On an evening of early summer, six months after the death of Edwin Reardon, Jasper of the facile pen was bending over his desk, writing rapidly by the warm western light which told that sunset was near. Not far from him sat his younger sister; she was reading, and the book in her hand bore the title, 'Mr Bailey, Grocer.'
'How will this do?' Jasper exclaimed, suddenly throwing down his pen.
And he read aloud a critical notice of the book with which Dora was occupied; a notice of the frankly eulogistic species, beginning with: 'It is seldom nowadays that the luckless reviewer of novels can draw the attention of the public to a new work which is at once powerful and original;' and ending: 'The word is a bold one, but we do not hesitate to pronounce this book a masterpiece.'
'Is that for The Current?' asked Dora, when he had finished.
'No, for The West End. Fadge won't allow anyone but himself to be lauded in that style. I may as well do the notice for The Current now, as I've got my hand in.'
He turned to his desk again, and before daylight failed him had produced a piece of more cautious writing, very favourable on the whole, but with reserves and slight censures. This also he read to Dora.
'You wouldn't suspect they were written by the same man, eh?'
'No. You have changed the style very skilfully.'
'I doubt if they'll be much use. Most people will fling the book down with yawns before they're half through the first volume. If I knew a doctor who had many cases of insomnia in hand, I would recommend "Mr Bailey" to him as a specific.'
'Oh, but it is really clever, Jasper!'
'Not a doubt of it. I half believe what I have written. And if only we could get it mentioned in a leader or two, and so on, old Biffen's fame would be established with the better sort of readers. But he won't sell three hundred copies. I wonder whether Robertson would let me do a notice for his paper?'
'Biffen ought to be grateful to you, if he knew,' said Dora, laughing.
'Yet, now, there are people who would cry out that this kind of thing is disgraceful. It's nothing of the kind. Speaking seriously, we know that a really good book will more likely than not receive fair treatment from two or three reviewers; yes, but also more likely than not it will be swamped in the flood of literature that pours forth week after week, and won't have attention fixed long enough upon it to establish its repute. The struggle for existence among books is nowadays as severe as among men. If a writer has friends connected with the press,. it is the plain duty of those friends to do their utmost to help him. What matter if they exaggerate, or even lie? The simple, sober truth has no chance whatever of being listened to, and it's only by volume of shouting that the ear of the public is held. What use is it to Biffen if his work struggles to slow recognition ten years hence? Besides, as I say, the growing flood of literature swamps everything but works of primary genius. If a clever and conscientious book does not spring to success at once, there's precious small chance that it will survive. Suppose it were possible for me to write a round dozen reviews of this book, in as many different papers, I would do it with satisfaction. Depend upon it, this kind of thing will be done on that scale before long. And it's quite natural. A man's friends must be helped, by whatever means, quocunque modo, as Biffen himself would say.'
'I dare say he doesn't even think of you as a friend now.'
'Very likely not. It's ages since I saw him. But there's much magnanimity in my character, as I have often told you. It delights me to be generous, whenever I can afford it.'
Dusk was gathering about them. As they sat talking, there came a tap at the door, and the summons to enter was obeyed by Mr Whelpdale.
'I was passing,' he said in his respectful voice, 'and couldn't resist the temptation.'
Jasper struck a match and lit the lamp. In this clearer light Whelpdale was exhibited as a young man of greatly improved exterior; he wore a cream-coloured waistcoat, a necktie of subtle hue, and delicate gloves; prosperity breathed from his whole person. It was, in fact, only a moderate prosperity to which he had as yet attained, but the future beckoned to him flatteringly.
Early in this year, his enterprise as 'literary adviser' had brought him in contact with a man of some pecuniary resources, who proposed to establish an agency for the convenience of authors who were not skilled in disposing of their productions to the best advantage. Under the name of Fleet & Co., this business was shortly set on foot, and Whelpdale's services were retained on satisfactory terms. The birth of the syndicate system had given new scope to literary agencies, and Mr Fleet was a man of keen eye for commercial opportunities.
'Well, have you read Biffen's book?' asked Jasper.
'Wonderful, isn't it! A work of genius, I am convinced. Ha! you have it there, Miss Dora. But I'm afraid it is hardly for you.'
'And why not, Mr Whelpdale?'
'You should only read of beautiful things, of happy lives. This book must depress you.'
'But why will you imagine me such a feeble-minded person?' asked Dora. 'You have so often spoken like this. I have really no ambition to be a doll of such superfine wax.'
The habitual flatterer looked deeply concerned.
'Pray forgive me!' he murmured humbly, leaning forwards towards the girl with eyes which deprecated her displeasure. 'I am very far indeed from attributing weakness to you. It was only the natural, unreflecting impulse; one finds it so difficult to associate you, even as merely a reader, with such squalid scenes.
The ignobly decent, as poor Biffen calls it, is so very far from that sphere in which you are naturally at home.'
There was some slight affectation in his language, but the tone attested sincere feeling. Jasper was watching him with half an eye, and glancing occasionally at Dora.
'No doubt,' said the latter, 'it's my story in The English Girl that inclines you to think me a goody-goody sort of young woman.'