Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  ‘Will,’ she said, ‘have you seen the new ponies papa gave me on my birthday?’

  Will leapt to his feet.

  ‘Come on, Greybrooke,’ he cried, making for the door.

  The captain hesitated.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said Nell, with a glance at him, ‘Mr. Greybrooke does not have much interest in horses?’

  ‘Doesn’t he just!’ said Will; ‘why — —’

  ‘No,’ said Greybrooke; ‘but I’ll wait here for you, Abinger.’

  Will was staggered. For a moment the horrible thought passed through his mind that these girls had got hold of the captain. Then he remembered.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘Nell won’t mind.’

  But Greybrooke had a delicious notion that the young lady wanted to see him by himself, and Will had to go to the stables alone.

  ‘I won’t be long,’ he said to Greybrooke, apologising for leaving him alone with a girl. ‘Don’t bother him too much,’ he whispered to Nell at the door.

  As soon as Will had disappeared Nell turned to Greybrooke.

  ‘Mr. Greybrooke,’ she said, speaking rapidly in a voice so low that it was a compliment to him in itself, ‘there is something I should like you to do for me.’

  The captain flushed with pleasure.

  ‘There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you,’ he stammered.

  ‘I want you,’ continued Miss Meredith, with a most vindictive look on her face, ‘to find out for me who wrote a book review in to-day’s Mirror, and to — to — oh, to thrash him.’

  ‘All right,’ said the captain, rising and looking for his hat.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Nell, glancing at him admiringly. ‘The book is called The Scorn of Scorns, and it is written by — by a friend of mine. In to-day’s Mirror it is called the most horrid names, sickly sentimental, not even grammatical, and all that.’

  ‘The cads!’ cried Greybrooke.

  ‘But the horribly mean, wicked thing about it,’ continued Nell, becoming more and more indignant as she told her story, ‘is that not two months ago there was a review of the book in the same paper, which said it was the most pathetic and thoughtful and clever tale that had ever been published by an anonymous author!’

  ‘It’s the lowest thing I ever heard of,’ said Greybrooke, ‘but these newspaper men are all the same.’

  ‘No, they’re not,’ said Nell sharply (Richard Abinger, Esq.’s, only visible means of sustenance was the press), ‘but they are dreadfully mean, contemptible creatures on the Mirror — just reporters, you know.’

  Greybrooke nodded, though he knew nothing about it.

  ‘The first review,’ Nell continued, ‘appeared on the 3rd of October, and I want you to show them both to the editor, and insist upon knowing the name of the writer. After that find the wretch out, and — —’

  ‘And lick him,’ said the captain.

  His face frightened Nell.

  ‘You won’t hit him very hard?’ she asked apprehensively, adding as an afterthought, ‘perhaps he is stronger than you.’

  Greybrooke felt himself in an unfortunate position. He could not boast before Nell, but he wished very keenly that Will was there to boast for him. Most of us have experienced the sensation.

  Nell having undertaken to keep Will employed until the captain’s return, Greybrooke set off for the Mirror office with a look of determination on his face. He went into two shops, the one a news-shop, where he bought a copy of the paper. In the other he asked for a thick stick, having remembered that the elegant cane he carried was better fitted for swinging in the air than for breaking a newspaper man’s head. He tried the stick on a paling. Greybrooke felt certain that Miss Meredith was the novelist. That was why he selected so thick a weapon.

  He marched into the advertising office, and demanded to see the editor of the Mirror.

  ‘‘Stairs,’ said a clerk, with his head in a ledger. He meant upstairs, and the squire of dames took his advice. After wandering for some time in a labyrinth of dark passages, he opened the door of the day composing-room, in which half a dozen silent figures were bending over their cases.

  ‘I want the editor,’ said Greybrooke, somewhat startled by the sound his voice made in the great room.

  ‘‘Stairs,’ said one of the figures, meaning downstairs.

  Greybrooke, remembering who had sent him here, did not lose heart. He knocked at several doors, and then pushed them open. All the rooms were empty. Then he heard a voice saying —

  ‘Who are you? What do you want?’

  Mr. Licquorish was the speaker, and he had been peering at the intruder for some time through a grating in his door. He would not have spoken at all, but he wanted to go into the composing-room, and Greybrooke was in the passage that led to it.

  ‘I don’t see you,’ said the captain; ‘I want the editor.’

  ‘I am the editor,’ said the voice, ‘but I can see no one at present except on business.’

  ‘I am here on business,’ said Greybrooke. ‘I want to thrash one of your staff.’

  ‘All the members of my literary staff are engaged at present,’ said Mr. Licquorish, in a pleasant voice; ‘which one do you want?’

  ‘I want the low cad who wrote a review of a book called The Scorn of Scorns, in to-day’s paper.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Mr. Licquorish.

  ‘I demand his name,’ cried Greybrooke.

  The editor made no answer. He had other things to do than to quarrel with schoolboys. As he could not get out he began a leaderette. The visitor, however, had discovered the editorial door now, and was shaking it violently.

  ‘Why don’t you answer me?’ he cried.

  Mr. Licquorish thought for a moment of calling down the speaking-tube which communicated with the advertisement office for a clerk to come and take this youth away, but after all he was good-natured. He finished a sentence, and then opened the door. The captain strode in, but refused a chair.

  ‘Are you the author of the book?’ the editor asked.

  ‘No,’ said Greybrooke, ‘but I am her friend, and I am here to thrash — —’

  Mr. Licquorish held up his hand to stop the flow of the captain’s indignation. He could never understand why the public got so excited over these little matters.

  ‘She is a Silchester lady?’ he asked.

  Greybrooke did not know how to reply to this. He was not sure whether Nell wanted the authorship revealed.

  ‘That has nothing to do with the matter,’ he said. ‘I want the name of the writer who has libelled her.’

  ‘On the press,’ said Mr. Licquorish, repeating some phrases which he kept for such an occasion as the present, ‘we have a duty to the public to perform. When books are sent us for review we never allow prejudice or private considerations to warp our judgment. The Mirror has in consequence a reputation for honesty that some papers do not possess. Now I distinctly remember that this book, The Vale of Tears — —’

  ‘The Scorn of Scorns.’

  ‘I mean The Scorn of Scorns, was carefully considered by the expert to whom it was given for review. Being honestly of opinion that the treatise — —’

  ‘It is a novel.’

  ‘That the novel is worthless, we had to say so. Had it been clever, we should — —’

  Mr. Licquorish paused, reading in the other’s face that there was something wrong. Greybrooke had concluded that the editor had forgotten about the first review.

  ‘Can you show me a copy of the Mirror,’ the captain asked, ‘for October 3rd?’

  Mr. Licquorish turned to the file, and Greybrooke looked over his shoulder.

  ‘There it is!’ cried the captain indignantly.

  They read the original notice together. It said that, if The Scorn of Scorns was written by a new writer, his next story would be looked for with great interest. It ‘could not refrain from quoting the following exquisitely tender passage.’ It found the earlier pages ‘as refreshing as a spring morning,’ and the closing chapters were a trium
ph of ‘the art that conceals art.’

  ‘Well, what have you to say to that?’ asked Greybrooke fiercely.

  ‘A mistake,’ said the editor blandly. ‘Such things do happen occasionally.’

  ‘You shall make reparation for it!’

  ‘Hum,’ said Mr Licquorish.

  ‘The insult,’ cried Greybrooke, ‘must have been intentional.’

  ‘No. I fancy the authoress must be to blame for this. Did she send a copy of the work to us?’

  ‘I should think it very unlikely,’ said Greybrooke, fuming.

  ‘Not at all,’ said the editor, ‘especially if she is a Silchester lady.’

  ‘What would make her do that?’

  ‘It generally comes about in this way. The publishers send a copy of the book to a newspaper, and owing to pressure on the paper’s space, no notice appears for some time. The author, who looks for it daily, thinks that the publishers have neglected their duty, and sends a copy to the office himself. The editor, forgetful that he has had a notice of the book lying ready for printing for months, gives the second copy to another reviewer. By and by the first review appears, but owing to an oversight the editor does not take note of it, and after a time, unless his attention is called to the matter, the second review appears also. Probably that is the explanation in this case.’

  ‘But such carelessness on a respectable paper is incomprehensible,’ said the captain.

  The editor was looking up his books to see if they shed any light on the affair, but he answered —

  ‘On the contrary, it is an experience known to most newspapers. Ah, I have it!’

  Mr. Licquorish read out, ‘The Scorn of Scorns, received September 1st, reviewed October 3rd.’ Several pages farther on he discovered, ‘The Scorn of Scorns, received September 24th, reviewed December 19th.’

  ‘You will find,’ he said, ‘that this explains it.’

  ‘I don’t consider the explanation satisfactory,’ replied the captain, ‘and I insist, first, upon an apology in the paper, and second, on getting the name of the writer of the second review.’

  ‘I am busy this morning,’ said Mr. Licquorish, opening his door, ‘and what you ask is absurd. If the authoress can give me her word that she did not send the book and so bring this upon herself, we shall insert a word on the subject but not otherwise. Good-morning.’

  ‘Give me the writer’s name,’ cried the captain.

  ‘We make a point of never giving names in that way,’ said Mr. Licquorish.

  ‘You have not heard the last of this,’ Greybrooke said from the doorway. ‘I shall make it my duty to ferret out the coward’s name, and — —’

  ‘Good-morning,’ Mr. Licquorish repeated.

  The captain went thumping down the stairs, and meeting a printer’s devil at the bottom, cuffed him soundly because he was part of the Mirror.

  To his surprise, Miss Meredith’s first remark when he returned was —

  ‘Oh, I hope you didn’t see him.’

  She looked at Greybrooke’s face, fearing it might be stained with blood, and when he told her the result of his inquiries she seemed pleased rather than otherwise. Nell was soft-hearted after all, and she knew how that second copy of the novel had reached the Mirror office.

  ‘I shall find the fellow out, though,’ said Greybrooke, grasping his cudgel firmly.

  ‘Why, you are as vindictive as if you had written the book yourself,’ said Nell.

  Greybrooke murmured, blushing the while, that an insult to her hurt him more than one offered to himself. Nell opened the eyes of astonishment.

  ‘You don’t think I wrote the book?’ she asked; then seeing that it was so from his face, added, ‘oh no, I’m not clever enough. It was written by — by a friend of mine.’

  Nell deserves credit for not telling Greybrooke who the friend was, for that was a secret. But there was reason to believe that she had already divulged it to twelve persons (all in the strictest confidence). When the captain returned she was explaining all about it by letter to Richard Abinger, Esq. Possibly that was why Greybrooke thought she was not nearly so nice to him now as she had been an hour before.

  Will was unusually quiet when he and Greybrooke said adieu to the whole family of Merediths. He was burning to know where the captain had been, and also what Nell called him back to say in such a low tone. What she said was —

  ‘Don’t say anything about going to the Mirror office, Mr. Greybrooke, to Miss Abinger.’

  The captain turned round to lift his hat, and at the same time expressed involuntarily a wish that Nell could see him punishing loose bowling.

  Mrs. Meredith beamed to him.

  ‘There is something very nice,’ she said to Nell, ‘about a polite young man.’

  ‘Yes,’ murmured her daughter, ‘and even if he isn’t polite.’

  CHAPTER V

  ROB MARCHES TO HIS FATE

  On the morning before Christmas a murder was committed in Silchester, and in murders there is ‘lineage.’ As a consequence, the head reporter attends to them himself. In the Mirror office the diary for the day was quickly altered. Kirker set off cheerfully for the scene of the crime, leaving the banquet in the Henry Institute to Tomlinson, who passed on his dinner at Dome Castle to Rob, whose church decorations were taken up by John Milton.

  Christmas Eve was coming on in snow when Rob and Walsh, of the Argus, set out for Dome Castle. Rob disliked doing dinners at any time, partly because he had not a dress suit. The dinner was an annual one given by Will’s father to his tenants, and reporters were asked because the colonel made a speech. His neighbours, when they did likewise, sent reports of their own speeches (which they seemed to like) to the papers; and some of them, having called themselves eloquent and justly popular, scored the compliments out, yet in such a way that the editor would still be able to read them, and print them if he thought fit. Rob did not look forward to Colonel Abinger’s reception of him, for they had met some months before, and called each other names.

  It was one day soon after Rob reached Silchester. He had gone a-fishing in the Dome and climbed unconsciously into preserved waters. As his creel grew heavier his back straightened; not until he returned home did the scenery impress him. He had just struck a fine fish, when a soldierly-looking man at the top of the steep bank caught sight of him.

  ‘Hi, you sir!’ shouted the onlooker. Whir went the line — there is no music like it. Rob was knee-deep in water. ‘You fellow!’ cried the other, brandishing his cane, ‘are you aware that this water is preserved?’ Rob had no time for talk. The colonel sought to attract his attention by flinging a pebble. ‘Don’t do that,’ cried Rob fiercely.

  Away went the fish. Away went Rob after it. Colonel Abinger’s face was red as he clambered down the bank. ‘I shall prosecute you,’ he shouted. ‘He’s gone to the bottom; fling in a stone!’ cried Rob. Just then the fish showed its yellow belly and darted off again. Rob let out more line. ‘No, no,’ shouted the colonel, who fished himself, ‘you lose him if he gets to the other side; strike, man, strike!’ The line tightened, the rod bent — a glorious sight. ‘Force him up stream,’ cried the colonel, rolling over boulders to assist. ‘Now, you have him. Bring him in. Where is your landing-net?’ ‘I haven’t one,’ cried Rob; ‘take him in your hands.’ The colonel stooped to grasp the fish and missed it. ‘Bungler!’ screamed Rob. This was too much. ‘Give me your name and address,’ said Colonel Abinger, rising to his feet; ‘you are a poacher.’ Rob paid no attention. There was a struggle. Rob did not realise that he had pushed his assailant over a rock until the fish was landed. Then he apologised, offered all his fish in lieu of his name and address, retired coolly so long as the furious soldier was in sight, and as soon as he turned a corner disappeared rapidly. He could not feel that this was the best introduction to the man with whom he was now on his way to dine.

  The reporter whose long strides made Walsh trot as they hurried to Dome Castle, was not quite the Rob of three months before. Now he knew
how a third-rate newspaper is conducted, and the capacity for wonder had gone from him. He was in danger of thinking that the journalist’s art is to write readably, authoritatively, and always in three paragraphs on a subject he knows nothing about. Rob had written many leaders, and followed readers through the streets wondering if they liked them. Once he had gone with three others to report a bishop’s sermon. A curate appeared instead, and when the reporters saw him they shut their notebooks and marched blandly out of the cathedral. A public speaker had tried to bribe Rob with two half-crowns, and it is still told in Silchester how the wrathful Scotsman tore his benefactor out of the carriage he had just stepped into, and, lifting him on high, looked round to consider against which stone wall he should hurl him. He had discovered that on the first of the month Mr. Licquorish could not help respecting his staff, because on that day he paid them. Socially Rob had acquired little. Protheroe had introduced him to a pleasant family, but he had sat silent in a corner, and they told the sub-editor not to bring him back. Most of the literary staff were youths trying to be Bohemians, who liked to feel themselves sinking, and they never scaled the reserve which walled Rob round. He had taken a sitting, however, in the Scotch church, to the bewilderment of the minister, who said, ‘But I thought you were a reporter?’ as if there must be a mistake somewhere.

  Walsh could tell Rob little of Colonel Abinger. He was a brave soldier, and for many years had been a widower. His elder son was a barrister in London, whom Silchester had almost forgotten, and Walsh fancied there was some story about the daughter’s being engaged to a baronet. There was also a boy, who had the other day brought the captain of his school to a Silchester football ground to show the club how to take a drop-kick.