
She opened the door timidly, and looked in; and as she saw him then she
was destined to remember him, many and many a time; to keep that picture
of him in her mind. He sat within the circle of light thrown by his
reading lamp; the rest of the room was in shadow. The desk was littered
with papers, and Jimmy was evidently furiously at work. Even as she
hesitated at the door, she seemed to see here the successful man of
affairs--the man who prospered, and to whom work was readily given.
"Oh, it's you, Moira," he said, laying down his pen, and even then
pausing for a moment to look at the work he left. "Come in."
It did not seem to the girl that there was the old cordiality in his
voice; no welcoming cry as she came into the place--no starting up
gladly to meet her. And she so lonely--so much in need of a friend to
whom she could talk! And Jimmy with that word to say!
"I'm frantically busy," said Jimmy, with a smile and another glance at
his desk. "Sudden work, for which everything else must be set aside,
Moira--great and wonderful work. I've got a chance to write a play."
"Yes, Jimmy?" She spoke quietly, and with no enthusiasm, as it seemed,
in her tones. For she was chilled and repelled; this was not the man to
whom to come on any affair of the heart; this was a Jimmy who, if he had
a word to say, would be likely to say it about himself.
"A man has read my book--Bennett Godsby; you're sure to have heard of
him--and he sees a play in it. I'm just to write off a few
pages--suggesting what it's to be--and I get twenty pounds for
that"--Jimmy was talking excitedly, and was tapping the open book upon
his desk as he spoke. "It's a gorgeous chance--a wonderful opportunity!
I've had a long talk with him to-day. But there--sit down, Moira; I can
spare you ten minutes. And don't mind my excitement; one doesn't get a
chance like this every day."
She did not sit down; she stood looking into the small fire, and
wondering why she had come, or what there was for her to say.
Jimmy--this Jimmy who knew great people, and talked so lightly of
twenty pounds, and of plays, and what not--this was not the Jimmy who
would have the word to say. Even as tears welled into her eyes--tears of
bitterness and of loneliness--she thought of Charlie who had kissed her;
Charlie who was not successful, but who always had a kind word for her,
and a cheery laugh in the midst of all his misfortune. Why had she come
here at all?
"Well, Moira," said Jimmy, leaning against his desk and looking at
her--"and what's the news with you?"
"Oh--the best, I suppose," she said, without raising her eyes. "I came
here to-night to tell you something of my news. It's about--about
Charlie."
"Poor old Charlie!" he said lightly; and in her ears it sounded as the
light dismissal by the successful man of the man who had failed. "What's
Charlie doing?"
"Charlie is going to do great things one of these days," she said
brightly, surprising herself by discovering that she was suddenly the
other man's champion. "And I--I am going to help him."
"Well--you've always done that, you know," said Jimmy; and in his mind
as he spoke was not Moira nor Charlie--nor any of their troubles. He
seemed to see Bennett Godsby walking the stage in one particular scene,
and speaking the words that should have been set down for him by that
new dramatist, James Larrance. "What are you doing for him now?"
"It isn't what I'm doing for him now, Jimmy--it's what I'm going to do
for him," she said, raising her eyes for the first time. "I thought
you'd like to hear about it. Charlie wants me--he's asked me to marry
him."
Jimmy had turned for a moment to look back at his precious notes; he
swung round now towards her, and for a moment or two was silent. For
this was a shock; and perhaps just then Jimmy realised for the first
time that in this he might have had a word to say, after all. For Jimmy
had planned, as he always did for himself and for others, a certain
future, in which always he took the lead, and wherein always he arranged
the lives of those in whom he was interested. In some part of that dim
and distant future he was, as a very successful man, to have gone to
Moira, and with much kindness have offered her a share in it; with no
real priggishness in the thought, he yet felt that she should be very
properly gratified, and a little humble, and very much admiring. It was
all indefinite; but it had a place in that future; and this was a sudden
disturbance of the scheme.
"Charlie has asked you to marry him?" He moved a little nearer to her,
and laughed. "And what did you say?"
"Nothing--yet," said Moira. "You see, Jimmy"--her loneliness made her
confidential with him; she must at that time, she felt, lean on
someone--"I didn't know what to say. Of course, I like Charlie--and I'm
sorry for him--and I should like to help him. He says I could; that I
should give him something to work for."
"A man always says that," said Jimmy wisely. "After all, it must be a
matter for yourself, my dear girl," he added. "I suppose Charlie knows
best; perhaps you will be able to help him to make something of
himself."
"I hope so--I think so," she said, in a low voice. "I only came
to-night, Jimmy, because--because we've been such good friends, you and
I----"
"And always shall be, of course," he broke in.
"And I thought you'd like to know about it."
Jimmy looked at her thoughtfully for a moment or two; then he sighed,
and smiled as she raised her eyes to him. "You've had but a poor life of
it, Moira," he said; "I don't wonder you turn to a man who promises you
something better."
"Perhaps that's it," she whispered, dropping her eyes. "After all,
Jimmy, I suppose love only comes once--doesn't it?"
"So they say," replied Jimmy solemnly.
"I suppose, Jimmy"--she kept her eyes averted, and her voice was
scarcely more than a whisper--"I suppose, Jimmy, you don't think--don't
think of those things--eh?"
"No--I don't," said Jimmy, after a long look at her. "I am in a sense
wedded to my work; I never think of anything else. A man must be
free--free to live his life, and do the best that is in him"--Jimmy
seemed to have read or heard that somewhere, but it sounded rather well
just now. "I cannot see myself ever marrying," he added; yet there was a
little bitterness in his heart as he said it, and as he thought of
Charlie and of Moira.
"I understand," she said; and laughed curiously. "So I shall say what I
meant to say all along to Charlie; I shall tell him that I'll marry him.
Good-bye, Jimmy!"
He took the hand she held out to him; they stood for a moment in the
shadows of the room; stood, too, perhaps, for a moment amid the shadows
of old memories clustering thick and fast about them. Then he wrung her
hand, and turned away.
"I hope you'll be very happy, Moira," he said.
"Oh--I think so," she replied; and when he turned again from his notes
she was gone.
Curiously enough he did not touch the notes again that night. He sat for
a long time in front of the fire--thinking--thinking; striving to look
into that new future which had so suddenly to be rearranged.
"I can quite see what is going to happen," he told himself. "I can see
myself, in the years that are coming, a man grown successful--and yet
not caring very much about the success." (Jimmy was very confident about
this point.) "And yet there shall be no bitterness in me; I can feel
myself looking at things, sanely, and telling myself that this was,
after all, for the best--quite for the best. Poor Moira!"