A TURNING-POINT.
Mark came down to the little back parlour at Malakoff Terrace one dull
January morning to find the family already assembled there, with the
exception of Mrs. Ashburn, who was breakfasting in bed--an unusual
indulgence for her.
'Mark,' said Trixie, as she leaned back in her chair, and put up her
face for his morning greeting, 'there's a letter for you on your
plate.'
It was not difficult to observe a suppressed excitement amongst all
the younger members of his family concerning this letter; they had
finished their breakfast and fallen into some curious speculations as
to Mark's correspondent before he came in. Now three pairs of eyes
were watching him as he strolled up to his seat; Mr. Ashburn alone
seemed unconscious or indifferent.
Of late Mark had not had very many letters, and this particular one
bore the name of 'Chilton & Fladgate' on the flap of the envelope. The
Ashburns were not a literary family, but they knew this as the name of
a well-known firm of publishers, and it had roused their curiosity.
Mark read the name too. For a moment it gave him a throb of
excitement, the idea coming to him that, somehow, the letter concerned
his own unfortunate manuscripts. It was true that he had never had any
communication with this particular firm, but these wild vague
impressions are often independent of actual fact; he took it up and
half began to open it.
Then he remembered what it probably was, and, partly with the object
of preserving Vincent's secret still as far as possible, but chiefly,
it must be owned, from a malicious pleasure he took in disappointing
the expectation he saw around him, put the letter still unopened in
his pocket.
'Why don't you open it?' asked Trixie impatiently, who was cherishing
the hope that some magnificent literary success had come at last to
her favourite brother.
'Manners,' explained Mark, laconically.
'Nonsense,' said Trixie, 'you don't treat us with such ceremony as all
that.'
'Not lately,' said Mark; 'that's how it is--it's bad for a family to
get lax in these little matters of mutual courtesy. I'm going to see
if I can't raise your tone--this is the beginning.'
'I'm sure we're very much obliged to you,' from Martha; 'I'm quite
satisfied with my own tone, it's quite high enough for me, thank you.'
'Yes, I forgot,' said Mark, 'I've heard it very high indeed sometimes.
I wronged you, Martha. Still, you know, we might (all except _you_,
Martha) be more polite to one another without causing ourselves any
internal injury, mightn't we?'
'Well, Mark,' said Trixie, 'all you have to do is to ask our leave to
open the letter, if you're really so particular.'
'Is that in the Etiquette Book?' inquired Mark.
'Don't be ridiculous--why _don't_ you ask our leave?'
'I suppose because I want to eat my breakfast--nothing is so
prejudicial, my love, to the furtherance of the digestive process as
the habit of reading at meals, any medical man will tell you that.'
'Perhaps,' suggested Martha, 'Mark has excellent reasons for
preferring to read his letter alone.'
'Do you know, Martha,' said Mark, 'I really think there's something in
that?'
'So do I,' said Martha, 'more than you would care for us to know,
evidently; but don't be afraid, Mark, whether it's a bill, or a
love-letter, or another publisher's rejection; we don't want to know
your secrets--do we, Cuthbert?'
'Very amiable of you to say so,' said Mark. 'Then I shan't annoy you
if I keep my letter to myself, shall I? Because I rather thought of
doing it.'
'Eh? doing what? What is Mark saying about a letter?' broke in Mr.
Ashburn. He had a way of striking suddenly like this into
conversations.
'Somebody has written me a letter, father,' said Mark; 'I was telling
Martha I thought I should read it--presently.'
But even when he was alone he felt in no hurry to possess himself of
the contents. 'I expect it's the usual thing,' he thought. 'Poor
Vincent is out of all that now. Let's see how they let him down!' and
he read:--
'DEAR SIR,--We have read the romance entitled "Glamour"
which you have done us the honour to forward some time
since. It is a work which appears to us to possess
decided originality and merit, and which may be received
with marked favour by the public, while it can hardly
fail in any case to obtain a reception which will
probably encourage its author to further efforts. Of
course, there is a certain risk attending its reception
which renders it impossible for us to offer such terms
for a first book as may be legitimately demanded
hereafter for a second production by the same pen. We
will give you ...' (and here followed the terms, which
struck Mark as fairly liberal for a first book by an
unknown author). 'Should you accept our offer, will you
do us the favour to call upon us here at your earliest
convenience, when all preliminary matters can be discussed.
'We are, &c.,
'CHILTON & FLADGATE.'
Mark ran hurriedly through this letter with a feeling, first of
incredulous wonder, then of angry protest against the bull-headed
manner in which Fortune had dealt out this favour.
Vincent had been saved the dreary delays, the disappointments and
discouragements, which are the lot of most first books; he had won a
hearing at once--and where was the use of it? no praise or fame among
men could reach him now.
If he had been alive, Mark thought bitterly; if a letter like this
would have rescued him from all he detested, and thrown open to him
the one career for which he had any ambition, he might have waited for
it long and vainly enough. But he began by being indifferent, and, if
Fortune had required any other inducement to shower her gifts on him,
his death had supplied it.
He chafed over this as he went up to the City, for there was another
holiday-class that day at St. Peter's; he thought of it at intervals
during the morning, and always resentfully. What increased his
irritation above everything was the fact that the publishers evidently
regarded _him_ as the author of the book, and he would have the
distasteful task put upon him of enlightening them.
When the day's duties were over he found himself putting on his hat
and coat in company with the Rev. Mr. Shelford, who was also in charge
of one of the classes formed for the relief of parents and the
performance of holiday work, and the two walked out together; Mark
intending to call at once and explain his position to Messrs. Chilton
& Fladgate.
'What are you going to do with yourself, Ashburn, now?' said Mr.
Shelford in his abrupt way as they went along. 'Going to be a
schoolmaster and live on the _crambe repetita_ all your life, hey?'
'I don't know,' said Mark sullenly; 'very likely.'
'Take my advice (I'm old enough to offer it unasked); give yourself a
chance while you can of a future which won't cramp and sour and wear
you as this will. If you feel any interest in the boys----'
'Which I don't,' put in Mark.
'Exactly, which you don't--but if you did--I remember _I_ did once, in
some of 'em, and helped 'em on, and spoke to the headmaster about 'em,
and so on. Well, they'll pass out of your class and look another way
when they meet you afterwards. As for the dullards, they'll be always
with you, like the poor, down at the bottom like a sediment, sir, and
much too heavy to stir up! I can't manage 'em now, and my temper gets
the better of me, God forgive me for it, and I say things I'm sorry
for and that don't do me or them any good, and they laugh at me. But
I've got my parish to look after; it's not a large one, but it acts as
an antidote. You're not even in orders, so there's no help for you
_that_ way; and the day will come when the strain gets too much for
you, and you'll throw the whole thing up in disgust, and find yourself
forced to go through the same thing somewhere else, or begin the world
in some other capacity. Choose some line in which hard work and
endurance for years will bring you in a more substantial reward than
that.'
'Well,' said Mark, for whom this gloomy view of his prospects
reflected his own forebodings, 'I am reading for the Bar. I went up
for my call-examination the other day.'
'Ah, is that so? I'm glad to hear of it; a fine profession, sir;
constant variety and excitement--for the pleader, that is to say' (Mr.
Shelford shared the lay impression that pleading was a form of
passionate appeal to judge and jurymen), 'and of course you would
plead in court. The law has some handsome prizes in its disposal, too.
But you should have an attorney or two to push you on, they say.
Perhaps you can count on that?'
'I wish I could,' said Mark, 'but the fact is my ambition doesn't lie
in a legal direction at all. I don't care very much about the Bar.'
'Do you care very much about anything? Does your ambition lie
anywhere?'
'Not now; it did once--literature, you know; but that's all over.'
'I remember, to be sure. They rejected that Christmas piece of yours,
didn't they? Well, if you've no genuine talent for it, the sooner you
find it out the better for you. If you feel you've something inside of
you that must out in chapters and volumes, it generally comes, and all
the discouragement in the world won't keep it down. It's like those
stories of demoniacal possession in the "Anatomy"--you know your
Burton, I daresay? Some of the possessed brought "globes of hair" and
"such-like baggage" out of themselves, but others "stones with
inscriptions." If the demon gets too strong for you, try and produce a
stone with a good readable inscription on it--not three globes of hair
for the circulating libraries.'
'We shall see,' said Mark laughing. 'I must leave you here. I have an
appointment with Chilton & Fladgate just by.'
'Ay, ay,' said the old gentleman, wagging his head; 'publishers,
aren't they? Don't tell me your ambition's dead if it's taken you as
far as that. But I won't ask any more questions. I shall hope to be
able to congratulate you shortly. I won't keep you away from your
publishers any longer.'
'They are not my publishers yet,' said Mark; 'they have made me some
proposals, but I have not accepted them at present.'
He knew what a false impression this would leave with his companion,
bare statement of fact as it was, but he made it deliberately, feeling
almost as much flattered by the unconscious increase of consideration
in the other's voice and manner as if there had been the slightest
foundation for it.
They said good-bye, and the old clergyman went on and was swallowed up
in the crowd, thinking as he went, 'Publishing, eh? a good firm, too.
I don't think he could afford to do it at his own expense. Perhaps
there's more ballast in him after all than I gave him credit for. I
can't help liking the young fellow somehow, too. I should like to see
him make a good start.'
Mark, having sent up his name by one of the clerks behind the imposing
mahogany counters, was shown through various swinging glass doors into
a waiting-room, where the magazines and books symmetrically arranged
on the table gave a certain flavour of dentistry to the place.
Mark turned them over with a quite unreasonable nervousness, but the
fact was he shrank from what he considered the humiliation of
explaining that he was a mere agent; it occurred to him for the first
time, too, that Holroyd's death might possibly complicate matters, and
he felt a vague anger against his dead friend for leaving him in such
a position.
The clerk returned with a message that Mr. Fladgate would be happy to
see Mark at once, and so he followed upstairs and along passages with
glimpses through open doors of rooms full of clerks and desks, until
they came to a certain room into which Mark was shown--a small room
with a considerable litter of large wicker trays filled with proofs,
packets and rolls of manuscripts of all sizes, and piles of books and
periodicals, in the midst of which Mr. Fladgate was sitting with his
back to the light, which was admitted through windows of ground-glass.
He rose and came forward to meet Mark, and Mark saw a little
reddish-haired and whiskered man, with quick eyes, and a curious
perpendicular fold in the forehead above a short, blunt nose, a mobile
mouth, and a pleasantly impulsive manner.
'How do you do, Mr. Beauchamp?' he said heartily, using the _nom de
plume_ with an air of implied compliment; 'and so you've made up your
mind to entrust yourself to us, have you? That's right. I don't think
you'll find any reason to regret it, I don't indeed.'
Mark said he was sure of that.
'Well, now, as to the book,' continued Mr. Fladgate; 'I've had the
pleasure of looking through it myself, as well as Mr. Blackshaw, our
reader, and I must tell you that I agree with him in considering that
you have written a very remarkable book. As we told you, you know, it
may or may not prove a pecuniary success, but, however that may be, my
opinion of it will remain the same; it ought, in my judgment, to
ensure you a certain standing at once--at once.'
Mark heard this with a pang of jealousy. Long before, he had dreamed
of just such an interview, in which he should be addressed in some
such manner--his dream was being fulfilled now with relentless
mockery!
'But there is a risk,' said Mr. Fladgate, 'a decided risk, which
brings me to the subject of terms. Are you satisfied with the offer we
made to you? You see that a first book----'
'Excuse me for one moment,' said Mark desperately, 'I'm afraid you
imagine that--that _I_ wrote the book?'
'That certainly was my impression,' said Mr. Fladgate, with a humorous
light in his eye; 'the only address on the manuscript was yours, and I
came to the not unnatural conclusion that Mr. Ashburn and Mr.
Beauchamp were one and the same. Am I to understand that is _not_ the
case?'
'The book,' said Mark--what it cost him to say this,--'the book was
written by a friend of mine, who went abroad some time ago.'
'Indeed? Well, we should prefer to treat with him in person, of
course, if possible.'
'It isn't possible,' said Mark, 'my friend was lost at sea, but he
asked me to represent him in this matter, and I believe I know his
wishes.'
'I've no doubt of it; but you see, Mr.--Mr. Ashburn, this must be
considered a little. I suppose you have some authority from him in
writing, to satisfy us (merely as a matter of business) that we are
dealing with the right person?'
'I have not indeed,' said Mark, 'my friend was very anxious to retain
his incognito.'
'He must have been--very much so,' said Mr. Fladgate, coughing; 'well,
perhaps you can bring me some writing of his to that effect? You may
have it among your papers, eh?'
'No,' said Mark, 'my friend did not think it necessary to give me
one--he was anxious to----'
'Oh, quite so--then you can procure me a line or two perhaps?'
'I told you that my friend was dead,' said Mark a little impatiently.
'Ah, so you did, to be sure, I forgot. I thought--but no matter. Well,
Mr. Ashburn, if you can't say anything more than this--anything, you
understand, which puts you in a position to treat with us, I'm
afraid--I'm _afraid_ I must ask time to think over this. If your
friend is really dead, I suppose your authority is determined.
Perhaps, however, his--ahem--anxiety to preserve his incognito has led
him to allow this rumour of his death to be circulated?'
'I don't think that is likely,' said Mark, wondering at an
undercurrent of meaning in the publisher's tone, a meaning which had
nothing sinister in it, and yet seemed urging him to contradict
himself for some reason.
'That is your last word, then?' said Mr. Fladgate, and there was a
sharp inflection as of disappointment and irritation in his voice, and
the fold in his forehead deepened.
'It must be,' said Mark, rising, 'I have kept you too long already.'
'If you really _must_ go,' said Mr. Fladgate, not using the words in
their conventional sense of polite dismissal. 'But, Mr. Ashburn, are
you quite sure that this interview might not be saved from coming to
nothing, as it seems about to do? Might not a word or two from you set
things right again? I don't wish to force you to tell me anything you
would rather keep concealed--but really, this story you tell about a
Mr. Vincent Beauchamp who is dead only ties our hands, you
understand--ties our hands!'
'If so,' said Mark, uncomfortably, 'I can only say I am very sorry for
it--I don't see how I can help it.'
He was beginning to feel that this business of Holroyd's had given him
quite trouble enough.
'Now, Mr. Ashburn, as I said before, I should be the last man to
press you--but really, you know, _really_--this is a trifle absurd! I
think you might be a little more frank with me, I do indeed. There is
no reason why you should not trust me!'
Was this man tempting him, thought Mark. Could he be so anxious to
bring out this book that he was actually trying to induce him to
fabricate some story which would get over the difficulties that had
arisen?
As a mere matter of fact, it may be almost unnecessary to mention that
no such idea had occurred to worthy Mr. Fladgate, who, though he
certainly was anxious to secure the book if he could, by any
legitimate means, was anything but a publishing Mephistopheles. He had
an object, however, in making this last appeal for confidence, as will
appear immediately; but, innocent as it was, Mark's imagination
conjured up a bland demon tempting him to some act of unspeakable
perfidy; he trembled--but not with horror. 'What do you mean?' he
stammered.
Mr. Fladgate gave a glance of keen amusement at the pale troubled face
of the young man before him. 'What do I mean?' he repeated. 'Come,
I've known sensitive women try to conceal their identity, and even
their sex, from their own publishers; I've known men even persuade
themselves they didn't care for notoriety--but such a determined
instance of what I must take leave to call the literary ostrich I
don't think I ever _did_ meet before! I never met a writer so
desperately anxious to remain unknown that he would rather take his
manuscript back than risk his secret with his own publisher. But don't
you see that you have raised (I don't use the term in the least
offensively) the mask, so to speak--you should have sent somebody else
here to-day if you wished to keep me in the dark. I've not been in
business all these years, Mr. Ashburn, without gaining a little
experience. I think, I _do_ think, I am able to know an author when I
see him--we are all liable to error, but I am very much mistaken if
this Mr. Vincent Beauchamp (who was so unfortunately lost at sea) is
not to be recovered alive by a little judicious dredging. Do think if
you can't produce him; come, he's not in very deep water--bring him
up, Mr. Ashburn, bring him up!'
'You make this very difficult for me,' said Mark, in a low voice; he
knew now how greatly he had misjudged the man, who had spoken with
such an innocent, amiable pride in his own surprising discernment; he
also felt how easy and how safe it would be to take advantage of this
misunderstanding, and what a new future it might open to him--but he
was struggling still against the temptation so unconsciously held out
to him.
'I might retort that, I think. Now, be reasonable, Mr. Ashburn. I
assure you the writer, whoever he may be, has no cause to be ashamed
of the book--the time will come when he will probably be willing
enough to own it. Still, if he wishes to keep his real name secret, I
tell him, through you, that he may surely be content to trust that to
us. We have kept such secrets before--not very long, to be sure, as a
general rule; but then that was because the authors usually relieved
us from the trouble--the veil was never lifted by us.'
'I think you said,' began Mark, as if thinking aloud, 'that other
works by--by the same author would be sure of acceptance?'
'I should be very glad to have an opportunity, in time, of producing
another book by Mr. Vincent Beauchamp--but Mr. Beauchamp, as you
explained, is unhappily no more. Perhaps these are earlier manuscripts
of his?'
Mark had been seized with the desire of making one more attempt, in
spite of his promise to his uncle, to launch those unhappy paper ships
of his--'Sweet Bells Jangled' and 'One Fair Daughter.' For an instant
it occurred to him that he might answer this last question in the
affirmative; he had little doubt that if he did his books would meet
with a very different reception from that of Messrs. Leadbitter and
Gandy; still, that would only benefit Holroyd--not himself, and then
he recollected, only just in time, that the difference in handwriting
(which was very considerable) would betray him. He looked confused and
said nothing.
Mr. Fladgate's patience began to tire. 'We don't seem to be making any
way, do we?' he said, with rather affected pleasantry. 'I'm afraid I
must ask you to come to a decision on this without any more delay.
Here is the manuscript you sent us. If the real author is dead we are
compelled to return it with much regret. If you can tell me anything
which does away with the difficulty, this is the time to tell it. Of
course you will do exactly as you please, but after what you have
chosen to tell us we can hardly see our way, as I said, to treat with
you without some further explanation. Come, Mr. Ashburn, am I to have
it or not?'
'Give me a little time,' said Mark faintly, and the publisher, as he
had expected, read the signs of wavering in his face, though it was
not of the nature he believed it to be.
Mark sat down again and rested his chin on his hand, with his face
turned away from the other's eyes. A conflict was going on within him
such as he had never been called upon to fight before, and he had only
a very few minutes allowed him to fight it.
Perhaps in these crises a man does not always arrange pros and cons to
contend for him in the severely logical manner with which we find him
doing it in print. The forces on the enemy's side can generally be
induced to desert. All the advantages which would follow if he once
allowed himself to humour the publisher's mistake were very
prominently before Mark's mind--the dangers and difficulties kept in
the background. He was incapable of considering the matter coolly; he
felt an overmastering impulse upon him, and he had never trained
himself to resist his impulses for very long. There was very little of
logical balancing going on in his brain; it began to seem terribly,
fatally easy to carry out this imposition. The fraud itself grew less
ugly and more harmless every instant.
He saw his own books, so long kept out in the cold by ignorant
prejudice, accepted on the strength of Holroyd's 'Glamour,' and, once
fairly before the public, taking the foremost rank in triumph and
rapidly eclipsing their forerunner. He would be appreciated at last,
delivered from the life he hated, able to lead the existence he longed
for. All he wanted was a hearing; there seemed no other way to obtain
it; he had no time to lose. How could it injure Holroyd? He had not
cared for fame in life; would he miss it after his death? The
publishers might be mistaken; the book might be unnoticed altogether;
_he_ might prove to be the injured person.
But, as Mr. Fladgate seemed convinced of its merit, as he would
evidently take anything alleged to come from the same source without a
very severe scrutiny, there was nothing for it but to risk this
contingency.
Mark was convinced that publishers were influenced entirely by
unreasoning prejudices; he thoroughly believed that his works would
carry all before them if any firm could once overcome their repugnance
to his powerful originality, and here was one firm at least prepared
to lay that aside at a word from him. Why should he let it go unsaid?
The money transactions caused him the most hesitation. If he took
money for another man's work, there was a name, and a very ugly name,
for that. But he would _not_ keep it. As soon as he learnt the names
of Holroyd's legal representatives, whoever they might be, he would
pay the money over to them without mentioning the exact manner in
which it had become due. In time, when he had achieved a reputation
for himself, he could give back the name he had borrowed for a
time--at least he told himself he could do so.
He stood in no danger of detection, or, if he did, it was very slight.
Vincent was not the man to confide in more than one person; he had
owned as much. He had been reticent enough to conceal his real surname
from his publishers, and now he could never reveal the truth.
All this rushed through his mind in a hurried, confused form; all his
little vanities and harmless affectations and encouragements of false
impressions had made him the less capable of resisting now.
'Well?' said Mr. Fladgate at last.
Mark's heart beat fast. He turned round and faced the publisher. 'I
suppose I had better trust you,' he said awkwardly, and with a sort of
shamefaced constraint that was admirably in keeping with his
confession, though not artificial.
'I think so. Then you are the man--this book "Glamour"'s your own
work?'
'If you must have it--yes,' said Mark desperately.
The words were spoken now, and for good or ill he must abide by them
henceforth to the end.