Part 21 (1/2)

But to find a publisher was a more difficult work than to write the novel. Mr. Leveridge sent his MS. type-written to several firms, and it was declined by one after another. At last, however, it fell into the hands of an unusually discerning reader, who saw in it distinct tokens of ability. It was not one to appeal to the general public. It contained no blood-curdling episodes, no hair-breadth escapes, no risky situations; it was simply a transcript of life in a little English country town. Though not high-spiced to suit the vulgar taste, still the reader and the publisher considered that there was a discerning public, small and select, that relished good, honest work of the Jane Austen kind, and the latter resolved on risking the production. Accordingly he offered the author fifty pounds for the work, he buying all rights.

Joseph Leveridge was overwhelmed at the munificence of the offer, and accepted it gratefully and with alacrity.

The next stage in the proceedings consisted in the revision of the proofs. And who that has not experienced it can judge of the sensation of exquisite delight afforded by this to the young author? After the correction of his romance--if romance such a prosaic tale can be called--in print, with characteristic modesty Leveridge insisted that his story should appear under an a.s.sumed name. What the name adopted was it does not concern the reader of this narrative to know. Some time now elapsed before the book appeared, at the usual publis.h.i.+ng time, in October.

Eventually it came out, and Mr. Leveridge received his six copies, neatly and quietly bound in cloth. He cut and read one with avidity, and at once perceived that he had overlooked several typographical errors, and wrote to the publisher to beg that these might be corrected in the event of a second edition being called for.

On the morning following the publication and dissemination of the book, Joseph Leveridge lay in bed a little longer than usual, smiling in happy self-gratification at the thought that he had become an author. On the table by his bed stood his extinguished candle, his watch, and the book.

He had looked at it the last thing before he closed his eyes in sleep.

It was moreover the first thing that his eyes rested on when they opened. A fond mother could not have gazed on her new-born babe with greater pride and affection.

Whilst he thus lay and said to himself, ”I really must--I positively must get up and dress!” he heard a stumping on the stairs, and a few moments later his door was burst open, and in came Major Dolgelly Jones, a retired officer, resident in Swanton, who had never before done him the honour of a call--and now he actually penetrated to Joseph's bedroom.

The major was hot in the face. He panted for breath, his cheeks quivered. The major was a man who, judging by what could be perceived of his intellectual gifts, could not have been a great acquisition to the Army. He was a man who never could have been trusted to act a brilliant part. He was a creature of routine, a martinet; and since his retirement to Swanton had been a pa.s.sionate golf-player and nothing else.

”What do you mean, sir? What do you mean?” spluttered he, ”by putting me into your book?”

”My book!” echoed Joseph, affecting surprise. ”What book do you refer to?”

”Oh! it's all very well your a.s.suming that air of injured innocence, your trying to evade my question. Your sheepish expression does not deceive me. Why--there is the book in question by your bedside.”

”I have, I admit, been reading that novel, which has recently appeared.”

”You wrote it. Everyone in Swanton knows it. I don't object to your writing a book; any fool can do that--especially a novel. What I do object to is your putting me into it.”

”If I remember rightly,” said Joseph, quaking under the bedclothes, and then wiping his upper lip on which a dew was forming, ”If I remember aright, there is in it a major who plays golf, and does nothing else; but his name is Piper.”

”What do I care about a name? It is I--I. You have put me in.”

”Really, Major Jones, you have no justification in thus accusing me. The book does not bear my name on the back and t.i.tle-page.”

”Neither does the golfing retired military officer bear my name, but that does not matter. It is I myself. I am in your book. I would horsewhip you had I any energy left in me, but all is gone, gone with my personality into your book. Nothing is left of me--nothing but a body and a light tweed suit. I--I--have been taken out of myself and transferred to that----” he used a naughty word, ”that book. How can I golf any more? Walk the links any more with any heart? How can I putt a ball and follow it up with any feeling of interest? I am but a carca.s.s.

My soul, my character, my individuality have been burgled. You have broken into my inside, and have despoiled me of my personality.” And he began to cry.

”Possibly,” suggested Mr. Leveridge, ”the author might----”

”The author can do nothing. I have been robbed--my fine ethereal self has been purloined. I--Dolgelly Jones--am only an outside husk. You have despoiled me of my richest jewel--myself.”

”I really can do nothing, major.”

”I know you can do nothing, that is the pity of it. You have sucked all my spiritual being with its concomitants out of me, and cannot put it back again. _You have used me up._”

Then, wringing his hands, the major left the room, stumped slowly downstairs, and quitted the house.

Joseph Leveridge rose from his bed and dressed in great perturbation of mind. Here was a condition of affairs on which he had not reckoned. He was so distracted in mind that he forgot to brush his teeth.

When he reached his little sitting-room he found that the table was laid for his breakfast, and that his landlady had just brought up the usual rashers of bacon and two boiled eggs. She was sobbing.

”What is the matter, Mrs. Baker?” asked Joseph. ”Has Lasinia”--that was the name of the servant--”broken any more dishes?”

”Everything has happened,” replied the woman; ”you have taken away my character.”