by Leroy Scott
CHAPTER II
DAVID SEES THE FACE OF FORTUNE
When David had handed Helen into the cab, she had not spoken to him, hadnot even said, "Thank you," and had rolled away without giving him somuch as a backward glance. He now felt it had been brutal,dishonourable, to trap her into denouncing her father and then to strikeher with her father's guilt. He was certain she was deeply offended, andthis conviction grew as day after day passed without a word from her.
But there were other things to be thought of during these days. Therewas his future--upon which, uncertain as it was, he saw that LillianDrew was to be a parasite; for she had made another call (while Kate wasout of the office; he was thankful for that) and had carried away thelarger fraction of his small store of money. He was againworkless--again at the base of that high, smooth wall which before hehad been able to surmount only with, as it were, his last gaspingeffort.
What he should do, he had no idea. But his own future he thrust aside asbeing a less pressing problem than Rogers's future and Rogers's present.As Rogers had predicted, the fact that he was Red Thorpe quickly reachedthe ears of his clients, and they all lost no time in withdrawing theirproperty from his charge. The owner who had forced David's dismissal asjanitor demanded with the same delicacy that Rogers should vacate therooms he occupied; but Rogers had a lease and, moreover, had paid amonth's rent in advance, so they and their belongings were not tumbledinto the street.
These days were for Rogers solid blackness. David had promised to sharewith him, but he saw that there was doubt of David's having anything toshare. Even if David did, his bitter mood now looked upon that portionas charity, and little more agreeable to his pride than publiccharity--which he saw as a near-looming, shame-laden spectre, fearedmore than death. That he who had had the brains to achieve independence,who had been on the verge of fortune, should have been crushed to hispresent extremity--this filled him with wild revolt. Kate, with asubdued gentleness that begged to serve; Tom, with his alertwillingness; David, with his constant presence and consideration; theMayor, with his ever-ready vituperation and bluff words of hope thatrang hollow;--they all tried to lift the draping blackness from abouthim--and failed, because they had nothing but blackness to hang in itsplace.
But some definite plan for the future had to be made, and Rogers himselfmade it. Since Colorado was not for him, he would, as soon as his monthhere was ended, secure as cheap a room as he could find and try tostretch his small funds to reach that final day when he would have noneed of more.
Kate's father fell with the rest of the Rogers regime, and from thebasement they moved into a couple of cheap rooms a few blocks away.David had often considered the relation between Kate and her father:aside from keeping him alive Kate was of no service to him--he was aterrible drag on her; if they could be separated, with his maintenancesecured, he would be no worse off and she would be far better. David nowtalked the matter over with Rogers; together they talked it over withKate, who finally yielded; and David enlisted the interest of Dr.Franklin in behalf of getting old Jimmie into an institution forinebriates.
There was little for Kate to do in Rogers's office, but she insisted onremaining and remaining without salary. "It's because of me all thishappened--you may need me--I'm going to stay," she said to Rogers. "I'vestill got most of my last month's wages--two or three weeks will be soonenough to get a job." And nothing Rogers urged could move her.
Tom begged to be allowed to go to work, but David prevailed on him tocontinue in school. "Something good will surely turn up," David said tothe boy. But days went and nothing arose. David was on the point ofyielding to Tom, when into the general gloom there shot, for him, abright shaft of hope. Ten days after he had put Helen into the cab aletter came to him addressed in her handwriting. He hardly dared openit, for he expected reproof--delicately conveyed, of course, but stillreproof. When he drew the letter from its envelope an enclosure fellunheeded to the floor. Instead of censure he found this:
"It seems your address was not on your manuscript, so Mr. Osborne has sent the enclosed letter to you in care of me. I can hardly refrain from opening it. I feel certain there is good news in it. I congratulate you in advance!
"You know how interested I am, so I know you'll come and tell me all about it just as soon as you learn the book's fate. You'll find me in almost any time."
David picked up the envelope--stamped in one corner with "WilliamOsborne & Co," a name he had once worshipped from afar off--ripped itopen and read the following, signed by Mr. Osborne himself:
"We have been greatly interested in your story. If you will call at your convenience I shall be glad to talk with you about it."
David stared at the three type-written lines. The letter was not anacceptance--but then neither was it a rejection. A wild hope leaped upwithin him. Could it be here was a ladder up the unseizable wall? Couldit be the success he had failed of five years before was at last aboutto be won? He dared not let himself be swept to these dizzy heights; heknew how far it was to the ground. So he told himself it could not bepossible. Still, was there not a chance?
He slipped away without hinting of his hope to Rogers--there would betime for telling later, if anything was to tell--and at ten o'clockreached a little five-story brick building off Union Square that was thehome of William Osborne & Co. At first he had not the courage to enter.He remembered, as he walked on, a manuscript novel he had left here inthe long ago--and it came back to him that this was the very manuscripthe had been working over on that day, now more than five years gone,when Morton's death had summoned him to St. Christopher's.
When he reached the door again he drove himself in and was swung to thetop floor in a little creaking elevator, and before his courage had timeto recede he was within a railed-off square in a large room and hadgiven his name to a boy to be carried to Mr. Osborne. In a moment theboy returned and led him across the room, filled with sub-editors,manuscript readers and stenographers, and ushered him into a smallprivate office. Here at a desk sat a white-haired man chatting with twovisitors.
The white-haired man rose as David entered and smiled a kindly,spectacled smile. "I'm very glad to see you, Mr. Aldrich. If you'llexcuse me for a minute, I'll be right with you."
David sat down in the chair Mr. Osborne indicated and waited withpulsing suspense for the two men to go. There, on one corner of Mr.Osborne's desk, which was littered with letters, manuscripts andmagazine page-proofs, he saw his book. He felt, as he waited, almost ashe had felt five years before during the suffocating minutes between thereturn of the jury with its verdict and the verdict's reading. Theverdict on the book was ready. What was it to be?
At length the two men went away. Mr. Osborne turned from the door andcame toward David, smiling cordially, his hand outstretched.
"Let me congratulate you, Mr. Aldrich!" he said heartily.
David rose and put a nerveless hand into Mr. Osborne's. "You mean--youlike it?"
"Indeed I do! If you and I can come to an agreement, we shall be proudto publish it."
David gazed swimmingly at him. There was a whirling, a bubbling, withinhim--but he managed to say with fair control: "It's hardly necessary totell an old publisher how happy a new author is to hear that."
Mr. Osborne sat down and David automatically did likewise.
"You, Mr. Aldrich, have particular reason to feel happy. We print agreat many well-written, dramatic stories--stories which are just that,and no more. That, of course, is a great deal. But when a book, withoutimpairment to its dramatic and artistic quality, leaves a profoundimpression regarding some aspect of life--that book has an element ofbigness that the other stories lack. Mr. Aldrich, yours is such astory."
David felt he was reeling off his chair. "Yes?" he said.
Mr. Osborne went on to praise the book in detail. After a time heproposed terms. David took in hardly a word of the offer; his mind wasover-running with his success, his praise. But he accepted the termsinstantly.
&
nbsp; This settled, Mr. Osborne picked up several yellowed type-written sheetsfrom his disordered desk. "By the way, are you the David Aldrich thatsubmitted us a novel five or six years ago called 'The Master Knot?'"
"Yes," said David.
"I thought you might be interested in the readers' opinions on thatstory, so I had them brought in."
He handed the sheets to David, and when he saw David had glanced themthrough, he remarked: "You see they all amount to the same. 'The authorknows how to write, but he does not know life.'" He gazed steadily atDavid through the kindly spectacles. "Since then, Mr. Aldrich, you havecome to know life."
"I think I have." David strained to keep his voice natural.
"Yes, you have come to know life--to feel it." He paused, and consideredwithin himself. For all his warmth, there had been in his tone andmanner, caution, reserve. Suddenly these fell away, and he radiatedenthusiasm.
"I try never to raise false hopes in a young author," he cried, "butI've got to say more than I've said. Really, I think I've made what apublisher is always looking for, hoping for--a great find, a realwriter! You're going to do big things!"
David dared not respond; he knew his voice would not be steady.
"Yes--big things," Mr. Osborne repeated. "But here's another point Iwanted to speak of. We can use several short stories from you in ourmagazine. If you have any, or will write some, that are anywhere near asgood as the book, I can guarantee acceptance."
It was a moment before David could trust himself to speak. "I have none,but I should like to write some." Then he suddenly remembered he had notthe money to carry him through the period that must elapse before thestories could be written and paid for. "But I fear I'm not in a positionto write them just now," he added.
Mr. Osborne had had thirty years' experience with the impecuniosity ofauthors. "Money?" he queried.
There was no taking offence at the friendly way he asked this. "Yes,"David confessed.
"I think we can solve that difficulty. I don't know how the book thereis going to sell. I was a publisher before you were born, but after allmy experience I have to regard the commercial side of publishing aspretty much of a gambling game. Critically, your book is certain ofgreat success. Financially--I don't know. It may win in a large way; Ihope so. But you are sure of at least a moderate sale. Suppose, then, Imake you a small advance on your royalty. Say--let's see--well, threehundred. Will that do?"
David felt, as he had felt since he had heard his verdict, that toventure beyond a monosyllable would be to explode. He swallowed. "Yes,"he said.
"Very well, then. Do you prefer check or cash?"
"Cash."
Ten minutes later David entered the street, three hundred dollars in hispocket, his heart wild with joy, hope. He wanted to run, to shout, tofly. His glowing face was the visage of triumph.
At last the success he had prayed for--striven for--given up--had come!
He turned northward, to carry the news to Helen. A suggestion of hersflashed into his mind: the book might help pay his debt to the Mission.Obeying impulse he walked into a bank he was at the instant passing, andwhen he came out there was in an inner coat pocket a draft for twohundred dollars made out to the Reverend Joseph Franklin.
All the way to Helen's door there was no pavement beneath his feet. Whenhe had called here the last time--the time he had read her part of thestory; he was a shabby creature then--he had borne himself very humblytoward the footman. Now he asked for Helen with a buoyant ring in hisvoice and fairly flung his coat and hat upon the astonished servant; andhe bowed with a new dignity to Helen's aunt, Mrs. Bosworth, whom he meton the stairway.
Helen met him at the drawing-room door. "I can read the news in yourface!" she cried. "I'm so glad!"
He laughed joyously as he caught her hand. "Yes, Mr. Osborne took it!"
"I knew he would! And he likes it? Tell me--how does he like it?"
"You must ask him. But--he likes it!"
"Immensely--I'm certain! Come, you must tell me all!"
They sat down and David told her of his half-hour with Mr. Osborne.Since receiving her note that morning he had not once thought of the endof their last meeting. If he had, and had been aware of the pain thatmeeting had brought her, he would have marvelled at the ease with whichshe threw her misery aside for the sake of a mere friend, a dishonouredfriend. But he did not wonder; he just drank recklessly of this gloriousdraught, compounded of her praise and her joy in his joy.
At the end he told her of the three hundred dollars--never thinking thatit was barely more than the price of the simple-looking gown she wore,that it was but a penny to the rich furnishings of the drawing-room,that it was her father's income for perhaps less than a quarter of abusiness hour. And completely abandoned to the boyish happiness thatforced him to share everything, he told her of the draft for two hundreddollars.
Her face shadowed; this man, who was paying back, had suddenly broughtto mind her father, who was not paying back. But quickly a deep glowcame into her eyes.
"You should be as proud of this as of any of the rest," she said.
She gazed at him thoughtfully, her head slightly nodding. "Yes--you aregoing to win all you started out to win," she went on, her low voicevibrating with belief. "You are going to clear your name; you are goingto achieve a personal success; you are going to carry out your dream tohelp save the human waste. Yes, you are going to do it all."
His success, her words, the glowing sincerity in her brown eyes, swepthim to the heights of exaltation. Suddenly his love made another of itstrials to burst from him.
He leaned toward her. "And there's something else to tell you."
"Yes?"
But he did not go on. Instantly his love was being fought back. Exaltedthough he was, the old compelling reasons for silence had rushed intohim.
"Yes? What is it?" she asked.
He swallowed hard. "Some other time," he said.
"When the time comes, I shall be glad to hear it."
He looked into her steady eyes, and saw she had no guess of what thething might be.
"When the time comes--I shall tell," he said. But in his heart was nobelief that time would ever come.
