One Day's Courtship, and The Heralds of Fame

Mrs. Lennox said afterward that she thought there was something very peculiar about Miss Sommerton’s smile in reply to her remark.

The Heralds of Fame

Chapter I

Now, when each man’s place in literature is so clearly defined, it seems ridiculous to state that there was a time when Kenan Buel thought J. Lawless Hodden a great novelist. One would have imagined that Buel’s keen insight into human nature would have made such a mistake impossible, but it must be remembered that Buel was always more or less of a hero-worshipper. It seems strange in the light of our after-knowledge that there ever was a day when Hodden’s books were selling by the thousand, and Buel was tramping the streets of London fruitlessly searching for a publisher. Not less strange is the fact that Buel thought Hodden’s success well deserved. He would have felt honoured by the touch of Hodden’s hand.

No convict ever climbed a treadmill with more hopeless despair than Buel worked in his little room under the lofty roof. He knew no one; there were none to speak to him a cheering or comforting word; he was ignorant even of the names of the men who accepted the articles from his pen, which appeared unsigned in the daily papers and in some of the weeklies. He got cheques—small ones—with illegible and impersonal signatures that told him nothing. But the bits of paper were honoured at the bank, and this lucky fact enabled him to live and write books which publishers would not look at.

Nevertheless, showing how all things are possible to a desperate and resolute man, two of his books had already seen the light, if it could be called light. The first he was still paying for, on the instalment plan. The publishers were to pay half, and he was to pay half. This seemed to him only a fair division of the risk at the time. Not a single paper had paid the slightest attention to the book. The universal ignoring of it disheartened him. He had been prepared for abuse, but not for impenetrable silence.

He succeeded in getting another and more respectable publisher to take up his next book on a royalty arrangement. This was a surprise to him, and a gratification. His satisfaction did not last long after the book came out. It was mercilessly slated. One paper advised him to read “Hodden;” another said he had plagiarized from that popular writer. The criticisms cut him like a whip. He wondered why he had rebelled at the previous silence. He felt like a man who had heedlessly hurled a stone at a snow mountain and had been buried by the resulting avalanche.

He got his third publisher a year after that. He thought he would never succeed in getting the same firm twice, and wondered what would happen when he exhausted the London list. It is not right that a man should go on for ever without a word of encouragement. Fate recognised that there would come a breaking-point, and relented in time. The word came from an unexpected source. Buel was labouring, heavy-eyed, at the last proof-sheets of his third book, and was wondering whether he would have the courage not to look at the newspapers when the volume was published. He wished he could afford to go to some wilderness until the worst was over. He knew he could not miss the first notice, for experience had taught him that Snippit & Co., a clipping agency, would send it to him, with a nice type-written letter, saying—

“Dear Sir,

“As your book is certain to attract a great deal of attention from the Press, we shall be pleased to send you clippings similar to the enclosed at the following rates.”

It struck him as rather funny that any company should expect a sane man to pay so much good money for Press notices, mostly abusive. He never subscribed.

The word of encouragement gave notice of its approach in a letter, signed by a man of whom he had never heard. It was forwarded to him by his publishers. The letter ran:—

“Dear Sir,

“Can you make it convenient to lunch with me on Friday at the Métropole? If you have an engagement for that day can you further oblige me by writing and putting it off? Tell the other fellow you are ill or have broken your leg, or anything, and charge up the fiction to me. I deal in fiction, anyhow. I leave on Saturday for the Continent, not wishing to spend another Sunday in London if I can avoid it. I have arranged to get out your book in America, having read the proof-sheets at your publisher’s. All the business part of the transaction is settled, but I would like to see you personally if you don’t mind, to have a talk over the future—always an interesting subject. “Yours very truly, “L. F. BRANT, “Of Rainham Bros., Publishers, New York.”

Buel read this letter over and over again. He had never seen anything exactly like it. There was a genial flippancy about it that was new to him, and he wondered what sort of a man the New Yorker was. Mr. Brant wrote to a stranger with the familiarity of an old friend, yet the letter warmed Buel’s heart. He smiled at the idea the American evidently had about a previous engagement. Invitations to lunch become frequent when a man does not need them. No broken leg story would have to be told. He wrote and accepted Mr. Brant’s invitation.

“You’re Mr. Buel, I think?”

The stranger’s hand rested lightly on the young author’s shoulder. Buel had just entered the unfamiliar precincts of the Métropole Hotel. The tall man with the gold lace on his hat had hesitated a moment before he swung open the big door, Buel was so evidently not a guest of the hotel.

“My name is Buel.”

“Then you’re my victim. I’ve been waiting impatiently for you. I am L. F. Brant.”

“I thought I was in time. I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”

“Don’t mention it. I have been waiting but thirty seconds. Come up in the elevator. They call it a lift here, not knowing any better, but it gets there ultimately. I have the title-deeds to a little parlour while I am staying in this tavern, and I thought we could talk better if we had lunch there. Lunch costs more on that basis, but I guess we can stand it.”

A cold shudder passed over the thin frame of Kenan Buel. He did not know but it was the custom in America to ask a man to lunch and expect him to pay half. Brant’s use of the plural lent colour to this view, and Buel knew he could not pay his share. He regretted they were not in a vegetarian restaurant.

The table in the centre of the room was already set for two, and the array of wine-glasses around each plate looked tempting. Brant pushed the electric button, drew up his chair, and said—

“Sit down, Buel, sit down. What’s your favourite brand of wine? Let’s settle on it now, so as to have no unseemly wrangle when the waiter comes. I’m rather in awe of the waiter. It doesn’t seem natural that any mere human man should be so obviously superior to the rest of us mortals as this waiter is. I’m going to give you only the choice of the first wines. I have taken the champagne for granted, and it’s cooling now in a tub somewhere. We always drink champagne in the States, not because we like it, but because it’s expensive. I calculate that I pay the expenses of my trip over here merely by ordering unlimited champagne. I save more than a dollar a bottle on New York prices, and these saved dollars count up in a month. Personally I prefer cider or lager beer, but in New York we dare not own to liking a thing unless it is expensive.”

“It can hardly be a pleasant place for a poor man to live in, if that is the case.”

“My dear Buel, no city is a pleasant place for a poor man to live in. I don’t suppose New York is worse than London in that respect. The poor have a hard time of it anywhere. A man owes it to himself and family not to be poor. Now, that’s one thing I like about your book; you touch on poverty in a sympathetic way, by George, like a man who had come through it himself. I’ve been there, and I know how it is. When I first struck New York I hadn’t even a ragged dollar bill to my back. Of course every successful man will tell you the same of himself, but it is mostly brag, and in half the instances it isn’t true at all; but in my case—well, I wasn’t subscribing to the heathen in those days. I made up my mind that poverty didn’t pay, and I have succeeded in remedying the state of affairs. But I haven’t forgotten how it felt to be hard up, and I sympathise with those who are. Nothing would afford me greater pleasure than to give a helping hand to a fellow—that is, to a clever fellow who was worth saving—who is down at bed rock. Don’t you feel that way too?”

“Yes,” said Buel, with some hesitation, “it would be a pleasure.”

“I knew when I read your book you felt that way—I was sure of it. Well, I’ve helped a few in my time; but I regret to say most of them turned out to be no good. That is where the trouble is. Those who are really deserving are just the persons who die of starvation in a garret, and never let the outside world know their trouble.”

“I do not doubt such is often the case.”

“Of course it is. It’s always the case. But here’s the soup. I hope you have brought a good appetite. You can’t expect such a meal here as you would get in New York; but they do fairly well. I, for one, don’t grumble about the food in London, as most Americans do. Londoners manage to keep alive, and that, after all, is the main thing.”

Buel was perfectly satisfied with the meal, and thought if they produced a better one in New York, or anywhere else, the art of cookery had reached wonderful perfection. Brant, however, kept apologising for the spread as he went along. The talk drifted on in an apparently aimless fashion, but the publisher was a shrewd man, and he was gradually leading it up to the point he had in view from the beginning, and all the while he was taking the measure of his guest. He was not a man to waste either his time or his dinners without an object. When he had once “sized up” his man, as he termed it, he was either exceedingly frank and open with him, or the exact opposite, as suited his purpose. He told Buel that he came to England once a year, if possible, rapidly scanned the works of fiction about to be published by the various houses in London, and made arrangements for the producing of those in America that he thought would go down with the American people.

“I suppose,” said Buel, “that you have met many of the noted authors of this country?”

“All of them, I think; all of them, at one time or another. The publishing business has its drawbacks like every other trade,” replied Brant, jauntily.

“Have you met Hodden?”

“Several times. Conceited ass!”

“You astonish me. I have never had the good fortune to become acquainted with any of our celebrated writers. I would think it a privilege to know Hodden and some of the others.”

“You’re lucky, and you evidently don’t know it. I would rather meet a duke any day than a famous author. The duke puts on less side and patronises you less.”

“I would rather be a celebrated author than a duke if I had my choice.”

“Well, being a free and independent citizen of the Democratic United States, I wouldn’t. No, sir! I would rather be Duke Brant any day in the week than Mr. Brant, the talented author of, etc., etc. The moment an author receives a little praise and becomes talked about, he gets what we call in the States ‘the swelled head.’ I’ve seen some of the nicest fellows in the world become utterly spoiled by a little success. And then think of the absurdity of it all. There aren’t more than two or three at the most of the present-day writers who will be heard of a century hence. Read the history of literature, and you will find that never more than four men in any one generation are heard of after. Four is a liberal allowance. What has any writer to be conceited about anyhow? Let him read his Shakespeare and be modest.”

Buel said with a sigh, “I wish there was success in store for me. I would risk the malady you call the ‘swelled head.’”

“Success will come all right enough, my boy. ‘All things come to him who waits,’ and while he is waiting puts in some good, strong days of work. It’s the working that tells, not the waiting. And now, if you will light one of these cigars, we will talk of you for a while, if your modesty will stand it. What kind of Chartreuse will you have? Yellow or green?”

“Either.”

“Take the green, then. Where the price is the same I always take the green. It is the stronger, and you get more for your money. Now then, I will be perfectly frank with you. I read your book in the proof-sheets, and I ran it down in great style to your publisher.”

“I am sorry you did not like it.”

“I don’t say I didn’t like it. I ran it down because it was business. I made up my mind when I read that book to give a hundred pounds for the American rights. I got it for twenty.”

Brant laughed, and Buel felt uncomfortable. He feared that after all he did not like this frank American.

“Having settled about the book, I wanted to see you, and here you are. Of course, I am utterly selfish in wanting to see you, for I wish you to promise me that we will have the right of publishing your books in America as long as we pay as much as any other publisher. There is nothing unfair in that, is there?”

“No. I may warn you, however, that there has been no great competition, so far, for the privilege of doing any publishing, either here or in America.”

“That’s all right. Unless I’m a Dutchman there will be, after your new book is published. Of course, that is one of the things no fellow can find out. If he could, publishing would be less of a lottery than it is. A book is sometimes a success by the merest fluke; at other times, in spite of everything, a good book is a deplorable failure. I think yours will go; anyhow, I am willing to bet on it up to a certain amount, and if it does go, I want to have the first look-in at your future books. What do you say?”

“Do you wish me to sign a contract?”

“No, I merely want your word. You may write me a letter if you like, that I could show to my partners, saying that we would have the first refusal of your future books.”

“I am quite willing to do that.”

“Very good. That’s settled. Now, you look fagged out. I wish you would take a trip over to New York. I’ll look after you when you get there. It would do you a world of good, and would show in the pages of your next book. What do you say to that? Have you any engagements that would prevent you making the trip?”

Buel laughed, “I am perfectly free as far as engagements are concerned.”

“That’s all right, then. I wish I were in that position. Now, as I said, I considered your book cheap at £100. I got it for £20. I propose to hand over the £80 to you. I’ll write out the cheque as soon as the waiters clear away the débris. Then your letter to the firm would form the receipt for this money, and—well, it need not be a contract, you know, or anything formal, but just your ideas on any future business that may crop up.”

“I must say I think your offer is very generous.”

“Oh, not at all. It is merely business. The £80 is on account of royalties. If the book goes, as I think it will, I hope to pay you much more than that. Now I hope you will come over and see me as soon as you can.”

“Yes. As you say, the trip will do me good. I have been rather hard at it for some time.”

“Then I’ll look out for you. I sail on the French line Saturday week. When will you come?”

“As soon as my book is out here, and before any of the reviews appear.”

“Sensible man. What’s your cable address?”

“I haven’t one.”

“Well, I suppose a telegram to your publishers will find you. I’ll cable if anything turns up unexpectedly. You send me over a despatch saying what steamer you sail on. My address is ‘Rushing, New York.’ Just cable the name of the steamer, and I will be on the look-out for you.”

It was doubtless the effect of the champagne, for Buel went back to his squalid room with his mind in the clouds. He wondered if this condition was the first indication of the swelled head Brant had talked about. Buel worked harder than ever at his proofs, and there was some growling at head-quarters because of the numerous corrections he made. These changes were regarded as impudence on the part of so unknown a man. He sent off to America a set of the corrected proofs, and received a cablegram, “Proofs received. Too late. Book published today.”

This was a disappointment. Still he had the consolation of knowing that the English edition would be as perfect as he could make it. He secured a berth on the Geranium, sailing from Liverpool, and cabled Brant to that effect. The day before he sailed he got a cablegram that bewildered him. It was simply, “She’s a-booming.” He regretted that he had never learned the American language.

Chapter II

Kenan Buel received from his London publisher a brown paper parcel, and on opening it found the contents to be six exceedingly new copies of his book. Whatever the publisher thought of the inside of the work, he had not spared pains to make the outside as attractive as it could be made at the price. Buel turned it over and over, and could almost imagine himself buying a book that looked so tastefully got up as this one. The sight of the volume gave him a thrill, for he remembered that the Press doubtless received its quota at about the same time his parcel came, and he feared he would not be out of the country before the first extract from the clipping agency arrived. However, luck was with the young man, and he found himself on the platform of Euston Station, waiting for the Liverpool express, without having seen anything about his book in the papers, except a brief line giving its title, the price, and his own name, in the “Books Received” column.

As he lingered around the well-kept bookstall before the train left, he saw a long row of Hodden’s new novel, and then his heart gave a jump as he caught sight of two copies of his own work in the row labelled “New Books.” He wanted to ask the clerk whether any of them had been sold yet, but in the first place he lacked the courage, and in the second place the clerk was very busy. As he stood there, a comely young woman, equipped for traveling, approached the stall, and ran her eye hurriedly up and down the tempting array of literature. She bought several of the illustrated papers, and then scanned the new books. The clerk, following her eye, picked out Buel’s book.

“Just out, miss. Three and sixpence.”

“Who is the author?” asked the girl.

“Kenan Buel, a new man,” answered the clerk, without a moment’s hesitation, and without looking at the title-page. “Very clever work.”

Buel was astonished at the knowledge shown by the clerk. He knew that W.H. Smith & Son never had a book of his before, and he wondered how the clerk apparently knew so much of the volume and its author, forgetting that it was the clerk’s business. The girl listlessly ran the leaves of the book past the edge of her thumb. It seemed to Buel that the fate of the whole edition was in her hands, and he watched her breathlessly, even forgetting how charming she looked. There stood the merchant eager to sell, and there, in the form of a young woman, was the great public. If she did not buy, why should any one else; and if nobody bought, what chance had an unknown author?

She put the book down, and looked up as she heard some one sigh deeply near her.

“Have you Hodden’s new book?” she asked.

“Yes, miss. Six shillings.”

The clerk quickly put Buel’s book beside its lone companion, and took down Hodden’s.

“Thank you,” said the girl, giving him a half sovereign; and, taking the change, she departed with her bundle of literature to the train.

Buel said afterwards that what hurt him most in this painful incident was the fact that if it were repeated often the bookstall clerk would lose faith in the book. He had done so well for a man who could not possibly have read a word of the volume, that Buel felt sorry on the clerk’s account rather than his own that the copy had not been sold. He walked to the end of the platform, and then back to the bookstall.

“Has that new book of Buel’s come out yet?” he asked the clerk in an unconcerned tone.

“Yes, sir. Here it is; three and sixpence, sir.”

“Thank you,” said Buel, putting his hand in his pocket for the money. “How is it selling?”

“Well, sir, there won’t be much call for it, not likely, till the reviews begin to come out.”

There, Mr. Buel, you had a lesson, if you had only taken it to heart, or pondered on its meaning. Since then you have often been very scornful of newspaper reviews, yet you saw yourself how the great public treats a man who is not even abused. How were you to know that the column of grossly unfair rancour which The Daily Argus poured out on your book two days later, when you were sailing serenely over the Atlantic, would make that same clerk send in four separate orders to the “House” during the week? Medicine may have a bad taste, and yet have beneficial results. So Mr. Kenan Buel, after buying a book of which he had six copies in his portmanteau, with no one to give them to, took his place in the train, and in due time found himself at Liverpool and on board the Geranium.

The stewards being busy, Buel placed his portmanteau on the deck, and, with his newly bought volume in his hand, the string and brown paper still around it, he walked up and down on the empty side of the deck, noticing how scrupulously clean the ship was. It was the first time he had ever been on board a steamship, and he could not trust himself unguided to explore the depths below, and see what kind of a state-room and what sort of a companion chance had allotted to him. They had told him when he bought his ticket that the steamer would be very crowded that trip, so many Americans were returning; but his state-room had berths for only two, and he had a faint hope the other fellow would not turn up. As he paced the deck his thoughts wandered to the pretty girl who did not buy his book. He had seen her again on the tender in company with a serene and placid older woman, who sat unconcernedly, surrounded by bundles, shawls, straps, valises, and hand-bags, which the girl nervously counted every now and then, fruitlessly trying to convince the elderly lady that something must have been left behind in the train, or lost in transit from the station to the steamer. The worry of travel, which the elderly woman absolutely refused to share, seemed to rest with double weight on the shoulders of the girl.

As Buel thought of all this, he saw the girl approach him along the deck with a smile of apparent recognition on her face. “She evidently mistakes me for some one else,” he said to himself. “Oh, thank you,” she cried, coming near, and holding out her hand. “I see you have found my book.”

He helplessly held out the package to her, which she took.

“Is it yours?” he asked.

“Yes, I recognised it by the string. I bought it at Euston Station. I am forever losing things,” she added. “Thank you, ever so much.”

Buel laughed to himself as she disappeared. “Fate evidently intends her to read my book,” he said to himself. “She will think the clerk has made a mistake. I must get her unbiased opinion of it before the voyage ends.”

The voyage at that moment was just beginning, and the thud, thud of the screw brought that fact to his knowledge. He sought a steward, and asked him to carry the portmanteau to berth 159.

“You don’t happen to know whether there is any one else in that room or not, do you?” he asked.

“It’s likely there is, sir. The ship’s very full this voyage.”

Buel followed him into the saloon, and along the seemingly interminable passage; then down a narrow side alley, into which a door opened marked 159-160. The steward rapped at the door, and, as there was no response, opened it. All hopes of a room to himself vanished as Buel looked into the small state-room. There was a steamer trunk on the floor, a portmanteau on the seat, while the two bunks were covered with a miscellaneous assortment of hand-bags, shawl-strap bundles, and packages.

The steward smiled. “I think he wants a room to himself,” he said.

On the trunk Buel noticed the name in white letters “Hodden,” and instantly there arose within him a hope that his companion was to be the celebrated novelist. This hope was strengthened when he saw on the portmanteau the letters “J. L. H.,” which were the novelist’s initials. He pictured to himself interesting conversations on the way over, and hoped he would receive some particulars from the novelist’s own lips of his early struggles for fame. Still, he did not allow himself to build too much on his supposition, for there are a great many people in this world, and the chances were that the traveller would be some commonplace individual of the same name.