The Sailor

Before the fateful moment came he was in a state of despair. Why he should have been was impossible to say. What was Pall Mall in comparison with the forecastle or the futtock shrouds of the Margaret Carey? What were the commissionaire and the frock-coated gentleman in comparison with Mr. Thompson and the Old Man? Yet he came within an ace of flying out of that waiting-room into the street.

The cicerone reappeared, led the young man up a flight of stairs, opened a door, and announced, "Mr. Harper."

Seated at a writing table in a bay of the large, airy, well-appointed room, was a gravely genial man, whose face had that subtle look of power which springs from the play of mind.

He rose at once and offered a welcome of such unstudied cordiality that Henry Harper forgot that he had ever been afraid of him. The editor of Brown's Magazine placed a chair for the young man and asked him to sit down. He then returned to his writing table, leaned back in his own chair, and half turned to face his visitor.

"Your story interested me enormously." The editor studied very closely the young man opposite without appearing to do so; and then he said, in a slightly changed tone, as if a theory previously formed had been confirmed, "I am sure you have had experience of the sea."

The Sailor knew already that he was going to like Mr. Ambrose immensely. In a subtle way he was reminded of Klondyke, and more remotely of Mr. Horrobin, but yet he felt that Mr. Ambrose was not really like them at all.

As for Edward Ambrose, he had at once fixed in his mind a picture of great simplicity, of eager intensity, of an earnestness pathetic and naïf. Strange to say, it was almost exactly the one he had been able to envisage beforehand. If ever a human document had ascended to the first floor of 12B, Pall Mall, it was here before his eyes.

The Sailor began presently to forget his shyness in a surprising way. Mr. Ambrose differed from Mr. Horrobin inasmuch that he was ready, even anxious, to listen. He seemed quite eager that the Sailor should speak about himself. The story had interested him very much. He felt its power, and saw great possibilities for a talent, immature as it was, which could declare itself in a shape so definite.

After a while the Sailor talked with less reserve than perhaps he ought to have done. But such a man was very hard to resist – impossible for certain natures. He had a faculty of perception that was very rare, he was amazingly quick to see and to appreciate; and with this curious power of realizing all that was worthy there was a knack of overlooking, of perhaps even blinding himself, to things less pleasing.

The Sailor's speech, queer and semi-literate as it was, exactly resembled his writing. Here was something rare and strange. The shy earnestness of the voice, the neat serge suit, well tended but of poor quality, the general air of clean simplicity without and within; above all, the haunted eyes of this deep-sea mariner, which had seen so much more than they would ever be able to tell, fixed towards a goal they could never hope to attain, were much as Edward Ambrose had pictured them.

"I want to use your story," said the editor; "but please don't be offended by what I am going to say."

The look in the face of the Sailor showed it would be quite impossible for Mr. Ambrose to offend him.

"There are little things, certain rules that have to be learned before even Genius itself can be given a hearing. And it is vital to master them. But you are so far on the road, that in a short time, if you care to go on, I am convinced you will have all the tricks of a craft which too often begins and ends in trickery and once in a lustrum rises to power. At least that's my experience." And Mr. Ambrose laughed with charming friendliness.

"Now," he went on, "I will let you into a secret that all the world knows. We declined Treasure Island. Not in my time, I am glad to say, but Brown's Magazine declined it. The story is told against us; and if we can we want to wipe the blot off our escutcheon. And I feel, Mr. Harper, that if you will learn the rules of the game and not lose yourself, one day you will help us to do so."

It took the editor some time to explain what he meant. But he did so at considerable length and with wonderful lucidity. The personality of this young man appealed to him. And he felt that the author of Dick Smith had had an almost superhuman task laid upon him. Here was a competitor in the Olympian games starting from a mark so far behind his peers that by all the laws he was out of the race before he started to run it. But was he? Somehow Edward Ambrose felt that if this dauntless spirit, already many times defeated, but never completely overthrown, could find the courage to go on, the world would have cause one day to congratulate Brown's Magazine.

The editor took a cordial leave of his strange visitor. "Keep on keeping on, and see what comes of it. Don't be afraid to use the knife, but be careful not to cut yourself. That's the particular form of the eternal paradox assumed by the absolute for the overthrow of the writing man! It's a riddle each must read in his own way. But instinct is the master key. Trust it as you have done already, and it will unlock every door. However, we will talk of that another time. But you might bear in mind what a great writer said to me here in this room only last week. 'When you feel anything you may have written is really fine it is a golden rule to leave it out.' Clear away a few of the trees, and then we may begin to see the wood. But this doesn't apply to the Island of San Pedro. Not a word of that can be spared."

The Sailor walked on air as far as the National Gallery. But as he turned the corner into Charing Cross Road he was brought to earth by a violent collision with an elderly gentleman. He was not brought literally to earth because he suffered less than his victim.

Before the elderly gentleman had ceased to blaspheme the young man came within an ace of an even more emphatic reminder of earth's realities: at the end of Cranbourn Street an omnibus nearly ran over him. Still, it is the part of charity to cover his sins, because up till then, Tuesday, September the fifth had been the day of his life.

X

This mood did not last very long. He was now up against the stern facts of authorship. The story of Dick Smith would have to be written again and written differently. In the reincarnation would be little of the creative rapture of the primal birth. And so little faith had the Sailor in his powers that he could not help feeling that too much had been asked of them.

To add to his doubts, he was beset by conflicting advice. Miss Dobbs was quite angry when she learned the result of the interview with Mr. Ambrose, which she did the day after it had taken place.

"Wants you to write it again, does he?" she said with a glow of indignation. "I call that the limit! Now, if you'll be guided by me, Mr. Harper, which, of course, you ought to have been from the first, you'll do nothing of the kind. Send it to the Rotunda or the Covent Garden."

Miss Dobbs was so firm and Henry Harper was so oppressed by the magnitude of his task, that he came very near taking her advice.

It was the intervention of the author of "A History of the World" in forty volumes with an index that saved the situation. Mr. Rudge was horrified when he learned that Henry Harper thought of trying his luck with the Rotunda. It was nothing less than an act of lèse-majesté. There could be so little ground of comparison between that upstart and Brown's that in the opinion of Mr. Rudge it was better to be damned by the fountain of honor, which had published Byron and Scott, than be accepted and even tricked out with illustrations – there would be no illustrations in the "History of the World" – by a cheap and flashy parvenu which bore a similar relation to literature to that a toadstool bore to horticulture.

Miss Dobbs had force of character, but she was no match for Mr. Rudge when it came to a question of Brown's Magazine v. the Rotunda. He even went to the length of telling her that she didn't know what she was talking about. The grave spectacled eyes of the historian flashed to such purpose that Miss Dobbs was fain to admit "that she never would have thought the old fool had it in him." But great issues were at stake. All that he stood for was in the scale. Such an affront should only be offered to Culture over the dead body of the author of the "History of the World."

Finally, Henry Harper sat down to rewrite the story of Dick Smith and the brigantine Excelsior. As a fruit of victory, Mr. Rudge ordained that the young man should return to the study of grammar. It was more than ever necessary now. He was sure that had he been as well up in grammar as he ought to have been, the question of rewriting the story of Dick Smith could never have arisen.

These were trying days. But the Sailor stuck gallantly to his guns. In spite of the pessimism of Miss Dobbs, who still looked in now and again, he grappled with an extremely difficult task. Moreover, he did so very thoroughly. Mr. Ambrose had given him only general rules to go by; yet these, few and succinct as they were, seemed to cut into the woof and fabric of his mind.

As the days passed, and the end of Henry Harper's labor seemed farther off than ever, Miss Dobbs grew more gloomy, but her regard for his welfare was still considerable. He might have been grateful had it become less, but he was far too chivalrous to admit such a thought. Besides, it was not a little surprising that a lady of the standing of Miss Dobbs should take an interest in such a person as himself.

One day, she invited him to tea at her flat. He must come tomorrow afternoon, to meet her great friend, Zoe Bonser, who was a Maison Perry girl, and very nice and clever. Had there been a way of evading this point-blank invitation, he would certainly have sought it. Unfortunately there was not. Before issuing her invitation Miss Dobbs had already taken the precaution of asking casually whether "he was doing anything Sunday afternoon?"

Mr. Harper grew quite alarmed as soon as he realized what he had done. The mere thought of the society of promiscuous ladies, however nice and clever, was enough to frighten him. Miss Dobbs herself, who was niceness and cleverness personified, had never really broken through the ice. They were old friends now, but even she, with all the arts of which she was mistress, had never been able to penetrate the reserve of this odd young man. If he had not been incapable of deliberately wounding the feelings of a lady who had shown him such kindness, he would have boldly refused to meet the nice and clever Miss Bonser, which with all his soul he longed to do.

Therefore, on Sunday afternoon, he sadly abandoned a chapter of Dick Smith, which was now in a tangle so hopeless that it seemed it would never come right. After infinite pains had made him as presentable as a very limited wardrobe allowed, he went to No. 106, King John's Mansions, the whereabouts of which had already been explained to him very carefully.

Miss Dobbs' flat was right at the top of a very large, very gloomy, and very draughty building. Its endless flights of stone stairs – there was no lift, although it was clearly a case for one – seemed not to have been swept for a month at least. But this was in keeping with a general air of cheapness and discomfort. By the time Mr. Harper had climbed as far as No. 106, and had knocked timidly with a decrepit knocker upon an uninviting door, he was in a state of panic and dejection.

Miss Dobbs opened the door herself. As she stood on an ungarnished threshold, cigarette in hand, flashing rows of fine teeth in welcome, the young man's first thought was how different she looked without her hat. His second thought was that its absence hardly improved her. She looked older, flatter, less mysterious. Even the fluffy and peroxidized abundance, which came low on the forehead in a quite remarkable bandeau, somehow gave a maturity to her appearance that he had not in the least expected.

Miss Dobbs had all the arts of gracious hospitality. She took his overcoat and hat away from him, and then hustled him genially into what she called her "boo-door," into the alert but extremely agreeable presence of the nice and clever Miss Bonser.

Miss Bonser was not exactly what you would call beautiful, but she had Chick – to adopt the picturesque language of her oldest and dearest friend in rendering her afterwards to Mr. Henry Harper. She had the appearance of a thoroughly good sort, except that her eyes were so terribly wary, although hardly so wary perhaps as those of her hostess, because that would have been impossible. Still, there was Chick and refinement, and above all, great cordiality in Miss Bonser. Cordiality, indeed, was the prevailing note of No. 106, King John's Mansions. Miss Dobbs addressed Miss Bonser as "dear," Miss Bonser addressed Miss Dobbs as "dear," and then Miss Dobbs covered Mr. Harper with confusion by suddenly and unexpectedly calling him "Harry."

"Take a pew, Harry," said Miss Dobbs.

Mr. Harper knew that he alone was intended, because no other gentleman was there. Nervously he sat down in a creaking and rickety cane chair. The "Harry" had flattered him a goodish bit, since Miss Dobbs was quite as much a lady in her home as she was out of it; also she had for a friend another lady, a very nice and clever one, with a refined voice, smart clothes, and a great amount of jewelry. She had also the air and the manners of Society, of which he had learned in the works of the famous novelist, W. M. Thackeray. The way in which Miss Bonser produced a private case and offered it to him after choosing a cigarette for herself, somehow reminded him of "Vanity Fair."

"Harry don't smoke, do you, Harry?" said the hostess, covering Mr. Harper's extreme confusion with rare tact and spontaneity.

Miss Dobbs then made tea, and by the time Mr. Harper had had two large and cracked cups of a weak brew and had eaten one piece of buttered cake, being too shy to eat anything else in spite of great pressure, he was able to collect himself a little.

"Cora tells me you are writing a book, Harry," said Miss Bonser conversationally.

Mr. Harper admitted this, although again startled by the Harry.

"You don't mind, do you," said Miss Bonser, in answer to his face. "'Mister' is so formal. I'm all for being friendly and pleasant myself. What was I saying? Oh, about the book you are writing. My best boy, Bert Hobson, the novelist, makes simply pots of money. He's got a serial running now in the Covent Garden. You've read it, I daresay."

It appeared that Mr. Harper had not read the story.

"Well, you ought reelly." Mr. Harper noticed that Miss Bonser pronounced the polite word "reelly" exactly as Miss Foldal did, although a much more fashionable lady in other respects than the good fairy of Blackhampton. "Start at once. Do it now. It's Albert's top notch." To Miss Dobbs: "Don't you think so, dear?"

Miss Dobbs was quite of Miss Bonser's opinion.

"What's the name of your book?" asked Miss Bonser.

"'The Adventures of Dick Smith,'" said Mr. Harper nervously.

"It's a very good title, don't you think so, dear?" Miss Dobbs thought so too.

"I suppose you'll dedicate it to Cora," said Miss Bonser, "as she has taken such an interest in it."

Mr. Harper had to admit rather shamefacedly that it had not occurred to him to do that. Miss Bonser was surprised; but Miss Dobbs said she couldn't think of it. She didn't look for a reward. Miss Bonser said she was sure of that, yet Mr. Harper felt very uncomfortable because it was borne in upon him that he had been guilty of a sin of omission. An awkward silence followed, at least so it appeared to Mr. Harper, but it was very tactfully terminated by Miss Bonser, who suddenly asked Miss Dobbs about Harold.

Harold, it seemed, was very keen on Miss Dobbs; in fact, he was her best boy. He was an architect who lived at Wimbledon, but had just taken rooms in town. He was a Cambridge man, had a commission in the Territorials, and was a regular sport. However, this seemed to convey so little to Mr. Harper that the conversation soon appeared to languish in regard to Harold.

After this, the young man sat very anxiously in the cane chair, wanting sorely to get out of it, yet with not enough knowledge of society to be able to do so. "The Adventures of Dick Smith" were calling him loudly, yet he had too little courage and too much politeness to venture upon the headlong flight which above all things he now desired. Presently, however, his air of mute misery appealed to his hostess, who suddenly said with great good nature. "Now, don't you be staying, Harry, a moment longer than you think you ought. I know you want to get back to your writing." And Miss Dobbs rose and shook hands with him gravely. Miss Bonser then sat up in her wicker chair and offered her hand at a very fashionable angle, but said good-by with real friendliness, and then Mr. Harper made a very awkward exit without either self-possession or dignity.

"Chase me," said Miss Bonser, as soon as the smiling Miss Dobbs had returned from letting the young man out of the front door.

"Priceless, isn't he?" Miss Dobbs flung herself with a suppressed giggle into a wicker chair.

"Well, well," reflected Miss Bonser. "One of these days he may be useful to bring you in out of the rain."

"If he begins to make good," said Miss Dobbs sagely. "You never know your luck."

"Cruelty to children, isn't it?"

Miss Dobbs smiled thoughtfully. "Don't you think his eyes are rather nice?" she said.

"He's got a lot in his face," said Miss Bonser. "That's a face that's seen things. And I'm not so sure, dear, that he is such a juggins as we fancy."

"We'll hope not at any rate," said Miss Dobbs coolly.

"Still, I like a man with a punch in him myself."

"Perhaps I'll be able to improve him a bit. He hardly knows he's born at present."

"That's true, dear," said Miss Bonser, with a rather indiscreet gurgle.

"It's nothing to laugh at, Zoe." To the surprise of her friend, Miss Dobbs seemed a little hurt.

"Well, well." Miss Bonser flung away the end of her cigarette.

XI

"The Adventures of Dick Smith" continued to make progress. Still, it was uphill work. But Henry Harper had a tenacity truly remarkable – "the angelic patience of genius," in the phrase of Balzac. Not that it ever occurred to the Sailor himself that he was a genius, or for that matter to Mr. Rudge, who did not believe in genius; yet, a little ironically, Miss Dobbs informed her friend Miss Bonser more than once that she would not be surprised if he turned out a bit of one.

Mr. Harper's first visit to King John's Mansions was not his last. Miss Dobbs saw to that. He was so odd that she was tempted to ask herself whether this particular game was worth the candle; also her friends were continually asking each other a similar question on her behalf. Nevertheless, "Harry" unconsciously formed quite a habit of going to tea round the corner in the Avenue on Sunday afternoons.

He was chaffed rather unmercifully at times by several of the ladies he found there, in particular by a certain Miss Gertie Press, by nature so witty and sarcastic that the young man was genuinely afraid of her. Still, it was a very valuable experience to have the entrée to this dashing circle, and often when he did not wish to go he forced himself to do so by sheer power of will, he had such a strong, ever-growing desire to improve himself and to increase his knowledge of the world.

Miss Gertie Press was a knut. It was about the time that portent was coming into vogue. She was one of the rather primitive kind to be found in the second row of the Frivolity chorus of which she was an ornament. She was extremely good-natured, as all these ladies seemed to be, at least in Mr. Harper's presence; but could he have heard their comments when he had returned to his "masterpiece," about which they were always chaffing him, he might have held other views. "Greased Lightning" was Miss Press's name for him, he was so extraordinarily quick in the uptake! "He's got the brains of my boot," said she. "Your money is on the wrong horse, Cora."

These ladies were really sorry for poor Cora. She must be potty to trouble herself with a thing like that. But the time came when Cora's friends began to think differently.

At the end of April, after nearly eight months' hard toil, in the course of which the "Adventures" had been cut down one half, and the half that remained had been remodeled and rewritten, and then written all over again, the Sailor packed up the manuscript, without any particular emotion except a vague one of simple despair, and sent it to the editor of Brown's Magazine, from whom he had not heard a word since September 5.

Mr. Rudge, after reading the revised version in a very conscientious manner, thought the grammar decidedly weak, and felt the thing must always suffer from being a work of the imagination. In his eyes nothing could soften that cardinal defect; but he was a liberal-minded man, and if Brown's Magazine was really interested in that sort of thing – well, it was no business of his to decry it. There was no accounting for taste after all, and Brown's was certainly the best magazine of its kind in existence.

A week passed, and then one evening the replica of a certain envelope which would ever remain upon the tablets of his memory was dropped through the slit in the shop door. It was addressed to "Henry Harper, Esquire," and ran as follows:

DEAR MR. HARPER,

Come and see me as soon as you can and let us have another little talk about "The adventures of Dick Smith."

Very sincerely yours,

EDWARD AMBROSE.

Henry Harper did not understand the significance of those few and simple words. Mr. Rudge had a fair juster appreciation of the three barely legible lines signed "Edward Ambrose." But the next morning, after further ministrations of his master's clothes brush, the young man went courageously forth to 12B, Pall Mall.

The bemedaled commissionaire and the bald-headed gentleman had no terrors for him now. Had he not walked and talked with Zeus himself? These Olympian sconce bearers could not eat him, and there is always comfort in that reflection for an imaginative mind. Even a ten minutes' wait in the room below did not matter.

Mr. Ambrose greeted him with a grip of the hand which seemed to utter a volume.

"It's a very fine thing," said the editor, without a word of preface, as if there could be only one thought for either just then. "At least that's my opinion." He laughed a little at his own vehemence. "Some people will not agree with me. They'll say it's too crude, they'll say the colors are laid on too thick. But that to me is its wonderful merit; it convinces in spite of itself, which is almost the surest test of genius, although that's a big word. But you've a great faculty. I'm so glad you've been able to make such a fine thing." His eyes shone; the charming voice vibrated with simple enthusiasm. "How one envies a man who can make a thing like that!"

"You needn't, sir," said the Sailor, hardly knowing that he had spoken.

Edward Ambrose fell to earth like an exploded firework. In spite of an eagerness of temperament which amused his friends, he was not a vaporer. He, too, had been in deep places, although the strange kingdoms he had seen were not exactly those of this young man, this curious, awkward, silent, unforgettable figure.

"No, I expect not," said Mr. Ambrose in a changed tone, after a short pause. And then he added abruptly, "Now, suppose we sit down and talk business."

They sat down, but the Sailor had no better idea of talking business than the table in front of him.

"I want very much to run it as a serial in the magazine," said the editor.

"I'll be very proud, sir."

"Well, now, what do you think we ought to pay for it? Just for the serial rights, you know. Of course I ought to explain that you are a new and untried author, and so on. But to my mind that's cheating. Either a thing is or it isn't. I dare say I'm wrong … in a world in which nothing is certain … however … what do you think we ought to pay for the serial rights?