"Roseleaves and Lavender," Violet Walbridge's last novel, was selling
pretty well, but a few days after the dinner party the author left her
house about half-past eleven, mounted a No. 3 bus, settled herself in
the prow and travelled down to the Strand in answer to a rather pressing
invitation from her publishers.
It was a fine October morning, with a little tang in the air, so
windless that some early falling leaves left their boughs with an air of
doubt and travelled very slowly, almost hesitatingly, towards the earth.
All the smoke went straight up into the sky, and several caged birds on
the route were singing loudly outside their windows. The bus was full of
people, more or less all of them of the type who made Mrs. Walbridge's
public, and there were, without doubt, several girls sitting almost
within reach of her who would have felt it in the nature of an adventure
to meet the author of "Queenie's Promise" and "One Maid's Word." It is
interesting to think that there are fewer people who would genuinely
thrill at the sight of George Meredith, if he were still alive, than
would thrill at having met such a writer as Violet Walbridge. But no one
knew who the little, dowdily dressed woman was, and her journey to
Charing Cross was uneventful. God, who gives all mercies, gave the gift
of vanity, and Mrs. Walbridge, although very humble-minded, was not
without her innocent share in the consoling fault. More than once she
had given herself the pleasure of telling some casually met stranger
who she was. Once her yearly holiday at Bexhill had been given a glow of
glory by the fact that she had by chance found the chambermaid at the
little hotel, engrossed to the point of imbecility in "Starlight and
Moonlight." Delicately, shyly, she had made known to the girl the fact
of her identity, and the reverence, almost awe, of the poor ignorant
servant in meeting the author of that splendid book had made her very
happy for many hours.
Another time a working man in a train had been quarrelling with his wife
for the possession of a torn copy of "Aaron's Rod" (a book which Mrs.
Walbridge privately considered a little strong), and as she got out of
the train and the man handed her down her holdall, she had thrown the
exciting information of her identity into his face and run for her life,
feeling herself akin to Dickens, Miss Ethel M. Dell, Robert Louis
Stevenson, and all the other great ones of the earth. But these splendid
events had never been frequent, and of late years they had almost ceased
to occur. And as the little lady got off the bus at Charing Cross and
blundered apologetically into a tall, rosy-faced girl, who clutched _The
Red Magazine_ to her breast, she wondered wistfully if the girl would
have been delighted if she had told her.
* * * * *
Messrs. Lubbock & Payne, publishers, had their offices in the Strand,
and Mrs. Walbridge's appointment was for half-past eleven. She felt a
little nervous and depressed as she went up in the lift, for Mr. Lubbock
was a very imposing man, whose fine bay-windowed waistcoat always
overawed her a little. However, it was probably the glory of the golden
autumn day that had got on her nerves. She was always sad on such days,
so she tried to look bold and successful as she passed Wheeler, the old
clerk, Mr. Lubbock's right-hand man, whom she had known for a quarter of
a century.
Wheeler, however, did not respond to her remarks about the weather as he
had once done, and when she had waited nearly half an hour her
depression had grown still greater, and she was finally ushered into the
inner office with hands and feet icy with fear.
Harrison Lubbock, a large, abnormally clean-looking old gentleman, with
a ruff of silky white hair round his polished scalp, greeted her kindly,
but without enthusiasm.
"I've asked you to call, Mrs. Walbridge," he began at once with a
pronounced glance at the clock, "on a little matter of business. Mr.
Payne and I have been talking things over of late--business matters you
understand--and we have come to the conclusion that there are one or two
of our authors to whom a few words of advice might be of use." He
paused, and she looked at him anxiously.
"I see," she said, her face growing a little paler. "I--I'm one of those
authors?"
He bowed, and the soft folds of his beautifully shaved double chin
dropped a little lower over his high collar.
"Yes, yes, quite so. You're a very old, shall I say, client?--of
ours----"
She would have liked to reply that at that moment the word patient might
be more applicable to her, but she dared not, and after a moment he went
on:
"I think we may say that we are very old friends."
This was awful. She was no business woman, and she had little knowledge
of the world, but even she knew that it meant danger, in an interview
avowedly a business interview, when friendship was invoked. She
stammered something, and he went on:
"Your books have sold--sell--very well, on the whole. We have done our
best for them, and, as you know, the cost of publishing and
advertising--particularly advertising--has nearly doubled since the
war."
Again he paused, and this time she bowed, being afraid to say that she
knew conditions were such that her percentage on sales had gone down,
while the sale price of her books had gone up to seven and six. She
noticed Mr. Lubbock's sleeve-links; they were new ones and very neat, of
gold and platinum. How she wished she could buy a pair like that for
Paul! In the old days her envy would have been for Ferdie. Mr. Lubbock
cleared his throat, fitted his fat finger-tips neatly together, and
began to be sprightly.
"Amazing how the output of books of fiction has increased of late years,
isn't it? Dear me, I can remember when 2250 would have been considered a
big output, and now there are so many good writers, so many excellent
writers, Mrs. Walbridge, that we are forced by competition and market
conditions to bring out nearly three times that number. I wonder if you
have kept up with the new writers," he went on after a pause, "Mrs.
Levett, Joan Kelly, Austen Goodheart, and so on--and Wanda Potter. Wanda
Potter's last book sold over a hundred thousand."
"I haven't read any of them, I'm afraid. I've so little time----" She
tried to smile and felt as if her lips were freezing.
"Just so, just so; exactly what I was saying to Payne. 'Mrs. Walbridge
is a very busy woman,' I said to Payne. 'She hasn't time--she can't be
_expected_ to have time--to read all these things, so it's quite natural
that--that----'" He broke off, and taking up a little bronze figure of a
poodle, that served as a paper weight, he examined it carefully for a
moment. "I'm sure you understand what I mean, Mrs. Walbridge," he said
at last.
She was looking at the corner of his polished mahogany writing table;
she was looking at two carefully jointed bits of wood, finely grained
and smoothly welded together, but what she saw was "Happy House"; Ferdie
and his new cedar cigar chest yawning to be filled; of an unpaid
tailor's bill; of his annual cough (Ferdie coughed himself regularly to
Torquay every autumn); she saw Paul and his new edition de luxe of
Swinburne, and the Rowlandson "Horse Fair" he had taken her to see in
King Street, St. James's--the "Horse Fair" that was to cost "only
eighteen guineas." She saw the little sea-green frock that hung in the
great Frenchman's window in Hanover Square, the little frock that would
look so beautiful on Grisel. She saw a vision of a hecatomb of roasts of
beef and saddles of mutton, and oysters, and burgundy, that she was
longing to offer up to her family gods. She saw the natural skunk coat
she had been planning to give to poor dear Caroline for Christmas. She
saw the new bathroom, on which the men were already working, that was to
be Grisel's. Then these things passed away, and the corner of the table
again appeared, and Mr. Lubbock was saying, in that kind, dreadful voice
of his: "I feel quite sure that you understand our position, Mrs.
Walbridge, and, after all, the reduction is not of very great
consequence."
Before she could speak the telephone bell rang. He took up the receiver
and bent forward, politeness and courtesy expressed in every line of his
big figure as clearly as if the telephone had been a person he was
speaking to.
"Oh--oh, yes, is that you, Payne?" she heard him say. "Yes, what an odd
coincidence, she's here with me now!" and Mrs. Walbridge knew that it
was no coincidence; that they had planned it all out between them, and
for a moment she had a wild idea of flight. She would run and run down
the narrow, dusty stairs and out into the street, and not hear any of it
said. It seemed that she could bear the reduction of her money, but that
she could not bear it discussed by these two men who held not only her,
but "Happy House" and everybody in "Happy House" in the hollow of their
hands. But she dared not move, and presently Mr. Payne came in.
Mr. Payne was a little, yellowish-pink man, who looked like a weazel. He
had lashless and browless blue eyes, and his nose was sharp and his
teeth looked very sharp. He was brisk and brusque in his manner, and he
dashed at the subject of the smaller price for the next book with an
abruptness that was only one degree more bearable than Mr. Lubbock's
smoothness.
"Yes, yes," he declared, shaking hands rather violently. "I knew you
understood, Mrs. Walbridge, didn't I, Lubbock? 'Mrs. Walbridge is a
business woman,' I said, 'and of course she'll understand that the war
has changed things very considerably, to say nothing of the--of
the--ah--inevitable march of time.'"
"I was telling Mrs. Walbridge," Lubbock joined in, "that I thought it
would be a good plan for her to read some of the new books. Haven't we
got Wanda Potter's 'Rice Paper'? Excellent story, excellent--and sells
well." He called up someone on the telephone, and smiling into it,
working his rough eyebrows genially, he gave orders for someone named
Briggs to get Miss Potter's last book for Mrs. Walbridge. "Wait a
minute, George. What other ones would you suggest? Oh, yes, and Mr.
Goodheart's 'New Odyssey.' Useful book that," to Mrs. Walbridge. "You
take them, with our compliments, and just--just go through them----"
Mrs. Walbridge had risen and stood before the table, her hands clutching
very hard at her shabby leather bag.
Mr. Payne was about to speak, when something in her face stopped him.
They had known her for years. They had treated her very well, and they
had made a great deal of money out of her. But both of them felt at that
moment that until then they had never quite known her. Her face was very
white, and her immense hollow eyes were full of almost unbearable
misery. But it was the bravery of her that struck them both.
"Do I understand," she said quietly, "that you mean that I am
old-fashioned--too old-fashioned?" They did not answer, and she went on,
not realising that they both felt that she had turned the tables on
them. "You mean that my books don't sell so well as they did because
they are not up to date, because I'm--old."
"Good gracious, Mrs. Walbridge," broke in Mr. Payne, with the horrid
facetiousness of well-meaning vulgarity, "what an idea! We simply mean
that because you are so busy you have not had time to--how shall I say
it?--to keep exactly up to date. But a lady with your gifts and your
great experience is not going to pretend that she finds any difficulty
in changing this----"
She bowed. "Thank you, Mr. Payne. I think I understand. My new book
would have been ready in a few days, but if you can give me an extra
fortnight, I'll go through it again and try to--to modernise it a
little."
Then she said good morning, and went quietly out.
Mr. Lubbock let himself heavily down into his swivel chair.
"Dear me," he said, being a man of unblemished vocabulary, "that was
very unpleasant, Payne."
Mr. Payne lit a cigarette. "It was beastly," he retorted, blinking
rapidly through the smoke. "Upon my word, it's quite upset me. Poor old
thing! She'll never be able to do it, Lubbock. Never in this world. By
God, it's quite upset me! I'll have a pint of champagne for my lunch."
* * * * *
Violet Walbridge had a little shopping to do. She had to go to
Sketchley's to get some blouses that had been cleaned for Griselda; she
went to Selfridges for a paper box of opened oysters for Paul, who was
at home with a cold; and she had two bills to pay in Oxford Street. When
these things were done, and she had bought a bunch of chrysanthemums
from a flower-girl, she took her place near the kerb and waited for her
bus. And then it was that the malicious gods struck her their final blow
for that day. Two young women stood near her, laden with parcels,
cheerfully talkative. One of them had been to a dance the night before;
the other one's baby had a new tooth, a very remarkable tooth, it
seemed, and both of them were in a state of pleasant turmoil and fret
about frocks that they were having made. Mrs. Walbridge listened to them
innocently, standing first on one foot and then on the other to rest
herself, her various parcels hugged close under her arms, the oysters
borne like a sacred offering in both hands.
"Dear me," one of the young women said suddenly, "it's after one
o'clock!"
Mrs. Walbridge started, for one o'clock was her lunch hour, and her
husband was very particular about punctuality in others.
"I meant to pop in to the _Times_ Book Club and get something to read,"
declared the mother of the baby with the new tooth, "but it's too late.
Have you read that thing 'Reek'? I've forgotten who it's by--somebody
new."
"No. I've been down for it for days and days, but I can't get it. I've
read a splendid new book, though--Wanda Potter's 'Rice Paper'--awfully
clever, and Joan Kelly's 'Ploughshares.'"
"I had an ulcerated tooth the other day," answered her friend, "and
couldn't go out, and sent Winnie to Boots' with a list of books, and
they were all out, so that nice red-haired girl--_you_ know--picked out
some herself and sent me, and guess what one of them was. Violet
Walbridge's last one--'Rosemary and Lavender'--or something----"
The other one laughed. "Oh, I know. 'Sage and Onions,' George calls it.
_Awful_ trash--can't stand her nowadays."
A bus arrived at that moment, and the two young women going on top, Mrs.
Walbridge crept inside, and sat crushed between two large uncomfortable
women, her face bent over the oysters.
"'Sage and Onions,'" she kept repeating under her breath, "'Sage and
Onions'----"
Ferdie was very much annoyed because she was late for lunch, and called
her very selfish to be out parading the streets doing idiotic errands
when she ought to be at home.