IN WHICH MARK MAKES AN ENEMY AND RECOVERS A FRIEND.
Mark's fame was still increasing, and he began to have proofs of this
in a pleasanter and more substantial form than empty compliment. He
was constantly receiving letters from editors or publishers inviting
him to write for them, and offering terms which exceeded his highest
expectations. Several of these proposals--all the more tempting ones,
in fact--he accepted at once; not that he had anything by him in
manuscript just then of the kind required from him, but he felt a
vague sense of power to turn out something very fine indeed, long
before the time appointed for the fulfilment of his promises.
But, so far, he had not done any regular literary work since his
defection: he was still at St. Peter's, which occupied most of his
time, but somehow, now that he could devote his evenings without
scruple to the delights of composition, those delights seemed to have
lost their keenness, and besides, he had begun to go out a great deal.
He had plenty of time before him, however, and his prospects were
excellent; he was sure of considerable sums under his many agreements
as soon as he had leisure to set to work. There could be no greater
mistake than for a young writer to flood the market from his
inkstand--a reflection which comforted Mark for a rather long and
unexpected season of drought.
Chilton and Fladgate had begun to sound him respecting a second book,
but Mark could not yet decide whether to make his _coup_ with 'One
Fair Daughter' or 'Sweet Bells Jangled.' At first he had been
feverishly anxious to get a book out which should be legitimately his
own as soon as possible, but now, when the time had come, he hung
back.
He did not exactly feel any misgivings as to their merits, but he
could not help seeing that with every day it was becoming more and
more difficult to put 'Illusion' completely in the shade, and that if
he meant to effect this, he could afford to neglect no precautions.
New and brilliant ideas, necessitating the entire reconstruction of
the plots, were constantly occurring to him, and he set impulsively to
work, shifting and interpolating, polishing and repolishing, until he
must have invested his work with a dazzling glitter--and yet he could
not bring himself to part with it.
He was engaged in this manner one Wednesday afternoon in his rooms,
when he heard a slow heavy step coming up the stairs, followed by a
sharp rap at the door of his bedroom, which adjoined his sitting-room.
He shouted to the stranger to come in, and an old gentleman entered
presently by the door connecting the two rooms, in whom he recognised
Mr. Lightowler's irascible neighbour. He stood there for a few moments
without a word, evidently overcome by anger, which Mark supposed was
due to annoyance at having first blundered into the bedroom. 'It's old
Humpage,' he thought. 'What can he want with _me_?' The other found
words at last, beginning with a deadly politeness. 'I see I am in the
presence of the right person,' he began. 'I have come to ask you a
plain question.' Here he took something from his coat-tail pocket, and
threw it on the table before Mark--it was a copy of 'Illusion.' 'I am
told you are in the best position to give me information on the
subject. Will you kindly give me the name--the _real_ name--of the
author of this book? I have reasons, valid reasons for requiring it.'
And he glared down at Mark, who had a sudden and disagreeable
sensation as if his heart had just turned a somersault. Could this
terrible old person have detected him, and if so what would become of
him?
Instinct rather than reason kept him from betraying himself by words.
'Th-that's a rather extraordinary question, sir,' he gasped faintly.
'Perhaps it is,' said the other; 'but I've asked it, and I want an
answer.'
'If the author of the book,' said Mark, 'had wished his real name to
be known, I suppose he would have printed it.'
'Have the goodness not to equivocate with me, sir. It's quite useless,
as you will understand when I tell you that I happen to _know_'--(he
repeated this with withering scorn)--'I happen to know the name of the
real author of this--this precious production. I had it, let me tell
you, on very excellent authority.'
'Who told you?' said Mark, and his voice seemed to him to come from
down stairs. Had Holroyd made a confidant of this angry old gentleman?
'A gentleman whose relation I think you have the privilege to be, sir.
Come, you see _I_ know you, Mr.--Mr. Cyril Ernstone,' he sneered. 'Are
you prepared to deny it?'
Mark drew a long sweet breath of relief. What a fright he had had!
This old gentleman evidently supposed he had unearthed a great
literary secret; but why had it made him so angry?
'Certainly not,' he replied, firm and composed again now. 'I _am_ Mr.
Cyril Ernstone. I'm very sorry if it annoys you.'
'It _does_ annoy me, sir. I have a right to be annoyed, and you know
the reason well enough!'
'Do you know,' said Mark languidly, 'I'm really afraid I don't.'
'Then I'll tell you, sir. In this novel of yours you've put a
character called--wait a bit--ah, yes, called Blackshaw, a retired
country solicitor, sir.'
'Very likely,' said Mark, who had been getting rather rusty with
'Illusion' of late.
'_I'm_ a retired country solicitor, sir! You've made him a man of low
character; you show him up all through the book as perpetually mixing
in petty squabbles, sir; on one occasion you actually allow him to get
drunk Now what do you mean by it?'
'Good heavens,' said Mark, with a laugh, 'you don't seriously mean to
tell me you consider all this personal?'
'I do very seriously mean to tell you so, young gentleman,' said Mr.
Humpage, showing his teeth with a kind of snarl.
'There are people who will see personalities in a proposition of
Euclid,' said Mark, now completely himself again, and rather amused by
the scene; 'I should think you must be one of them, Mr. Humpage. Will
it comfort you if I let you know that I--that this book was written
months before I first had the pleasure of seeing you.'
'No, sir, not at all. That only shows me more clearly what I knew
already. That there has been another hand at work here. I see that
uncle of yours behind your back here.'
'Do you though?' said Mark. 'He's not considered literary as a general
rule.'
'Oh, he's quite literary enough to be libellous. Just cast your eye
over this copy. Your uncle sent this to me as a present, the first
work of his nephew. I thought at first he was trying to be friendly
again, till I opened the book! Just look at it, sir!' And the old man
fumbled through the leaves with his trembling hands. 'Here's a passage
where your solicitor is guilty of a bit of sharp practice--underlined
by your precious uncle! And here he sets two parties by the
ears--underlined by your uncle, in red ink, sir; and it's like that
all through the book. _Now_ what do you say?'
'What _can_ I say?' said Mark, with a shrug. 'You must really go and
fight it out with my uncle; if he is foolish enough to insult you,
that's not exactly a reason for coming here to roar at _me_.'
'You're as bad as he is, every bit. I had him up at sessions over that
gander, and he hasn't forgotten it. You had a hand in that affair,
too, I remember. Your victim, sir, was never the same bird
again--you'll be pleased to hear that--never the same bird again!'
'Very much to its credit, I'm sure,' said Mark. 'But oblige me by not
calling it _my_ victim. I don't suppose you'll believe me, but the one
offence is as imaginary as the other.'
'I _don't_ believe you, sir. I consider that to recommend yourself to
your highly respectable uncle, you have deliberately set yourself to
blacken my character, which may bear comparison with your own, let me
tell you. No words can do justice to such baseness as that!'
'I agree with you. If I had done such a thing no words could; but as I
happen to be quite blameless of the least idea of hurting your
feelings, I'm beginning to be rather tired of this, you see, Mr.
Humpage.'
'I'm going, sir, I'm going. I've nearly said my say. You have not
altered my opinion in the least. I'm not blind, and I saw your face
change when you saw me. You were _afraid_ of me. You know you were.
What reason but one could you have for that?'
Of course Mark could have explained even this rather suspicious
appearance, but then he would not have improved matters very much; and
so, like many better men, he had to submit to be cruelly
misunderstood, when a word might have saved him, although in his case
silence was neither quixotic nor heroic.
'I can only say again,' he replied in his haughtiest manner, 'that
when this book was written, I had never seen you, nor even heard of
your existence. If you don't believe me, I can't help it.'
'You've got your own uncle and your own manner to thank for it if I
don't believe you, and I don't. There are ways of juggling with words
to make them cover anything, and from all I know of you, you are
likely enough to be apt at that sort of thing. I've come here to tell
you what I think of you, and I mean to do it before I go. You've
abused such talents as you've been gifted with, sir; gone out of your
way to attack a man who never did you any harm. You're a hired
literary assassin--that's my opinion of you! I'm not going to take any
legal proceeding against you--I'm not such a fool. If I was a younger
man, I might take the law, in the shape of a stout horse-whip, into my
own hands; as it is, I leave you to go your own way, unpunished by me.
Only, mark my words--you'll come to no good. There's a rough sort of
justice in this world, whatever may be said, and a beginning like
yours will bring its own reward. Some day, sir, you'll be found out
for what you are! That's what I came to say!'
And he turned on his heel and marched downstairs, leaving Mark with a
superstitious fear at his heart at his last words, and some annoyance
with Holroyd for having exposed him to this, and even with himself for
turning craven at the first panic.
'I must look up that infernal book again!' he thought. 'Holroyd may
have libelled half London in it for all I know.'
Now it may be as well to state here that Vincent Holroyd was as
guiltless as Mark himself of any intention to portray Mr. Humpage in
the pages of 'Illusion'; he had indeed heard of him from the Langtons,
but the resemblances in the imaginary solicitor to Dolly's godfather
were few and trivial enough, and, like most of such half-unconscious
reminiscences, required the aid of a malicious dulness to pass as
anything more than mere coincidences.
But the next day, while Mark was thinking apprehensively of 'Illusion'
as a perfect mine of personalities, the heavy steps were heard again
in the passage and up the staircase; he sighed wearily, thinking that
perhaps the outraged Mr. Humpage had remembered something more
offensive, and had called again to give him the benefit of it.
However, this time the visitor was Mr. Solomon Lightowler, who stood
in the doorway with what he meant to be a reassuring smile on his
face--though, owing to a certain want of flexibility in his uncle's
features, Mark misunderstood it.
'Oh, it's you, is it?' he said bitterly. 'Come in, Uncle, _come_ in.
You undertook when I saw you last never to speak to me again, but _I_
don't mind if you don't. I had a thorough good blackguarding yesterday
from your friend Humpage, so I've got my hand in. Will you curse me
sitting down or standing? The other one stood!'
'No, no, it ain't that, my boy. I don't want to use 'ard words. I've
come to say, let bygones be bygones. Mark, my boy, I'm _proud_ of
yer!'
'What, of a literary man! My dear uncle, you can't be well--or you've
lost money.'
'I'm much as usual, thanky, and I haven't lost any money that I know
of, and--and I _mean_ it, Mark, I've read your book.'
'I know you have--so has Humpage,' said Mark.
Uncle Solomon chuckled. 'You made some smart 'its at 'Umpage,' he
said. 'When I first saw there was a country solicitor in the book, I
said to myself, "That's goin' to be 'Umpage," and you 'ad him fine, I
_will_ say that. I never thought to be so pleased with yer.'
'You need not have shown your pleasure by sending him a marked copy.'
'I was afraid he wouldn't see it if I didn't,' explained Mr.
Lightowler, 'and I owed him one over that gander, which he summonsed
me for, and got his summons dismissed for his trouble. But I've not
forgotten it. P'r'aps it was going rather far to mark the places; but
there, I couldn't 'elp it.'
'Well, I suppose you know that amounts to libel?' said Mark, either
from too hazy a recollection of the law on the subject of
'publication' or the desire to give his uncle a lesson.
'Libel! Why, I never wrote anything--only underlined a passage 'ere
and there. You don't call that libelling!'
'A judge might, and, any way, Uncle, it's deuced unpleasant for _me_.
He was here abusing me all the afternoon--when I never had any idea of
putting the hot-headed old idiot into a book. It's too bad--it really
is!'
''Umpage won't law me--he's had enough of that. Don't you be afraid,
and don't show yourself poor-spirited. You've done me a good turn by
showing up 'Umpage as what I believe him to be--what's the good of
pretending you never meant it--to me? You don't know how pleased
you've made me. It's made a great difference in _your_ prospects,
young man, I can tell yer!'
'So you told me at the "Cock,"' said Mark.
'I don't mean that way, this time. I dessay I spoke rather 'asty then;
I didn't know what sort of littery line you were going to take up
with, but if you go on as you've begun, you're all right. And when I
have a nephew that makes people talk about him and shows up them that
makes themselves unpleasant as neighbours, why, what I say is, Make
the most of him! And that brings me to what I've come about. How are
you off in the matter o' money, hey?'
Mark was already beginning to feel rather anxious about his expenses.
His uncle's cheque was by this time nearly exhausted, his salary at
St. Peter's was not high and, as he had already sent in his
resignation, that source of income would dry up very shortly. He had
the money paid him for 'Illusion,' but that of course he could not
use; he had not sunk low enough for that, though he had no clear ideas
what to do with it. He would receive handsome sums for his next two
novels, but that would not be for some time, and meanwhile his
expenses had increased with his new life to a degree that surprised
himself, for Mark was not a young man of provident habits.
So he gave his uncle to understand that, though he expected to be paid
some heavy sums in a few months, his purse was somewhat light at
present.
'Why didn't you come to me?' cried his uncle; 'you might a' known _I_
shouldn't have stinted you. You've never found me near with you. And
now you're getting a big littery pot, and going about among the nobs
as I see your name with, why, you must keep up the position you've
made--and you shall too! You're quite right to drop the
schoolmastering, since you make more money with your scribbling. Your
time's valuable now. Set to and scribble away while you're the
fashion; make your 'ay while the sun shines, my boy. I'll see yer
through it. I want you to do me credit. I want everyone to know that
you're not like some of these poor devils, but have got a rich old
uncle at your back. You let 'em know that, will yer?'
And, quite in the manner of the traditional stage uncle, he produced
his cheque book and wrote a cheque for a handsome sum, intimating that
that would be Mark's quarterly allowance while he continued to do him
credit, and until he should be independent of it. Mark was almost too
astounded for thanks at first by such very unexpected liberality, and
something, too, in the old man's coarse satisfaction jarred on him and
made him ashamed of himself. But he contrived to express his gratitude
at last.
'It's all right,' said Uncle Solomon; 'I don't grudge it yer. You just
go on as you've begun.' ('I hope that doesn't mean "making more hits
at Humpage,"' thought Mark.) 'You thought you could do without me, but
you see you can't; and look here, make a friend of me after this, d'ye
hear? Don't do nothing without my advice. I'm a bit older than you
are, and p'r'aps I can give you a wrinkle or two, even about littery
matters, though you mayn't think it. You needn't a' been afraid your
uncle would cast you off, Mark--so long as you're doing well. As I
told your mother the other day, there's nothing narrerminded about me,
and if you feel you've a call to write, why, I don't think the worse
of you for it. I'm not _that_ kind of man.'
And after many more speeches of this kind, in the course of which he
fully persuaded himself, and very nearly his nephew, that his views
had been of this broad nature from the beginning, and were entirely
uninfluenced by events, he left Mark to think over this new turn of
fortune's wheel, by which he had provoked a bitter foe and regained a
powerful protector, without deserving one more than the other.
He thought lightly enough of the first interview now; it was cheaply
bought at the price of the other. 'And after all,' he said to himself,
'what man has no enemies?'
But only those whose past is quite stainless, or quite stained, can
afford to hold their enemies in calm indifference, and although Mark
never knew how old Mr. Humpage's enmity was destined to affect him, it
was not without influence on his fortunes.