Chapter 20
NORAH WINS HOME_(Sidney Price's narrative continued)_
My signed work had run out. For two weeks nothinghad been printed over my signature. So far no comment had been raised.But it was only a question of days. But then one afternoon it all cameright. It was like this.
I was sitting eating my lunch at Eliza's in Birchin Lane. Twentyminutes was the official allowance for the meal, and I took my twentyminutes at two o'clock. The _St. Stephen's Gazette_ was lying nearme. I picked it up. Anything to distract my thoughts from the troubleto come. That was how I felt. Reading mechanically the front page, Isaw a poem, and started violently. This was the poem:--
A CRY
Hands at the tiller to steer: A star in the murky sky: Water and waste of mere: Whither and why?
Sting of absorbent night: Journey of weal or woe: And overhead the light: We go--we go?
Darkness a mortal's part, Mortals of whom we are: Come to a mortal's heart, Immortal star.
_Thos. Blake._ _June 6th._
"Rummy, very rummy," I exclaimed. The poem was dated yesterday. HadMr. Cloyster, then, continued to work his system with Thomas Blake tothe exclusion of the Reverend and myself?
Still worrying over the thing, I turned over the pages of the paperuntil I chanced to see the following paragraph:
LITERARY GOSSIP
Few will be surprised to learn that the Rev. John Hatton intends to publish another novel in the immediate future. Mr. Hatton's first book, _When It Was Lurid_, created little less than a furore. The work on which he is now engaged, which will bear the title of _The Browns of Brixton_, is a tender sketch of English domesticity. This new vein of Mr. Hatton's will, doubtless, be distinguished by the naturalness of dialogue and sanity of characterisation of his first novel. Messrs. Prodder and Way are to publish it in the autumn.
"He's running the Reverend again, is he?" said I to myself. "And I'mthe only one left out. It's a bit thick."
That night I wrote to Blake and to the Reverend asking whether they hadbeen taken on afresh, and if so, couldn't I get a look in, as thingswere pretty serious.
The Reverend's reply arrived first:
THE TEMPLE, _June 7th._
_Dear Price_,--
As you have seen, I am hard at work at my new novel. The leisure of a novelist is so scanty that I know you'll forgive my writing only a line. I am in no way associated with James Orlebar Cloyster, nor do I wish to be. Rather I would forget his very existence.
You are aware of the interests which I have at heart: social reform, the education of the submerged, the physical needs of the young--there is no necessity for me to enumerate my ideals further. To get quick returns from philanthropy, to put remedial organisation into speedy working order wants capital. Cloyster's system was one way of obtaining some of it, but when that failed I had to look out for another. I'm glad I helped in the system, for it made me realise how large an income a novelist can obtain. I'm glad it failed because its failure suggested that I should try to get for myself those vast sums which I had been getting for the selfish purse of an already wealthy man. Unconsciously, he has played into my hands. I read his books before I signed them, and I find that I have thoroughly absorbed those tricks of his, of style and construction, which opened the public's coffers to him. _The Browns of Brixton_ will eclipse anything that Cloyster has previously done, for this reason, that it will out-Cloyster Cloyster. It is Cloyster with improvements.
In thus abducting his novel-reading public I shall feel no compunction. His serious verse and his society dialogues bring him in so much that he cannot be in danger of financial embarrassment.
_Yours sincerely, John Hatton_.
Now this letter set my brain buzzing like the engine of a stationaryVanguard. I, too, had been in the habit of reading Mr. Cloyster'sdialogues before I signed and sent them off. I had often thought tomyself, also, that they couldn't take much writing, that it was all aknack; and the more I read of them the more transparent the knackappeared to me to be. Just for a lark, I sat down that very evening andhad a go at one. Taking the Park for my scene, I made two or threetheatrical celebrities whose names I had seen in the newspapers talkabout a horse race. At least, one talked about a horse race, and theothers thought she was gassing about a new musical comedy, the name ofthe play being the same as the name of the horse, "The Oriental Belle."A very amusing muddle, with lots of _doubles entendres_, and heapsof adverbial explanation in small print. Such as:
Miss Adeline Genee (with the faint, incipient blush which Mrs. Adair uses to test her Rouge Imperial).
That sort of thing.
I had it typed, and I said, "Price, my boy, there's more Mr. Cloysterin this than ever Mr. Cloyster could have put into it." And the editorof the _Strawberry Leaf_ printed it next issue as a matter ofcourse. I say, "as a matter of course" with intention, because thefellows at the "Moon" took it as a matter of course, too. You see, whenit first appeared, I left the copy about the desk in the New BusinessRoom, hoping Tommy Milner or some of them would rush up andcongratulate me. But they didn't. They simply said, "Don't litter theplace up, old man. Keep your papers, if you _must_ bring 'em here,in your locker downstairs." One of them _did_ say, I fancy,something about its "not being quite up to my usual." They didn't knowit was my maiden effort at original composition, and I couldn't tellthem. It was galling, you'll admit.
However, I quickly forgot my own troubles in wondering what Mr.Cloyster was doing. No editor, I foresaw, would accept his societystuff as long as mine was in the market. They wouldn't pay for Cloysterwhilst they were offered the refusal of super-Cloyster. Wasn't likely.You must understand I wasn't over-easy in my conscience about theaffair. I had, in a manner of speaking, pinched Mr. Cloyster's job. Butthen, I argued to myself, he was earning quite as much as was good forany one man by his serious verse.
And at that very minute our slavey, little Ethelbertina, knocked at mybedroom door and gave me a postcard. It was addressed to me in thick,straggly writing, and was so covered with thumb-marks that a Bertillonexpert would have gone straight off his nut at the sight of it. "Myusbend," began the postcard, "as received yourn. E as no truk wif theother man E is a pots imself an e can do a job of potry as orfen as e'as a mine to your obegent servent Ada Blake. P.S. me an is ole ant dois writin up for im."
So then I saw how that "Cry" thing in the _St. Stephen's_ had comethere.
* * * * *
You heard me give my opinion about telling Norah my past life. Well,you'll agree with me now that there's practically nothing to tell her.
There _is_, of course, little Miss Richards, the waitress in thesmoking-room of the Piccadilly Cabin. Her, I mean, with the fuzzygolden hair done low. You've often exchanged "Good evening" with her,I'm sure. Her hair's done low: she used to make rather a point oftelling me that. Why, I don't know, especially as it was always tidyand well off her shoulders.
And then there was the haughty lady who sold programmes in theHaymarket Amphitheatre--but she's got the sack, so Cookson informs me.
Therefore, as I shall tell Norah plainly that I disapprove of theCabin, the past can hatch no egg of discord in the shape of theCast-Off Glove.
The only thing that I can think of as needing suppression is the part Iplayed in Mr. Cloyster's system.
There's no doubt that the Reverend, Blake and I have, between us, put afairly considerable spoke in Mr. Cloyster's literary wheel. But what amI to do? To begin with, it's no use my telling Norah about the affair,because it would do her no good, and might tend possibly to lessen hervaluation of my capabilities. At present, my dialogues dazzle her; andonce your _fiancee_ is dazzled the basis of matrimonial happinessis assured. Again, looking at it from Mr. Cloyster's point of view,what good would it be to him if I
were to stop writing? Both the editorand the public have realised by now that his work is only second-rate.He can never hope to get a tenth of his original prices, even if hiswork is accepted, which it won't be; for directly I leave his marketclear, someone else will collar it slap off.
Besides, I've no right to stop my dialogues. My duty to Norah isgreater than my duty to Mr. Cloyster. Unless I continue to be paid byliterature I shall not be able to marry Norah until three years nextquarter. The "Moon" has passed a rule about it, and an official whomarries on an income not larger than eighty pounds per annum is liableto dismissal without notice.
Norah's mother wouldn't let her wait three years, and though fellowshave been known to have had a couple of kids at the time of theirofficial marriage, I personally couldn't stand the wear and tear ofthat hole-and-corner business. It couldn't be done.
_(End of Sidney Price's narrative_.)
Julian Eversleigh's Narrative
Not George Washington — an Autobiographical Novel Page 23