Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  “Yes, but for you alone.”

  “Not at all. It is my property, and I will make any use of it I like.”

  “Please do not show it to any one,” he said very earnestly.

  “I promise nothing. It is mine to dispose of as I see fit.”

  “Let me look over it at least — I am sure it is full of bad English, and there are lots of words left out, and the punctuation is erratic. Give me that chance.”

  “No. I will not. You can do it on the proof. You are always telling me of what you do on the proofs of things.”

  “Constance! For Heaven’s sake give it back to me and think no more about it.”

  “Do you love me?”

  “You know I do — —”

  “And do you want me to love you? — I may, you know.”

  “I want nothing else — but, Constance, I beg of you — —”

  “Then apply your gigantic intellect to the contemplation of what concerns you. To be short, mind your own business, and go home.”

  “Please — —”

  “If you are not gone before I count five, I shall hate you. I am beginning — one — two — —”

  “Well, there is one satisfaction,” said George, abandoning the contest, “if you send it to a publisher to read, you will never see it again, nor hear of it.”

  “I will stand over him while he reads it,” said Constance, laughing. “If you are good you can take me to the carriage — if not, go away.”

  George walked by her side and helped her into the brougham that waited for her a short distance from the place where they had sat. He was utterly overcome by the novelty of the situation and did not even attempt to speak.

  “It is a great book,” said Constance, speaking through the open window after he had shut the door. “Tell him to go home.”

  “I do not care a straw what it is, so long as it has pleased you. Home, John!”

  “Yes sir.”

  And away the carriage rolled. Constance had not determined what she should do with her prize, but she was not long in making up her mind. George had often spoken of his friend Johnson, and had shown her articles written by him. It struck her that he would be the very person to whom she might apply for help. George would never suspect her of having gone to him and, from all accounts, he was an extremely reticent and judicious personage. She told the coachman to drive her to the office of the newspaper to which Johnson belonged and to beguile the time she began to read the manuscript over again from the beginning. When the carriage stopped she did not know that she had been driving for more than an hour since she had left George standing in the road in the Park.

  CHAPTER X.

  CONSTANCE DID NOT find Johnson without asking her way many times, and losing it nearly as often, in the huge new building which was the residence and habitation of the newspaper. Nor did her appearance fail to excite surprise and admiration in the numerous reporters, messengers and other members of the establishment who had glimpses of her as she passed rapidly on, from corridor to corridor. It happened that Johnson was in the room allotted to his department, which was not always the case at that hour, for he did much of his work at his home.

  “Come in!” he said sharply, without looking up from his writing. “Well — what is it? Oh!” as he saw Miss Fearing standing before him. “I beg your pardon, madam!”

  “Are you Mr. Johnson? Am I disturbing you?” Constance asked. She was beginning to be surprised at her own audacity, and almost wished she had not come.

  “Yes madam. My name is Johnson, and my time is at your service,” said the pale young man, moving forward his best chair and offering it to her.

  “Thank you. I will not trouble you long. I have here a novel in manuscript — —”

  Johnson interrupted her promptly.

  “Excuse me, madam, but to avoid all misunderstanding, I should tell you frankly from the first that we never publish fiction — —”

  “No, of course not,” Constance broke in. “Let me tell my story.”

  Johnson bowed his head and assumed an attitude of attention.

  “A friend of yours,” the young girl continued, “has written this book. His name is Mr. George Winton Wood — —”

  “I know him very well.” Johnson wondered why George had not come himself, and wondered especially how he happened to dispose of so young and beautiful an ambassadress.

  “Yes — he has often told me about you,” said Constance. “Very well. He has written this novel, and I have read it. He thinks it is not worth publishing, and I think it is. I want to ask a great favour of you. Will you read it yourself?”

  The pale young man hesitated. He was intensely conscientious, and he feared there was something queer about the business.

  “Pardon me,” he said, “does Mr. Wood know that you have brought it to me?”

  “No indeed! I would not have him know it for the world!”

  “Then I would rather not — —”

  “But you must!” Constance exclaimed energetically. “It is splendid, and he wants to burn it. It will make his reputation in a day — I assure you it will! And besides, I would not promise him not to show it. Please, please, Mr. Johnson — —”

  “Well, if you are quite sure there is no promise — —”

  “Oh, quite, quite sure. And will you give me your opinion very soon? If you begin to read it you will not be able to lay it down.”

  Johnson smiled as he thought of the hundreds of manuscripts he had read for publishers. He had never found much difficulty in laying aside any of them.

  “It is true,” Constance insisted. “It is a great book. There has been nothing like it for ever so many years.”

  “Very well, madam. Give me the screed and I will read it. When shall I send — or would you rather — —”

  He stopped, not knowing whether she wished to give her name. Constance hesitated, too, and blushed faintly.

  “I am Miss Fearing,” she said. “I live in Washington Square. Will you write down the address? Come and see me — or are you too busy?”

  “I will bring you the manuscript the day after to-morrow, Miss Fearing.”

  “Oh please, yes. Not later, because I cannot go out of town until I know — I mean, I want to go to Newport as soon as possible. Come after five. Will you? I mean if it is not giving you really too much trouble — —”

  “Not in the least, Miss Fearing,” said the pale young man with alacrity. He was thinking that for the sake of conversing a quarter of an hour with such an exceedingly amiable young lady, he would put himself to vastly more trouble than was involved in stopping at Washington Square on his way up town in the afternoon.

  “Thank you. You are so kind. Good-bye, Mr. Johnson.” She held out her hand, but Johnson seized his hat and prepared to accompany her.

  “Let me take you to the Elevated, Miss Fearing,” he said.

  “Thank you very much, but I have a carriage downstairs,” said Constance. “If you would show me the way — it is so very complicated.”

  “Certainly, Miss Fearing.”

  Constance wondered why he repeated her name so often, whether it was a habit he had, or whether he was nervous, or whether he thought it good manners. She was not so much impressed with him at first sight as she had expected to be. He had not said anything at all clever, though it was true that there had not been many opportunities for wit in the conversation that had taken place. He belonged to a type with which she was not familiar, and she could not help asking herself whether George had other friends like him, who, if she knew them, would call her by her name half a dozen times in three minutes, and if he had many of them whether, in the event of her marrying him, she would be expected to know them all and to like them for his sake. Not that there was anything common or vulgar about this Johnson whom George praised so much. He spoke quietly, without any especial accent, and quite without affectation. He was dressed with perfect simplicity and good taste, there was nothing awkward in his manner — indeed Constance vag
uely wished that he might have shown some little awkwardness or shyness. He was evidently a man of the highest education, and George said he was a man of the highest intelligence, but as Constance gave him her hand and he closed the door of the brougham, the impression came over her with startling vividness, that Mr. Johnson was emphatically not a man she would ask to dinner. She felt sure that if she met him in society she should feel a vague surprise at his being there, though she might find it impossible to say why he should not. On the other hand, though she was aware that she put herself in his power to some extent, since it was impossible that he should not guess that her interest in George Wood was the result of something at least a little stronger than ordinary friendship, yet she very much preferred to trust this stranger rather than to confide in any of the men she knew in society, not excepting John Bond himself.

  At five o’clock on the day agreed upon, Constance was informed that “a gentleman, a Mr. Johnson,” had called, saying that he came by appointment.

  “You are so kind,” said Constance, as he sat down opposite to her. He held the manuscript in his hand. “And what do you think of it? Am I not right?”

  “I am very much surprised,” said the pale young man. “It is a remarkable book, Miss Fearing, and it ought to be published at once.”

  Constance had felt sure of the answer, but she blushed with pleasure, a fact which did not escape Johnson’s quiet scrutiny.

  “You really think Mr. Wood has talent?” she asked, for the sake of hearing another word of praise.

  “There is more talent in one of his pages than in the whole aggregate works of half a dozen ordinarily successful writers,” Johnson answered with emphasis.

  “I am so glad you think so — so glad. And what is the first thing to be done in order to get this published? You see, I must ask your help, now that you have given your opinion.”

  “Will you leave the matter in my hands, Miss Fearing?”

  Constance hesitated. There was assuredly no one who would be more likely to do the proper thing in the matter, and yet she reflected that she knew nothing or next to nothing of the man before her, except from George’s praise of his intelligence.

  “Suppose that a publisher accepts the book,” she said warily, “what will he give Mr. Wood for it?”

  “Ten per cent on the advertised retail price,” Johnson answered promptly.

  “Of every copy sold, I suppose,” said Constance, who had a remarkably good head for business. “That is not much, is it? And besides, how is one to know that the publisher is honest? One hears such dreadful stories about those people.”

  Johnson laughed a little.

  “Faith is the evidence of things unseen, supported by reasonable and punctual payments,” he said. “Publishers are not all Cretans, Miss Fearing. There be certain just men among them who have reputations to lose.”

  “And none of them would do better than that by the book? But of course you know. Have you ever published anything yourself? Forgive my ignorance — —”

  “I once published a volume of critical essays,” Johnson answered.

  “What was the title? I must read it — please tell me.”

  “It is not worth the trouble, I assure you. The title was that — Critical Essays by William Johnson.”

  “Thank you, I will remember. And will you really do your very best for Mr. Wood’s book? Do you think it could be published in a fortnight?”

  “A fortnight!” exclaimed Johnson, aghast at Constance’s ignorance. “Three months would be the shortest time possible.”

  “Three months! Dear me, what a length of time!”

  Johnson rapidly explained as well as he could the principal reasons why it takes longer to publish a book than to write one. He exchanged a few more words with Constance, promising to make every effort to push on the appearance of the novel, but advising her to expect no news whatever for several months. Then he took his leave.

  Half an hour later Constance was at her bookseller’s.

  “I want a book called Critical Essays, by William Johnson,” she said. “Have you got it, Mr. Popples?”

  She waited some time before it was brought to her. Then she pretended to look through it carefully, examining the headings of the papers that were collected in it.

  “Is it worth reading?” she asked carelessly.

  “Excellent, Miss Fearing,” answered the grey-haired professional bookseller. He had known Constance since she had been a mere child with a passion for Mr. Walter Crane’s picture-books. “Excellent,” he repeated, emphatically. “A little dry perhaps, but truly excellent.”

  “Has it been a success, do you know?”

  “Yes, I know, Miss Fearing,” answered Mr. Popples, with a meaning smile. “I know very well. I happen to know that it did not pay for the printing.”

  “Did the author not even get ten per cent on the advertised retail price?” Constance inquired.

  Mr. Popples stared at her for a moment, evidently wondering where she had picked up the phrase. He immediately suspected her of having perpetrated a literary misdeed in one volume.

  “No, Miss Fearing. I happen to know that Mr. Johnson did not get ten per cent on the advertised retail price of his book; in point of fact, he got nothing at all for it, excepting a number of very flattering notices. But excuse me, Miss Fearing, if you were thinking of venturing upon publishing anything — —” His voice dropped to a confidential pitch.

  “I?” exclaimed Constance.

  “Well, Miss Fearing, it could be done very discreetly, you know. Just a little volume of sweet verse? Is that it, Miss Fearing? Now, you know, that kind of thing would have a run in society, and if you would like to put it into my hands, I know a publisher — —”

  “But, Mr. Popples,” interrupted Constance, recovering from her amusement so far as to be able to interrupt the current of the bookseller’s engaging offers, “I never wrote anything in my life. I asked out of sheer curiosity.”

  Mr. Popples smiled blandly, without the least appearance of disappointment.

  “Well, well, Miss Fearing, you are quite right,” he said. “In point of fact those little literary ventures of young ladies very rarely do come to much, do they? To misquote the Laureate, Miss Fearing, we might say that ‘Men must write and women must read’! Eh, Miss Fearing?”

  The old fellow chuckled at his bad joke, as he wrapped up the volume of Critical Essays by William Johnson, and handed it across the table. There were only tables in Mr. Popples’s establishment; he despised counters.

  “Anything else to serve you, Miss Fearing? A novel or two, for the May weather? No? Let me take it to your carriage.”

  “Thanks. I am walking, but I will carry it. Good evening.”

  “Good evening, Miss Fearing. Your parasol is here. Walking this evening! In the May weather! Good evening, Miss Fearing.”

  And Mr. Popples bowed his favourite customer out of his establishment, with a very kindly look in his tired old spectacled eyes.

  Constance had got what she had come for. If William Johnson, author of Critical Essays, a journalist and a man presumably acquainted with all the ins and outs of publishing, had made nothing by his successful book, George would be doing very well in obtaining ten per cent on the advertised retail price of every copy of his novel which was sold. Constance had been mistaken when she had doubted Johnson, but she did not regret her doubt in the least. After all, she had undertaken the responsibility of George’s book, and she could not conscientiously believe everything she was told by strangers concerning its chances. Mr. Popples, however, was above suspicion, and had, moreover, no reason for telling that the Critical Essays had brought their author no remuneration. Johnson’s face, too, inspired confidence, as well as George’s own trust in him. Constance felt that she had done all she could, and she accordingly made her preparations for going out of town.

  She was glad to get away, in order to study herself. The habit of introspection had grown upon her, for she had encouraged herself in
it, ever since she had begun to feel that George was something more to her than a friend. Her over-conscientious nature feared to make some mistake which might embitter his life as well as her own. She was in constant dread of letting herself be carried away by the impulse of a moment to say something that might bind her to marry him, before she could feel that she loved him wholly as she wished to love him. On looking back, she bitterly regretted having allowed him to kiss her cheek on that morning in the Park. She had been under the influence of a strong emotion, produced by the conclusion of his book, and she seemed in her own eyes to have acted in a way quite unworthy of herself. Had she been able to carry her analysis further, she would have discovered that behind her distrust of herself she felt a lingering distrust of George. A year earlier she had thought it possible that he was strongly attracted by her fortune. Now, however, she would have scouted the idea, if it had presented itself in that shape. But it was present, nevertheless, in a more subtle form.

  “He loves me sincerely,” she said to herself. “He would marry me now, if I were a pauper. But would he have loved me from the first if I had been poor?”

  It was not often that she put the question, even in this way, but as it belonged to that class of vicious inquiries which it is impossible to answer, it tormented her perpetually by suggesting a whole series of doubts, useless in themselves and mischievous in their consequences. She was convinced of two things. First, that she was unaccountably influenced by George’s presence to say and do things which she was determined at other times that she would never say or do; and, secondly, that whether she loved him truly or not she could not imagine herself as loving any one else nearly so much. Under these circumstances, it was clearly better that she should not see him for a considerable time. She would thus withdraw herself from the sphere of his direct influence, and she would have leisure to study and weigh her own feelings, with a view to reaching a final decision. Nevertheless she looked forward to the moment of parting from him with something that was very like pain. Contrary to her expectations, the interview passed off with little show of emotion on either side.