THE BLOT ON THE 'SCUTCHEON
Then plant, by the right of the mind,
By the power of the tome and scroll,
Plant your heel on their neck, and grind,
Or their millions will grind your soul.
JOHN HARTLEY, "The Siren City."
Oh, these towering aspirations--without a fire-escape of humor to
all their sky-scrapers of endeavor!--"The Silver Poppy."
Cordelia, during a troubled night, dreamed that she had been captured by
Indians and bound on two huge wild horses. These horses, she saw to her
horror, refused to gallop off in line, and were slowly pulling her
tortured body to pieces. But failing in this, she thought her Indians
had retaken her and burned her at the stake, and that there was but one
oil in all the wide world that could soothe the stinging agony that
consumed her. She was seeking, naked, frenzied, alone, for this unfound
ointment, when she suddenly wakened and found the autumn sun shining
wholesomely on the clean high chimneys and housetops of the city.
Cordelia looked on that dream as an omen, and thinking it over, she was
startled by it out of a mood of indecision and inactivity which for days
had been hanging over her. Some vague sense of impending evil benumbed
her. Sitting amid the torn and scattered feathers of a thousand
disconsolate Cupids, she had asked herself again and again if the game
was worth the candle, if the crown was worth the sweat and tears.
Acting under some sudden impulse, she made a personal call on Henry
Slater, the senior member of the publishing house of Slater & Slater, of
148 Fifth Avenue. It was this firm which had handled so successfully,
and, it might be added, so profitably to both themselves and the author,
her earlier volume, The Silver Poppy. It was not unnatural, therefore,
that from time to time the senior member of this business house should
duly and most solicitously inquire of Miss Vaughan just when he should
have the privilege and pleasure of considering another volume from her
pen. Of late these inquiries had grown no less frequent, though, perhaps
less hopeful. In the inspirational lull, when the town was still agog
over the dramatization of the novel, he had made the most of his chance
by reissuing the book in an _édition de luxe_, handsomely illustrated
and signed by the author--a hastily ordered voluntary to appease the
wrath of a long waiting and impatient audience.
When Cordelia, accordingly, was ushered into the private office of Mr.
Henry Slater, that gentleman received her with every sign of cordiality.
She could not help recalling her first visit to the same office, an
awkward and overawed girl from the country, who had been kept waiting a
long half-hour before the very gentleman who now cordially placed a
chair for her so much as asked her what her business might be. And she
felt once more that after all there was nothing that succeeds like
success.
She stated the purpose of her visit, and gave him as favorable and as
graphic an outline of the new book as she was able. Her quick memory
served her well, and there were few points of importance which she
omitted from the movement of the story.
"This appeals to me strongly, very strongly indeed, Miss Vaughan. In
fact, I see no reason in the world, none whatever, why such a book
should not be the success of the season. I say season because, of
course, you know our best books live only a season nowadays. But how
soon did you say I might see the manuscript?"
"It might be a few days, it might be even a few weeks."
"H-m-m! That is unfortunate. You see, we have already closed our list
for this year, and, as you must know, the season is already well
advanced."
She looked studiously into his cold green eyes; she gazed at the high,
shiny, narrowing forehead, and the long line of the thin, meditating
lips that so seldom relaxed, and the sharp, narrow nose with its touch
of quiet cruelty. But she knew him now better than she had once known
him. She rose to go, languidly.
He looked at her disconcerted, even alarmed.
"But please be seated. Rather than hold a book over until the spring,
we could, of course, reopen our list and hold back other matter. What
would be the earliest date--the assured date--that we could go over the
manuscript?"
Cordelia could not say, but she boldly assumed it would be within a
week's time.
"Hm-m-m-m! Then, I presume, Miss Vaughan, there is no reason that we
should not handle the new story on practically the same basis as your
earlier book; provided, of course, that it is satisfactory to our
readers in every respect?"
Cordelia smiled quietly.
"I'm afraid not," she said.
"They were exceptionally generous terms."
"But this time I have an exceptional book," she retorted quite
impassively. In the smoke of battle Ney had forgotten there was a
Napoleon. For the moment she felt that the book was one of her own
making.
"That may be quite true, but--" Mr. Henry Slater checked himself, and
then asked more suavely: "What new terms would you suggest, Miss
Vaughan?"
"My terms would be one thousand dollars down, with a royalty of twelve
per cent on all copies up to the tenth thousand, and a royalty on all
copies over the tenth thousand of twenty per cent."
An amused, sympathetic, and incredulous smile crept over Mr. Henry
Slater's face.
"Miss Vaughan, our house, during all its career, has never published a
book on any such conditions. And I'm afraid it never will. For months
now the book market has been greatly embarrassed, greatly disturbed;
competition has been most keen, and we----"
"Then I shall not impose on your time any longer." She drew her furs
about her with a touch of finality. "Good morning, Mr. Slater."
"Couldn't you leave the matter open for our consideration?" he asked,
going with her to the door.
"It could only be on the terms I mentioned--and already I have been
keeping a number of publishers waiting."
"Well, let me have a day or two to think the matter out. If my
colleagues can possibly be won over, and if anything can be done, you
will hear from me to-morrow, or the next day at the latest. Will that be
satisfactory?"
Cordelia thought it would, and as she stepped triumphantly out to the
waiting carriage she felt that she had won her terms. And she gloried in
her conquest--she found it almost a joy, this parrying with the forces
that opposed her. As she sat back in the cushions of the Spauldings'
bright little yellow-bodied Victoria and threaded her way through the
crowded traffic of the lower avenue she could not help once more
thinking of her first visit to a publisher--how overawed she had been by
his lofty manner, how she had been bathed in a fine perspiration at the
thought of her all too noticeable rusticity, how she had burned with
silent rage at the stare of open admiration with which he had swept her
from top to toe. But now, she knew, the tables were turned. Power!
Power--what wine was ever half so intoxicating! That was the thought
which rang through her mind as she circled homeward by way of avenue and
park, bowing here and there in response to many admiring smiles and not
a few obsequiously doffed hats.
She sent a note to Hartley, after much thought on the matter, asking if
he could let her have the manuscript at once. The book was brought back
to her by the same messenger-boy who carried her note.
On the following morning she received a contract from Slater & Slater,
duly made out and awaiting her signature. It called for a royalty of
twelve per cent on all copies sold, and made no mention of a cash
deposit.
This contract was at once sent back by Cordelia, unsigned.
The following morning the contract came back to her. It was, however,
again returned unsigned by her, this time because of the stipulation
that the one thousand dollars to be paid on publication was eventually
to be deducted from the royalties on ten thousand copies sold.
Once more the contract was sent to her, but again she refused her
signature.
Then Mr. Henry Slater came to her in person, and in a very sorrowful
mien implored, almost tearfully, to know just what was still wrong.
Cordelia calmly insisted on the deletion of the newly inserted
paragraph surrendering the dramatic rights of the book. These, she
stated, she intended to retain absolutely. When this paragraph had been
reluctantly eliminated the contract was at last duly signed and
witnessed. It was not until Henry Slater had carefully folded his copy
of the document and placed it in his breast-pocket that Cordelia
realized just how much he had wanted her book. But still she felt the
hardest part of her battle lay before her--she had come out of her first
reconnaissance successfully enough, but she wondered if she had made a
mistake in leaving her one avenue of retreat uncovered.
"There is one thing more I have not mentioned"--she hesitated.
Her publisher looked at her more openly; they were now on the common
basis of the commercial.
"I prefer that this book be published under a name other than my own."
Henry Slater looked at her again, this time with widening eyes. He was
more or less used to the eccentricity of genius.
"This was not mentioned in our contract."
"No; but I must insist upon it!"
"But for what reasons?" he cried, bewildered.
"They are purely personal reasons--I might find it hard to make you
understand them." Then she added weakly: "But it often helps a book,
doesn't it, to come out under--under a _nom de plume_?"
"Not in your case, Miss Vaughan!"
She caught at a last straw.
"But I have reason to believe--to believe that there may be a concerted
attempt on the part of critics to attack me!"
He had already been looking over the manuscript, and still held it in
his hand.
"I don't think they will be able to hurt us much," he said confidently.
"Then it must come out _without_ a name!" she cried with sudden passion.
He wished to avoid a scene; he failed to see just what her object was.
"Let me think over this, Miss Vaughan. I'll send you my decision by
letter to-morrow."
She followed him weakly to the door.
"There are plenty of books," she half pleaded, "that have sold better
for being brought out anonymously."
"I'll think over it, Miss Vaughan, and let you know definitely
to-morrow."
Before his letter was written the printers were already at work on The
Unwise Virgins. The note from him which eventually reached Cordelia was
brief, but to the point. It said:
"MY DEAR MISS VAUGHAN: In reply to your inquiry of yesterday, I
would state that we are reluctantly forced to abide strictly by the
letter of our contract with you. It seems almost superfluous for us
to point out that your name is now of such weight in the literary
world that under no circumstances should we agree to any such terms
as those you have been granted unless it had been most definitely
understood the name of America's most illustrious author should go
upon our season's lists. We are rushing work on the book; in fact,
we hope to have it out by the end of the month.
"Very truly yours,
"HENRY H. SLATER."
Cordelia, as she read and reread this letter, dimly felt that they were
crushing her to the wall. She cried out, in her bewilderment, that they
were giving her no chance.
While she was still pondering over this confounding new turn of affairs
she received a message from Repellier, asking if she would not drop up
to his studio the following afternoon. She remembered that she and
Hartley had planned to spend the afternoon in the Park. But some
indefinite dread of yet meeting him face to face, a longing for some
temporary escape from an ordeal which she had not the courage to go
through, made her decide in favor of Repellier. But just why that
stern-faced artist should want to see her she could not understand.
Indeed, in her present mood she did not much care.