REPENTE TURPISSIMUS.
No sooner had Mark declared himself the author of his dead friend's
book than he would have given anything to recall his words, not so
much from conscience (though he did feel he had suddenly developed
into a surprisingly finished scoundrel), as from a fear that his lie
might after all be detected. He sat staring stupidly at Mr. Fladgate,
who patted him on the shoulder with well-meant encouragement; he had
never seen quite so coy an author before. 'I'm very glad to make Mr.
Vincent Beauchamp's acquaintance--at last,' he said, beaming with
honest pride at the success of his tactics, 'and now we can come to
terms again.'
He did not find Mark more difficult to deal with than most budding
authors, and in this case Mark was morbidly anxious to get the money
part of the transaction over as soon as possible; he could not decide
whether his conscience would be better or worse satisfied if he
insisted on the best pecuniary terms he could obtain, so in his
indecision he took the easier course of agreeing to everything.
'About the title now?' said Mr. Fladgate, when the terms had been
reduced to a formal memorandum. 'I don't think I quite like your
present one; too moonshiny, eh?'
Mark owned that it did sound a little moonshiny.
'I think, too, I rather think, there's something very like it out
already, and that may lead to unpleasantness, you know. Now, can you
suggest something else which will give a general idea of the nature of
the book?'
As Mark had absolutely no idea what the book was about, he could not.
'Well, Mr. Blackshaw suggested something like "Enchantment," or
"Witchery."'
'I don't care about either of those,' said Mark, who found this sort
of dissembling unexpectedly easy.
'No,' said Mr. Fladgate, 'No. I think you're right. Now, I had a
notion--I don't know what you will think of it--but I thought you
might call it "A Modern Merlin," eh?'
'"A Modern Merlin,"' repeated Mark thoughtfully.
'Yes, it's not _quite_ the right thing, perhaps, but it's taking, I
think, taking.'
Mark said it was taking.
'Of course _your_ hero is not exactly a magician, but it brings in the
"Vivien" part of the story, don't you see?' Of course Mark did not
see, but he thought it best to agree. 'Well,' continued Mr. Fladgate,
who was secretly rather proud of his title, 'how does it strike you
now? it seems to me as good a title as we are likely to hit upon.'
After all, Mark thought, what did it matter? it wasn't his book,
except in name. 'I think it's excellent,' he said, 'excellent; and, by
the way, Mr. Fladgate,' he added, 'I should like to change the _nom de
plume_: it's a whim of mine, perhaps, but there's another I've been
thinking lately I should like better.'
'By all means,' said the other, taking up a pencil to make the
necessary alteration on the manuscript, 'but why not use your real
name? I prophesy you'll be proud of that book some day; think over
it.'
'No,' said Mark, 'I don't wish my real name to appear just yet' (he
hardly knew why; perhaps a lingering sense of shame held him back from
this more open dishonesty). 'Will you strike out "Vincent Beauchamp,"
and put in "Cyril Ernstone," please?' For 'Cyril Ernstone' had been
the pseudonym which he had chosen long ago for himself, and he wished
to be able to use it now, since he must not use his own.
'Very well, then, we may consider that settled. We think of bringing
out the book as soon as possible, without waiting for the spring
season; it will go to press at once and we will send you the proofs as
soon as we get them in.'
'There's one thing, perhaps, I'd better mention,' said Mark suddenly;
after he had turned to go a new danger had occurred to him, 'the
handwriting of the manuscript is not mine. I--I thought it as well to
tell you that beforehand; it might lead to mistakes. I had it copied
out for me by--by a friend.'
Mr. Fladgate burst out laughing. 'Pardon me,' he said, when he had
finished, 'but really I couldn't help it, you do seem to have been so
bent on hoodwinking us.'
'And yet you have found me out, you see,' said Mark, with a very
unmirthful smile.
Mr. Fladgate smiled, too, making a little gesture of his hand,
thinking very possibly that few precautions could be proof against his
sagacity, and they parted.
Mark went down the stairs and through the clerks' room into the
street, with a dazed and rather awestruck feeling upon him. He hardly
realised the treachery he had been guilty of, the temptation had burst
upon him so suddenly, his fall had been made so easy for him, that he
scarcely felt his dishonour, nor was he likely to feel it very keenly
so long as only good results should flow from it. But he was vaguely
conscious that he was not the same Mark Ashburn who had parted from
old Shelford not an hour ago in the street there; he was a man with a
new hope in his breast, and it might be a new fear, but the hope was
near and bright, the fear shadowy and remote as yet: he had only to
keep his own counsel and be patient for a while, and the course of
events would assuredly bring him the stake he had played so high for.
At home that evening he took down his manuscript novels (which of
course he had _not_ burnt) and read them again carefully. Yes; there
was power in them, he felt it, a copious flow of words, sparkling wit,
and melting pathos. The white heat at which the lines were written
surprised even himself. It was humiliating to think that without the
subterfuge that had been forced upon him he might have found it
impossible to find publishers who would appreciate these merits, for
after Messrs. Leadbitter & Gandy's refusal he had recognised this to
the full; but now, at least, they were insured against any such fate.
A careful reading was absolutely necessary to a proper estimation of
them, and a careful reading they had never had as yet, and would
receive at last, or, if they did not, it would only be because the
reputation he had appropriated would procure them a ready acceptance
without any such preliminary ordeal. The great point gained was that
they would be published, and after that he feared nothing.
If anything whispered to him that he might have accomplished even this
by honourable means; that in time and with economy he could have
produced them at his own expense; that perhaps a little more
perseverance might even have discovered a firm with sufficient faith
to take the risk upon themselves; if these doubts suggested themselves
to him he had little difficulty in arguing them down. They might have
had some weight once, but they came too late; the thing was done now
and could never be recalled; his whole interest lay in persuading
himself that what he had done was the only thing that could be done,
unless he was content to resign his ambition for ever, and Mark
succeeded in persuading himself of this.
Very soon his chief feeling was one of impatience for Holroyd's book
to come out and make way for his own: then any self-reproach he might
still feel would be drowned in a sense of triumph which would justify
the means he had taken; so he waited eagerly for the arrival of the
first proofs.
They arrived at last. As he came back one evening to Malakoff Terrace,
Trixie ran to meet him, holding up two tightly rolled parcels, with a
great curiosity in her eyes. 'They came this afternoon,' she
whispered, 'and oh, Mark, I couldn't help it; I tore one end a little
and peeped; are they really part of a book--is it _yours_?'
Mark thought he had better accustom himself to this kind of thing as
early as possible. 'Yes, Trixie,' he said, 'they're the first proofs
of my book.'
'O-oh!' cried Trixie, with a gasp of delight, 'not "Sweet Bells
Jangled," Mark?'
'No, _not_ "Sweet Bells Jangled," it--it's a book you don't know
about--a little thing I don't expect very much from, but my publishers
seem to like it, and I can follow it up with the "Bells" afterwards.'
He was turning over the rough greyish pages as he spoke, and Trixie
was peeping greedily at them, too, with her pretty chin dug into his
shoulder.
'And did you really write all that?' she said; 'how interesting it
looks, you clever boy! You _might_ have told me you were doing it,
though. What's it about?'
'How can I tell you before I know myself,' said Mark, quite forgetting
himself in his impatience. 'I--I mean, Trixie, that I can't correct
these proofs as they ought to be corrected while you stay here
chattering.'
'I'll go in a minute, Mark; but you won't have time to correct them
before dinner, you know. When did you write it?'
'What _does_ it matter when I wrote it!' said Mark irritably; 'if it
hadn't been written the proofs wouldn't be here, would they? Is there
anything else you would like to know--_how_ I wrote it, where I wrote
it, why I wrote it? You seem to think it a most extraordinary thing
that anything I write should be printed at all, Trixie.'
'I don't know why you should speak like that, Mark,' said Trixie,
rather hurt; 'you know a little while ago you never expected such a
thing yourself. I can't help wanting to know all I can about it. What
_will_ you say to Uncle Solomon?' she added, with a little quiver of
laughter in her voice. 'You promised him to give up literature, you
know.'
'Don't you remember the Arab gentleman in the poem?' said Mark
lightly. 'He agreed to sell his steed, but when the time came it
didn't come off--he didn't come off, either--_he_ "flung them back
their gold," and rode away. I shall fling Uncle Solomon back _his_
gold, metaphorically, and gallop off on my Pegasus.'
'Ma won't like that,' prophesied Trixie, shaking her head wisely.
'No; mother objects to that kind of horse-exercise, and, ahem, Trixie,
it might be as well to say nothing about it to any of them just at
present. There will only be a fuss about it, and I can't stand that.'
Trixie promised silence. 'I'm so glad about it, though, you can't
think, Mark,' she said; 'and this isn't one of your _great_ books,
either, you said, didn't you?'
'No,' said Mark; 'it's not one of _them_. I haven't put my best work
into it.'
'You put your best work into the two that came back, didn't you?'
asked Trixie naively. 'But they won't come back any more, will they?
They'll be glad of them if this is a success.'
'Fladgate will be glad of them, I fancy, in any case. I've got a
chance at last, Trixie. A chance at last!'
Later that night he locked himself in the room which he used as a
sitting-room and bedroom combined, and set himself, not without
repugnance, to go steadily through the proofs, and make the
acquaintance of the work he had made his own.
Much has been said of the delight with which an author reads his first
proofs, and possibly the sensation is a wholly pleasurable one to
some; to others it is not without its drawbacks. Ideas that seemed
vivid and bright enough when they were penned have a bald tame look in
the new form in which they come back. The writer finds himself
judging the work as a stranger's, and forming the worst opinions of
it. He sees hideous gaps and crudities beyond all power of correction,
and for the first time, perhaps, since he learned that his manuscript
was accepted, his self-doubts return to him.
But Mark's feelings were much more complicated than this; all the
gratified pride of an author was naturally denied to him, and it was
thoroughly distasteful to him to carry out his scheme of deception by
such sordid details as the necessary corrections of printers' errors.
But he was anxiously eager to find out what kind of a literary
bantling was this which he had fathered so fraudulently; he had
claimed it in blind reliance on the publisher's evident
enthusiasm--had he made a mistake after all? What if it proved
something which could do him no credit whatever--a trap into which his
ambition had led him! The thought that this might be so made him very
uneasy. Poor Holroyd, he thought, was a very good fellow--an excellent
fellow, but not exactly the man to write a book of extraordinary
merit--clever, perhaps, but clever in an unobtrusive way--and Mark's
tendency was to judge, as he expected to be judged himself, by
outsides.
With these misgivings crowded upon him, he sat down to read the
opening chapters; he was not likely to be much overcome by admiration
in any case, for his habitual attitude in studying even the greatest
works was critical, as he felt the presence of eccentricities or
shortcomings which he himself would have avoided.
But at least, as he read on, his greatest anxiety was set at rest--if
he could judge by the instalment before him, and the book was not in
any danger of coming absolutely to grief--it would do his reputation
no harm. It was not, to be sure, the sort of book he would have
written himself, as he affected the cynical mode of treatment and the
indiscriminate satire which a rather young writer feels instinctively
that the world expects from him. Still, it was not so bad. It was
slightly dreamy and mystical in parts, the work of a man who had lived
more amongst books than in the world, but some of the passages glowed
with the rich imagery of a true poet, and here and there were
indications of a quiet and cultivated humour which would recommend
itself to all who do not consider the humorous element in literature
as uncanny, if not personally offensive. The situations were strong,
too, and as nearly new as situations can be and retain any probability
in this over-plagiarised world; and at least one of the characters was
obviously studied from life with a true and tender observation.
All of this Mark did not see, nor was he capable of seeing, but he
thought that, with a little 'weeding' and 'writing-up,' the book would
do, and set himself to supply what was wanting with a laudable
self-devotion. His general plan of accomplishing this may be described
here once for all.
He freshened up chapters with touches of satire, and gave them a more
scholarly air by liberal allusions to the classics; he rewrote some of
the more descriptive and romantic passages, putting his finest and
most florid epithets into them with what he felt was very like
disinterestedness, and a reckless waste of good material. And he cut
down the dialogue in places, or gave it a more colloquial turn, so as
to suit the tastes of the average reader, and he worked up some of the
crises which struck him as inadequately treated.
After that he felt much easier; either considering that these
improvements constituted a sort of atonement, or that they removed any
chance of failure. As this book was to go forth and herald his own, it
was vitally important that it should make as imposing an appearance as
possible.