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The Survivor, a novel by E. Phillips Oppenheim |
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Chapter 9. The Editor Of The Ibex Receives A Strange Letter |
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_ CHAPTER IX. THE EDITOR OF THE _IBEX_ RECEIVES A STRANGE LETTER The editor of the _Ibex_ sat at a long table in his sanctum paying some perfunctory attentions to a huge pile of letters which had come in by the afternoon mail. Most of them he threw on one side for his "sub," a few he opened himself and tossed into a basket for further attention later on. It was a task which he never entered upon with much enthusiasm, for he was a man who hated detail. His room itself disclosed the man. It was a triumph of disorder. Books and magazines were scattered all over the floor. The proof sketch of a wonderful poster took up one side of the wall, leaning against the others were sketches, pictures, golf clubs, and huge piles of books of reference. His table was a bewilderment, his mantelpiece a nightmare. Only before him, in a handsome frame of dark wood, was the photograph of a woman round which a little space had been cleared. There was never so much chaos but that the picture was turned where the light fell best upon it; the dirt might lie thick upon every inch in the room, but every morning a silk handkerchief carefully removed from the glass-mounting every disfiguring speck. Yet the man himself seemed to have little enough sentiment about him. His shoulders were broad and his head massive. A short-cut beard concealed his chin, but his mouth was of iron and his eyes were hard and keen. He was of no more than the average stature by reason of his breadth and girth; he seemed even to fall short of it, which was not however the case. A man not easily led or controlled, a man of passions and prejudices, emphatically not a man to be trifled with or ignored. In the midst of the pile of letters he came upon one at the sight of which his indifference vanished as though by magic. It was a heavy, square envelope, a coronet upon the flap, addressed to David Drexley, Esq., in a handwriting distinctly feminine. He singled it out from the rest, held it for a moment between his thumb and broad forefinger, and then turned his chair round, abandoning the rest of his correspondence as a matter of infinitesimal consequence. A letter from her was by no means an everyday affair, for she was a woman of caprices, as who should know better than he? There were weeks during which it was her pleasure to hold herself aloof from him--and others--when the servants who denied her shook their heads to all questions, and letters met with no response. What should he find inside, he wondered? An invitation, or a reproof. He had tried so hard to see her lately. He was in no hurry to open it. He had grown to expect very little from her. While it was unopened there was at least the pleasure of expectancy. He traced the letters over. There was the same curl of the S, the same finely formed capitals, the same deliberate and firm dash after the address. Then a thought came to him. It was Wednesday, the night on which she often saw her friends. Surely this was a summons. He might see her within a few hours. He tore open the envelope and read:-- "No. 20, GROSVENOR ST., "Wednesday. "My FRIEND,--SO often I have bidden you find work for the young people in whom I have interested myself, that my present charge upon your good-nature will doubtless seem strange to you. Yet I am as much in earnest now as then, and for the favour of granting what I now ask I shall be equally grateful. There is a young man named Jesson who has sent you a story, and who hopes to secure more work from you. It is not my wish that he should have it at present, and with regard to the work which you have already accepted, please let its production be delayed as long as possible, and payment for it made on the smallest possible scale. You will wonder at this, I know. Never mind. Do as I ask and I will explain later. "That reminds me that I have seen nothing of you lately. This evening I shall be at home from ten to eleven. If your engagements permit of your coming to see me, I may perhaps be able to take you into my confidence. If you should come, bring with you the manuscript of this boy's story that I may judge for myself if the _Ibex_ will be the loser. Yours most truly, "EMILY DE REUSS." Drexley glanced through the letter rapidly, read it again more carefully, and then turned with a perplexed face to a little telephone which stood upon his table. He summoned his manager, an untidy-looking person with crumpled hair and inkstained fingers which he seemed perpetually attempting to conceal. "Mr. Warmington, is that Jesson story set up?" the editor inquired. "Yes, sir. I understand that those were your instructions." Drexley nodded. "Well, I shall want it kept back for a bit," he said. "You can take another story of about the same length from the accepted chest." The manager stared. "We've nothing else as good," he remarked. "You said yourself that Jesson's story was the best bit of work we'd had in for a long time." Drexley frowned and turned back to his letters. "Never mind that," he said. "I've good reasons for what I'm telling you to do. Jesson's story is not to appear until I give the word." The manager withdrew without a word. Drexley went on with his correspondence. In a few minutes there was another knock at his door. He looked up annoyed. Some one else, no doubt, to protest against the exclusion of Jesson's story. Rice was standing upon the threshold, and behind him a younger man, tall, with clustering hair and brilliant eyes, cheeks on which the tan still lingered, ill-clad but personable. "I've brought Mr. Jesson in to see you, sir," Rice said, breezily. "I found him at Spargetti's, struck up an acquaintance and brought him along. I thought you'd like to have a talk with him about some more work." Drexley for a moment was as speechless as Douglas was nervous. Rice, blandly unconscious of anything unusual, wheeled up a chair for the latter and sauntered towards the door. "I'd like to have a word with you before you go, Jesson," he said. "Will you look in at my room?" Douglas murmured an inarticulate assent, and Rice departed. Then he looked up at the man who so far had only bidden him a mechanical good morning, and wondered a little at the heavy frown upon his face. Perhaps his introduction had been a little unceremonious, but surely he could not be blamed for that. Drexley pulled himself together. The thing was awkward, but it must be faced. "You have come to see us about your story, I suppose, Mr. Jesson?" he began. "A very fair story indeed for a beginner, as I suppose you are. I am hoping that some day we may be able to make use of it for the _Ibex_." Douglas looked up quickly. "I understood Mr. Rice that you were using it in the next issue of the magazine," he said. "The next issue!" Drexley shook his head. "I am afraid that is quite out of the question," he said. "You see our arrangements are all made a very long time ahead, and we have short stories enough on hand now to last us nearly two years. Of course if you care to leave yours with us, I think I can promise you that it shall appear some time, but exactly when, I should not care to say. It would be quite impossible to fix a date." Douglas was bewildered--speechless. He did his best, however, to remain coherent. "Mr. Rice certainly told me," he said, "that it was in type and would appear at once. He seemed to think, too, that if I saw you you might give me some more work. I am living in London now, and I hoped that it might be possible for me to make some money by my pen." Drexley was silent for several moments. For the first time in his life he glanced across at the photograph which stood upon his table with something like impatience. "I am afraid that I cannot offer you much encouragement," he said. "If ever a market in the world was overcrowded, the literary market of to-day is in that state. If you like to leave your story it shall appear some time or other--I cannot promise when--and when we are able to use it we will pay you according to our usual standard. More I cannot say at present." Douglas rose up with a sense of sick disappointment at his heart, but with a firm determination also to carry himself like a man. "I am much obliged to you," he said. "I will think the matter over and let you know." Drexley watched the struggle. He, too, had been young, and he hated himself. "You had better leave us your address," he said. "We will let you know, then, if we see a chance of using more of your work." Douglas hesitated. "When I have an address," he said, "I will write to you. At present I have not made my arrangements in London." Drexley let him go, despising himself, with a vague feeling of irritation, too, against the beautiful face which smiled at him from his table. Douglas's one idea was to get out of the place. He had no wish to see Rice or any one. But on the landing he came face to face with the latter, who had not as yet gone into his room. "Hullo," he exclaimed. "You're soon off. Have you finished with 'the chief' already?" Douglas nodded with tightening lips. "He hadn't much to say to me," he answered. "Good afternoon." Rice let his hand fall upon the other's shoulder. "I don't understand," he said. "Here, come into my room for a minute." Douglas yielded, and Rice listened to the description of his interview, his little wizened face puckered up with astonishment. When he had finished he thrust a box of cigarettes towards his visitor and rose from his chair. "Here," he said, "just wait here a moment. I must have a word with the chief." He turned out. He was gone for several minutes. When he returned his face was grave and puzzled. "Jesson," he said, "I'll be frank with you. Either the chief's gone off his nut, or you managed to offend him somehow. I can't understand it a bit, I'll confess. I'm fairly staggered." "I hadn't a chance to offend him," Douglas said. "He simply sat on me." Rice walked up and down the room. "I wish you'd leave me your address," he said. "I'd like to look into this a bit." Douglas sighed. "I can only tell you" he said, "what I told Mr. Drexley. At present I haven't one. Good afternoon." Rice walked with him to the door. "Jesson," he said, "I want you to promise me something." "Well?" "You're a bit down on your luck. If things go badly you'll give me a look up. I can always raise a bit, and I think your word's all right. I tell you this, on my honour. Only yesterday 'the chief' asked for the proof of your story himself. It was down to appear without fail this next week. We've very few manuscripts in hand--never had fewer--and they've been so short of good fiction. What's gone wrong I don't know, but you leave it to me and I'll find out. You'll let me hear from you, eh?" Douglas nodded drearily. "Thanks," he said. "I won't forget." He walked away briskly enough, but without any definite idea as to his destination. Rice returned to his room and smoked a whole cigarette before he touched his work. _ |
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