XXI
Inthe course of the following week an announcement was made which marked an epoch in the history of the great publishing house of Crumpett and Hawker.
However, before this event had burgeoned forth upon the counting-house staff, Mr. M. Arnold Dodson, with whose individual destiny it was concerned, continued to live in that condition of soul-distraction, to which it would seem even the most philosophic minds are susceptible, which is known as hope deferred.
All the week Mr. Dodson had waited in vain to be summoned into the presence of authority, to receive the seal of official recognition to which he felt his mature talents were unquestionably entitled. He had set his heart upon the dethronement of young Davis. To that other accomplished worldling, who in mere point of age was a year older than himself, he never referred without the prefix “young.” But the misdemeanour of which that successful adventurer had been convicted, of smoking in the room of the head of the firm, had not as yet borne the fruit that Mr. Dodson had confidently predicted. Mr. Davis was still enthroned in high places, triumphant still in his original deceit; every morning he appended his signature in the time-book, G. Eliot Davis, 9.15, not the least among the Olympians whose seat was on the second storey; while Mr. M. Arnold Dodson, in every way his superior in moral and mental attainment, still languished in the comparative obscurity of the counting-house below.
On two occasions during that week had Mr. Dodson walked into the Strand during the luncheonhour, and had purchased an extremely pungent cigar, for which he had disbursed the sum of one penny. Armed with this implement he had stolen up-stairs in the absence of the staff during the hour of luncheon, and had smoked it grimly and relentlessly in the middle of the sanctuary of Mr. Octavius Crumpett. Melancholy to relate, however, in spite of the physical pangs endured by the heroic Mr. Dodson, who in the very act of informing William Jordan, Junior, that “that young Davis had been smoking again in Octavius’s room,” had to make a sudden and somewhat undignified exit to the back of the building—in spite of such tribulations as these the wicked, in the person of G. Eliot Davis, continued to flourish in that time-honoured fashion which has been celebrated by Holy Writ.
“Luney,” said Mr. Dodson, with an unaffected pathos in his voice, when the second of these heroic efforts to dethrone the unrighteous had been fraught with no other compensation than that of suffering of a purely physical kind, which is too often the reward of human nature’s disinterestedness, “Luney, it fairly turns me sick to see that young Davis walk up those stairs. I shouldn’t mind, you know, I shouldn’t mind at all if he had played the game. But he got where he is by a trick, and it is doing him no kindness to try to gloss it over.”
Upon the delivery of this altogether admirable piece of morality touched by emotion, Mr. M. Arnold Dodson, for the second time that afternoon, retired to the back of the building with a haste which scarcely harmonized with his natural dignity.
As he returned with an unwonted pallor upon a countenance which as a rule bore evidence of being soundly nourished, whom should he meet, as if by the irony of circumstance, but Mr. G. Eliot Davis descending the stairs. For once the eminent philosopher and man of the world seemed to lack the moral strength to encounter one whom he could only regard in the light of a successful adventurer.Therefore he strove to escape without attempting to outface a demeanour, which in his view was flown to an exaggerated degree with the insolence of office. This afternoon, however, he was not able to control the fates.
“Dodson,” said Mr. G. Eliot Davis, in the tone which Mr. Dodson made a point of describing as “insufferable”; “Dodson,” said Mr. Davis, “perhaps it may interest you to know that Mr. Octavius’s personal translation of Homer’s Odyssey will be issued to the Trade on Monday next.”
“Thank you, Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, with the self-command that the great display on great occasions. “I am glad to know that, very glad indeed.”
Mr. Dodson’s official duties should have led him there and then into the counting-house of Crumpett and Hawker; but as he stood to watch the small but stout, erect, and prosperous form of Mr. G. Eliot Davis saunter out of the front entrance of No. 24 Trafalgar Square, an idea flashed across that Napoleonic brain.
Therefore, instead of returning to admonish William Jordan, Junior, for omitting to inscribe the courtesy prefix to the name of a peer’s daughter in returning the manuscript copy of her verses, Mr. Dodson also sauntered forth of No. 24 Trafalgar Square. He turned the first corner and entered the refreshment buffet of the Brontë Hotel. Presiding over that hall of public entertainment was the lady of the scarlet blouse and yellow earrings. This afternoon the blouse was heliotrope, and she wore no earrings.
“Chrissie,” said Mr. Dodson, “I want something to pull me together. It must be up to proof, but it must leave no odour.”
“I always say you can’t do better than brandy,” said Chrissie, with the assured yet quiet air of the unmistakable expert. “Of course, some prefer a John Collins, or an American, or a Dog Toby, but I am not partial to so much fancy work myself.”
“Same here,” said Mr. Dodson. “But there must be no odour—none whatever.”
“You shall have a toothful of the Waterloo, as your face seems familiar,” said Chrissie benignly.
“You are a good sort, Chrissie,” said Mr. Dodson, with a small display of emotion that became him perfectly. “I shall not forget you.”
“My size is nine and a quarter,” said the lady, as with extreme precision she measured out a small quantity of a curiously-coloured liquid from a very mysterious-looking bottle. “Jimmy, I must say you do look a bit below yourself. Has the moon come up yet?”
“Not yet,” said Mr. Dodson in a tone of amiable deprecation. He was greatly indebted to the kindness of the lady in the heliotrope blouse, but her question was alien to his dignity, as was also the situation in which he found himself. Even at this period of his career all those attributes were clearly developed which in after years brought him so much distinction in political life.
“Well, if you will smoke El Destinkers at one and fourpence a hundred,” said the lady in the heliotrope blouse.
“Chrissie,” said Mr. Dodson impressively, after swallowing the brandy at a single gulp, “youshouldknow that I am physically incapable of doing anything of the kind.”
“I can smell it from here,” said the lady in the heliotrope blouse.
“I know it is not considered the thing to contradict a lady,” said Mr. Dodson, withdrawing two steps from the buffet, “but you appear to have paid me the compliment of forgetting the commercial traveller who has just gone out. So long. Be good.”
Mr. Dodson sauntered out of the refreshment buffet of the Brontë Hotel with the inimitable nonchalance of bearing which many, besides the lady in the heliotrope blouse, never failed to admire.
Before returning to his official duties at No. 24Trafalgar Square, Mr. Dodson went in quest of a chemist, whom he found a few doors up the street. Of him he purchased a pennyworth of pungent pink lozenges, which immediately he proceeded to suck. He then re-entered the premises of the eminent publishing house; but instead of going forthwith to admonish William Jordan, Junior, he proceeded to wash his face, to part his hair in the middle with much care, and to re-adjust his necktie.
These preliminaries accomplished, Mr. Dodson walked very slowly and erectly up to the second storey. He entered the small ante-chamber at the head of the stairs, which was dedicated to the sole use of the vigilant guardian of these Olympian altitudes, one G. Eliot Davis.
“Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, peering within, “is Mr. Octavius in his room?”
“Yes, Dodson, he is,” said Mr. Davis.
“Alone, Davis?”
“Alone, Dodson.”
“Thank you, Davis.”
“Don’t mention it, Dodson.”
Upon the conclusion of this exchange of courtesies, which an impartial observer might have considered as a trifle elaborated on both sides, Mr. Dodson knocked smartly and boldly, yet withal respectfully, upon the portals of Mr. Octavius Crumpett. Mr. Dodson entered the august presence briskly, but closed the door after him with delicacy and with self-possession.
Mr. Octavius Crumpett was seated at the table in close proximity to the fire. Every letter and document, every book, every small article was arranged upon it with scrupulous nicety. The head of the firm was enjoying the academic pleasure of running a paper-knife through the close-pressed leaves, within a chaste and scholarly binding, of his personal translation of the Odyssey, which was to be issued to an expectant world upon the following Monday.
Mr. Octavius Crumpett looked up urbanely fromhis insidious and alluring occupation. A slight frown of perplexity almost seemed to cloud for a moment that serene brow. In his boundless conscientiousness Mr. Octavius Crumpett conceived it to be his duty to be able to remember the name of each individual member of his staff, however lowly or obscure his station. For an instant he almost feared that he had forgotten the name of the individual before him. But this moment of doubt, of almost tremulous perplexity, which did him such credit as a man, as the head of a house of eminent publishers, as an enlightened patron of labour, passed almost as soon as it appeared, for a weak wet glint of the afternoon sun suddenly illumined the wizened countenance of the young gentleman who stood before him; and as if touched by inspiration Mr. Octavius Crumpett remembered that the name of the young gentleman was Matthew Arnold Dodson.
“Well, Mr. Dodson?” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, in that tone and manner which were ever the despair and admiration of his staff.
Mr. M. A. Dodson, who had already shown his consummate breeding by waiting for his chief to speak first, as though he were a royalty incarnate, bowed slightly from his full height, which was hardly more than four feet ten inches, and said in a very carefully modulated voice, “I apologize, sir, for my intrusion, but I learn that your personal translation of the Odyssey is to be issued to the Trade on Monday next.”
“That is in accord with existing arrangements, I believe,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, with a masterly implication that his well-cut diction dealt merely with human nature’s daily food.
“Well now, sir,” said Mr. M. A. Dodson, whose mellifluous accent might have sounded a little ingratiating had it been used by a less able practitioner, “I am taking the freedom of askingyou, sir, whether I might purchase my own private copy this evening. The fact is, sir,” Mr. M. A. Dodsonadded, in a burst of humble yet half-whimsical self-revelation, “I can hardly possess my soul in patience until Monday next. May I ask, sir, would it beinfra dignitatemif I were to obtain my own copy this evening? I am particularly anxious to have the opportunity of studying the entire achievement—I feel sure, sir, I am justified in applying beforehand that much-abused word—before the journals of professional criticism, which are very excellent in their way, which I needn’t tellyou, sir, I read every week, have had the opportunity of swaying my private judgment.”
Mr. Octavius Crumpett paused, with his solid silver paper-knife suspended in the air, to listen to this masterful piece of elocution on the part of Mr. M. A. Dodson. As the delicately enunciated phrases fell from those gently simpering lips, quite as they would have proceeded from those of the listener himself, an emotion of pleasure and gratitude percolated through the entire being of this good and benign gentleman. That portion of his being which was arrayed in a waistcoat of immaculate whiteness rose and fell in visible accord with the internal harmony. The traditions of the house of Crumpett and Hawker were never so secure as in the keeping of even one of the latest additions to its clerical staff. By some mysterious means the rarefied air of that establishment had wrought already upon one of the least considerable of its members.
“Mr. Dodson,” said Mr. Octavius Crumpett, speaking with obvious emotion, “it will—ah, give meimmensepleasure if you will accept the first copy of my—ah, little book.”
“It will delight me, sir, of course, to accept the first copy,” said Mr. M. A. Dodson, speaking with a quiet dignity and a mature reserve which became him superbly; “it willoverwhelmme with honour, but if my acceptance of the first copy could in any way be misconstrued—that is, sir, I mean to say, the freedom I have been guilty of in coming herethis afternoon to speak to you on the subject could be misconstrued—I should greatly prefer to obtain the first copy by purchase in the usual manner. And after all, sir,” Mr. M. A. Dodson concluded, with an arch smile, “if you will permit me to say it, sir, the labourer is worthy of his hire. If this custom, sir, became in any sense general of an author giving away his own works, every author, sir, would either have to become his own publisher, or every publisher would have to become his own author.”
The glow behind the immaculate waistcoat of Mr. Octavius Crumpett was heightened to such a degree by these scruples, and by the cultivated terms in which they gained expression, that the good man was fain to embody it by beaming like a seraph.
“Pray, my dear Mr. Dodson,” purred his august employer, “do not vex a nice conscience with scruples that are not in the least necessary. I shall becharmedif you will allow me to present you with the first copy of my—ah, little book. Will you kindly ask Mr. Davis to give you one of the copies set apart for review? and if, Mr. Dodson, you will take an early opportunity of telling mepreciselywhat you think about it I shall be honoured indeed, for I perceive, Mr. Dodson, that you have a real and deep love of letters.”
The manner in which Mr. M. A. Dodson took leave of Mr. Octavius Crumpett was entirely worthy, in the amplest sense, of two such ornaments of their age. As the head of the firm watched the close-knit figure of Mr. M. A. Dodson recede through the door of his room, he said for his own private delectation: “This house undoubtedly has an atmosphere of its own. It seems to exude an aroma. That is a very remarkable youth; a youth of precocious attainment. He talks like a book.”
Mr. M. Arnold Dodson, with his hand on the door of Mr. G. Eliot Davis, said to himself, “Inever talk to Octavius without wanting to run straight out into the street to beat out the brains of a little boy in a sailor suit.”
“Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, entering modestly the sanctum of that worthy, “Mr. Octavius’s compliments, and will you have the kindness to give M. Arnold Dodson a review copy of his translation of Homer?”
“Have you a signed order, Dodson, to that effect?” said Mr. Davis, who cloaked his profound astonishment somewhat ineffectually in a display of officialdom.
“As you appear to doubt my bona fides, Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, with leisurely dignity, “perhaps you will have the condescension to verify them for yourself.”
“Very good, Dodson,” said Mr. Davis, who by now had regained his own natural self-possession, which was not inconsiderable. “Excuse me for one moment. Take a chair. Make yourself quite at home.”
“I shall make myself quite at home a good deal sooner than you think, you young swine,” said Mr. Dodson through clenched teeth, as Mr. Davis betook himself to the presence of Mr. Octavius Crumpett. “Jack in office! But your days are numbered, my son, your days are numbered!”
The bewildered Mr. G. Eliot Davis returned and handed a copy of Mr. Octavius Crumpett’s translation of the Odyssey to Mr. M. Arnold Dodson.
“Davis,” said Mr. Dodson, placing the handsome volume ostentatiously under his arm, “you are a youth of intellectual gifts, but unfortunately, like many others of your type, your gifts don’t take you quite far enough. You will understand a little better what I mean about this time on Monday. Good afternoon, Davis.”
“Good afternoon, Dodson. Mind the stairs!” said Mr. Davis, as Mr. Dodson picked his way delicately down them.
“What does Octavius mean, I wonder, by givinghiman advance copy?” mused Mr. Davis, pale with anger. “He knows what two and two make, does James Dodson. I shouldn’t mind a bit if only he played the game. I wish Octavius was not such a d——d old fool.”
With this reflection, which it must be conceded was in somewhat questionable taste, upon the mental attainments and general calibre of his august employer, Mr. G. Eliot Davis put on his hat, and went his virtuous way to that hall of public entertainment, the annexe to the Brontë Hotel, and accepted a cup of tea from the hands of the lady in the heliotrope blouse.
“Chrissie,” said Mr. Davis, stirring his tea apprehensively, “that young cad, Jimmy Dodson, cut me out with you, and now he’s trying to cut me out with Octavius.”
“Well, Percy,” said the lady in the heliotrope blouse, “if that is so you can go home to mamma. Whatever Jimmy Dodson tries to do he does.”