by Man Upstairs
Mr. Prosser concluded an animated conversation with a waiter on the subject of the wines of France, leaned forward and, having helped himself briskly to anchovies, began to talk. He talked loudly and rapidly. Owen, his thoughts far away, hardly listened.
Presently the waiter returned with the selected brand. He filled Owen's glass, and Owen drank, and felt better. Finding his glass magically full once more, he emptied it again. And then suddenly he found himself looking across the table at his host, and feeling a sense of absolute conviction that this was the one man of all others whom he would have selected as a confident. How kindly, though somewhat misty, his face was! How soothing, if a little indistinct, his voice!
"Prosser," he said, "you are a man of the world, and I should like your advice. What would you do in a case like this? I go to a theatre to see a play, and what do I find?"
He paused, and eyed his host impressively.
"What's that tune they're playing?" said Mr. Prosser. "You hear it everywhere. One of those Viennese things, I suppose."
Owen was annoyed. He began to doubt whether, after all, Mr. Prosser's virtues as a confidant were not more apparent than real.
"I find, by Jove," he continued, "that I wrote the thing myself."
"It's not a patch on 'The Merry Widow,' " said Mr. Prosser.
Owen thumped the table.
"I tell you I find I wrote the thing myself."
"What thing?"
"This play I'm telling you about. This White Roses thing."
He found that he had at last got his host's ear. Mr. Prosser seemed genuinely interested.
"What do you mean?"
Owen plunged into his story. He started from its dim beginning, from the days when he had bought the novel on his journey from Bath to Cheltenham. He described his methods of work, his registering of the package, his suspense, his growing resignation. He sketched the progress of his life. He spoke of Audrey and gave a crisp character-sketch of Mr. Sheppherd. He took his hearer right up to the moment when the truth had come home to him.
Towards the end of his narrative the lights went out, and he finished his story in the hotel courtyard. In the cool air he felt revived. The outlines of Mr. Prosser became sharp and distinct again.
The sociologist listened admirably. He appeared absorbed, and did not interrupt once.
"What makes you so certain that this was your version?" he asked, as they passed into the Strand.
Owen told him of the creature of his imagination in Act III.
"But you have lost your manuscript?"
"Yes; I burnt it."
"Just what one might have expected you to do," said Mr Prosser, unkindly. "Young man, I begin to believe that there may be something in this. You haven't got a ghost of a proof that would hold water in a court of law, of course; but still, I'm inclined to believe you. For one thing, you haven't the intelligence to invent such a story."
Owen thanked him.
"In fact, if you can answer me one question I shall be satisfied."
It seemed to Owen that Mr. Prosser was tending to get a little above himself. As an intelligent listener he had been of service, but that appeared to be no reason why he should constitute himself a sort of judge and master of the ceremonies.
"That's very good of you," he said; "but will Edith Butler be satisfied? That's more to the point."
"I am Edith Butler," said Mr. Prosser.
Owen stopped. "You?"
"You need not babble it from the house-tops. You are the only person besides my agent who knows it, and I wouldn't have told you if I could have helped it. It isn't a thing I want known. Great Scott, man, don't goggle at me like a fish! Haven't you heard of pseudonyms before?"
"Yes, but-"
"Well, never mind. Take it from me that I am Edith Butler. Now listen to me. That manuscript reached me when I was in the country. There was no name on it. That in itself points strongly to the fact that you were its author. It was precisely the chuckle-headed sort of thing you would have done, to put no name on the thing."
"I enclosed a letter, anyhow."
"There was a letter enclosed. I opened the parcel out of doors. There was a fresh breeze blowing at the time. It caught the letter, and that was the last I saw of it. I had read as far as 'Dear Madam.' But one thing I do remember about it, and that was that it was sent me from some hotel in Cheltenham, and I could remember it if I heard it. Now, then?"
"I can tell it you. It was Wilbraham's. I was stopping there."
"You pass," said Mr. Prosser. "It was Wilbraham's."
Owen's heart gave a jump. For a moment he walked on air.
"Then do you mean to say that it's all right-that you believe-"
"I do," said Mr. Prosser. "By the way," he said, "the notice of White Roses went up last night."
Owen's heart turned to lead.
"But-but-" he stammered. "But to-night the house was packed."
"It was. Packed with paper. All the merry dead-heads in London were there. It has been the worst failure this season. And, by George," he cried, with sudden vehemence, "serve 'em right. If I told them once it would fail in England, I told them a hundred times. The London public won't stand that sort of blithering twaddle."
Owen stopped and looked round. A cab was standing across the road. He signalled to it. He felt incapable of walking home. No physical blow could have unmanned him more completely than this hideous disappointment just when, by a miracle, everything seemed to be running his way.
"Sooner ride than walk," said Mr. Prosser, pushing his head through the open window. "Laziness-slackness-that's the curse of the modern young man. Where shall I tell him to drive to?"
Owen mentioned his address. It struck him that he had not thanked his host for his hospitality.
"It was awfully good of you to give me supper, Mr. Prosser," he said. "I've enjoyed it tremendously."
"Come again," said Mr. Prosser. "I'm afraid you're disappointed about the play?"
Owen forced a smile.
"Oh, no, that's all right," he said. "It can't be helped."
Mr. Prosser half turned, then thrust his head through the window again.
"I knew there was something I had forgotten to say," he said. "I ought to have told you that the play was produced in America before it came to London. It ran two seasons in New York and one in Chicago, and there are three companies playing it still on the road. Here's my card. Come round and see me to- morrow. I can't tell you the actual figures off-hand, but you'll be all right. You'll have pots o' money."
Out of School
Mark you, I am not defending James Datchett. I hold no brief for James. On the contrary, I am very decidedly of the opinion that he should not have done it. I merely say that there were extenuating circumstances. Just that. Ext. circ. Nothing more.
Let us review the matter calmly and judicially, not condemning James off-hand, but rather probing the whole affair to its core, to see if we can confirm my view that it is possible to find excuses for him.
We will begin at the time when the subject of the Colonies first showed a tendency to creep menacingly into the daily chit-chat of his Uncle Frederick.
James's Uncle Frederick was always talking more or less about the Colonies, having made a substantial fortune out in Western Australia, but it was only when James came down from Oxford that the thing became really menacing. Up to that time the uncle had merely spoken of the Colonies as Colonies. Now he began to speak of them with sinister reference to his nephew. He starred James. It became a case of "Frederick Knott presents James Datchett in 'The Colonies,' " and there seemed every prospect that the production would be an early one; for if there was one section of the public which Mr. Knott disliked more than another, it was Young Men Who Ought To Be Out Earning Their Livings Instead Of Idling At Home. He expressed his views on the subject with some eloquence whenever he visited his sister's house. Mrs. Datchett was a widow, and since her husband's death had been in the habit of accepting every utterance of her brother Frede
rick as a piece of genuine all-wool wisdom; though, as a matter of fact, James's uncle had just about enough brain to make a jay-bird fly crooked, and no more. He had made his money keeping sheep. And any fool can keep sheep. However, he had this reputation for wisdom, and what he said went. It was not long, therefore, before it was evident that the ranks of the Y.M.W.O.T.B.O.E.T.L.I.O.I.A.H. were about to lose a member.
James, for his part, was all against the Colonies. As a setting for his career, that is to say. He was no Little Englander. He had no earthly objection to Great Britain having Colonies. By all means have Colonies. They could rely on him for moral support. But when it came to legging it out to West Australia to act as a sort of valet to Uncle Frederick's beastly sheep-no. Not for James. For him the literary life. Yes, that was James's dream-to have a stab at the literary life. At Oxford he had contributed to the Isis, and since coming down had been endeavouring to do the same to the papers of the Metropolis. He had had no success so far. But some inward voice seemed to tell him-(Read on. Read on. This is no story about the young beginner's struggles in London. We do not get within fifty miles of Fleet Street.)
A temporary compromise was effected between the two parties by the securing for James of a post as assistant-master at Harrow House, the private school of one Blatherwick, M.A., the understanding being that if he could hold the job he could remain in England and write, if it pleased him, in his spare time. But if he fell short in any way as a handler of small boys he was to descend a step in the animal kingdom and be matched against the West Australian sheep. There was to be no second chance in the event of failure. From the way Uncle Frederick talked James almost got the idea that he attached a spiritual importance to a connection with sheep. He seemed to strive with a sort of religious frenzy to convert James to West Australia. So James went to Harrow House with much the same emotions that the Old Guard must have felt on their way up the hill at Waterloo.
Harrow House was a grim mansion on the outskirts of Dover. It is better, of course, to be on the outskirts of Dover than actually in it, but when you have said that you have said everything. James's impressions of that portion of his life were made up almost entirely of chalk. Chalk in the schoolroom, chalk all over the country-side, chalk in the milk. In this universe of chalk he taught bored boys the rudiments of Latin, geography, and arithmetic, and in the evenings, after a stately cup of coffee with Mr. Blatherwick in his study, went to his room and wrote stories. The life had the advantage of offering few distractions. Except for Mr. Blatherwick and a weird freak who came up from Dover on Tuesdays and Fridays to teach French, he saw nobody.
It was about five weeks from the beginning of term that the even river of life at Harrow House became ruffled for the new assistant-master.
I want you to follow me very closely here. As far as the excusing of James's conduct is concerned, it is now or never. If I fail at this point to touch you, I have shot my bolt.
Let us marshal the facts.
In the first place it was a perfectly ripping morning.
Moreover, he had received at breakfast a letter from the editor of a monthly magazine accepting a short story.
This had never happened to him before.
He was twenty-two.
And, just as he rounded the angle of the house, he came upon Violet, taking the air like himself.
Violet was one of the housemaids, a trim, energetic little person with round blue eyes and a friendly smile. She smiled at James now. James halted.
"Good morning, sir," said Violet.
From my list of contributory causes I find that I have omitted one item-viz., that there did not appear to be anybody else about.
James looked meditatively at Violet. Violet looked smilingly at James. The morning was just as ripping as it had been a moment before. James was still twenty-two. And the editor's letter had not ceased to crackle in his breast-pocket.
Consequently James stooped, and-in a purely brotherly way-kissed Violet.
This, of course, was wrong. In was no part of James's duties as assistant-master at Harrow House to wander about bestowing brotherly kisses on housemaids. On the other hand, there was no great harm done. In the circles in which Violet moved the kiss was equivalent to the hand-shake of loftier society. Everybody who came to the back door kissed Violet. The carrier did; so did the grocer, the baker, the butcher, the gardener, the postman, the policeman, and the fishmonger. They were men of widely differing views on most points. On religion, politics, and the prospects of the entrants for the three o'clock race their opinions clashed. But in one respect they were unanimous. Whenever they came to the back door of Harrow House they all kissed Violet.
"I've had a story accepted by the Universal Magazine," said James, casually.
"Have you, sir?" said Violet.
"It's a pretty good magazine. I shall probably do a great deal for it from time to time. The editor seems a decent chap."
"Does he, sir?"
"I sha'n't tie myself up in any way, of course, unless I get very good terms. But I shall certainly let him see a good lot of my stuff. Jolly morning, isn't it?"
He strolled on; and Violet, having sniffed the air for a few more minutes with her tip-tilted nose, went indoors to attend to her work.
Five minues later James, back in the atmosphere of chalk, was writing on the blackboard certain sentences for his class to turn into Latin prose. A somewhat topical note ran through them. As thus:-
"The uncle of Balbus wished him to tend sheep in the Colonies (Provincia)."
"Balbus said that England was good enough for him (placeo)."
"Balbus sent a story (versus) to Mæcenas, who replied that he hoped to use it in due course."
His mind had floated away from the classroom when a shrill voice brought him back.
"Sir, please, sir, what does 'in due course' mean?"
James reflected. "Alter it to 'immediately,' " he said.
"Balbus is a great man," he wrote on the blackboard.
Two minutes later he was in the office of an important magazine, and there was a look of relief on the editor's face, for James had practically promised to do a series of twelve short stories for him.
It has been well observed that when a writer has a story rejected he should send that story to another editor, but that when he has one accepted he should send another story to that editor. Acting on this excellent plan, James, being off duty for an hour after tea, smoked a pipe in his bedroom and settled down to work on a second effort for the Universal.
He was getting on rather well when his flow of ideas was broken by a knock on the door.
"Come in," yelled James. (Your author is notoriously irritable.)
The new-comer was Adolf. Adolf was one of that numerous band of Swiss and German youths who come to this country prepared to give their services ridiculously cheap in exchange for the opportunity of learning the English language. Mr. Blatherwick held the view that for a private school a male front-door opener was superior to a female, arguing that the parents of prospective pupils would be impressed by the sight of a man in livery. He would have liked something a bit more imposing than Adolf, but the latter was the showiest thing that could be got for the money, so he made the best of it, and engaged him. After all, an astigmatic parent, seeing Adolf in a dim light, might be impressed by him. You never could tell.
"Well?" said James, glaring.
"Anysing, vrom dze fillage, sare?"
The bulk of Adolf's perquisites consisted of the tips he received for going to the general store down the road for tobacco, stamps, and so on. "No. Get out," growled James, turning to his work.
He was surprised to find that Adolf, so far from getting out, came in and shut the door.
"Zst!" said Adolf, with a finger on his lips.
James stared.
"In dze garten zis morning," proceeded his visitor, grinning like a gargoyle, "I did zee you giss Violed. Zo!"
James's heart missed a beat. Considered purely as a situation, his present posi
tion was not ideal. He had to work hard, and there was not much money attached to the job. But it was what the situation stood for that counted. It was his little rock of safety in the midst of a surging ocean of West Australian
sheep. Once let him lose his grip on it, and there was no chance for him. He would be swept away beyond hope of return.
"What do you mean?" he said, hoarsely.
"In dze garten. I you vrom a window did zee. You und Violed. Zo!" And Adolf, in the worst taste, gave a realistic imitation of the scene, himself sustaining the rôle of James.
James said nothing. The whole world seemed to be filled with a vast baa-ing, as of countless flocks.
"Lizzun!" said Adolf. "Berhaps I Herr Blazzervig dell. Berhaps not I do. Zo!"
James roused himself. At all costs he must placate this worm. Mr. Blatherwick was an austere man. He would not overlook such a crime.
He appealed to the other's chivalry.
"What about Violet?" he said. "Surely you don't want to lose the poor girl her job? They'd be bound to sack her, too."
Adolf's eyes gleamed.
"Zo? Lizzun! When I do gom virst here, I myself do to giss Violed vunce vish. But she do push dze zide of my face, and my lof is durned to hate."
James listened attentively to this tabloid tragedy, but made no comment.
"Anysing vrom dze fillage, sare?"
Adolf's voice was meaning. James produced a half-crown.
"Here you are, then. Get me half a dozen stamps and keep the change."
"Zdamps? Yes, sure At vunce."'
"James's last impression of the departing one was of a vast and greasy grin, stretching most of the way across his face.
Adolf, as blackmailer, in which rôle he now showed himself, differed in some respects from the conventional blackmailer of fiction. It may be that he was doubtful as to how much James would stand, or it may be that his soul as a general rule was above money. At any rate, in actual specie he took very little from his victim. He seemed to wish to be sent to the village oftener than before, but that was all. Half a crown a week would have covered James's financial loss.
But he asserted himself in another way. In his most lighthearted moments Adolf never forgot the reason which had brought him to England. He had come to the country to learn the language, and he meant to do it. The difficulty which had always handicapped him hitherto-namely, the poverty of the vocabularies of those in the servants' quarters-was now removed. He appointed James tutor-in-chief of the English language to himself, and saw that he entered upon his duties at once.
