II.
For a week the manuscript, roughly wrapped up in its original covering of brown paper, lay undisturbed on the editor's table. Sometimes his eyes dwelt on it with concentrated hatred, but he never touched it. He went on with his work as if it did not exist, but he was never unconscious of its presence.
At last he told himself that he had come to a decision. He would exhaust every method to prevent its publication in the Didactic Weekly. If necessary, he would appeal personally to Miss Winder—on his knees, if that would help matters. If all was in vain, he would resign.
Resign! The very thought gave him indescribable pangs.
"It hasn't come to that yet," he said. "I must exhaust all possibilities first." He shook his fist at the manuscript novel. "I wish it were at the bottom of the sea."
A day or two later he received a note from Mr. Winder, inviting him to dine the following evening. "I have told my daughter," the letter ran, "that you have been reading her novel, and she is most anxious to know your opinion. She wonders whether you would mind bringing the MS., so that she may go through it with you, with a view, no doubt, of pointing out certain beauties you may have missed."
"This is my opportunity," said Didcott, grimly, "and I will take advantage of it."
The next day he presented himself at the house, with the manuscript under his arm. Leaving it in the care of a servant, he was shown into the drawing-room. Mr. Winder came forward hastily as he entered.
"My dear fellow," he said, rather nervously, "how good of you to come at such short notice. I don't think you have met my daughter. Elsie, this is Mr. Didcott."
Didcott bowed. He glanced at the girl before him.
"No, we haven't met before," he answered, and took the hand she proffered.
"I have often heard of you," said Miss Winder. She was a pretty girl, fresh as a flower, and frank and ready in her manner. "Father is always talking of you. I daresay you've heard of me."
"Oh, yes," replied Didcott, a abruptly; "I've heard of you."
"I think dinner is ready," interposed Mr. Winder, hastily. He moved to the door, and the pair followed him.
"You're not quite what I expected," observed Miss Winder, frankly, as they made their way downstairs. "I thought you would be older."
"I am sorry."
"I am so glad you liked my book."
Didcott was taken aback.
"Who told you that?" he asked, endeavouring to impart an air of archness to the query.
"Father said so. I was so pleased." Something in Didcott's manner struck her, for she asked a little sharply, "You do like it, don't you?"
Didcott blinked.
"I have never read anything like it before," he answered.
"It is original," she admitted. "And isn't the hero lovely?"
"The hero?"
"Yes, Rupert Vavasour. 'Tall and pale, with eyes that flash.'"
"Oh, ah! Yes, indeed, he is lovely. He falls in love with—er—the heroine."
"Not at first. Afterwards. When they meet upon the lake. Isn't that a beautiful scene? I wept like anything when I wrote it."
"I felt the same way when I read it," Didcott murmured.
"Did you really?" cried Miss Winder, delightedly. "How charming of you. Father, Mr. Didcott likes my book tremendously."
The old man beamed with pleasure.
"Really, my boy?—not really?" he asked.
Didcott struggled to free himself from his embarrassment.
"I——" he began.
"I don't think, papa, that you should suggest Mr. Didcott is not sincere," said Miss Winder, with dignity. "I have a better opinion of him than that." She smiled with great sweetness on the young man. "You do really like it, don't you, Mr. Didcott?"
"Of course I like it," replied the unhappy young man.
What else could he say?
Throughout dinner nothing was talked of save the merits of the novel. Before long Didcott found he had committed himself to the opinion that it rivalled George Eliot at her best.
"I never did see much in George Eliot," remarked the fair authoress, modestly. "If you had said Marie Corelli——"
And of course the young man said Marie Corelli. He would have said Shakespeare before the dinner was over. Given a charming profile, an excellent dinner, and '84 champagne, what else could have been expected?
When the young lady returned to the drawing-room, leaving the two men to their cigars, Mr. Winder leant over to him confidentially. "Do you really think," he asked, almost wistfully, "that my little girl's book is as good as you say?"
Didcott did not meet his eye. He puffed out a volume of smoke as if he would have hidden himself in its cloud.
The old man sighed.
"You did it out of kindness, Didcott, my boy. It was good of you."
The young man felt his conscience prick him. He had not acted from kindness, but from weakness. The sad look on the father's face touched him.
"Mr. Winder," he said, acting on a sudden impulse, "the book is excellent."
Very soon they joined Miss Winder. The rest of the evening was spent by the authoress in reading aloud extracts from her immortal work. But Didcott did not listen; he found sufficient occupation in watching the varying expressions on the girl's face.
"HE SPRANG ON THE STEP AND
DRAGGED FORTH THE PACKAGE."
"HE SPRANG ON THE STEP AND DRAGGED FORTH THE PACKAGE."
At a late hour he rose reluctantly to go. When the front door closed on him, and he had climbed into a cab, the manuscript on the seat beside him, he realised suddenly how hopeless his case had become. How could he make a stand against the publication of the novel without exposing himself to the scorn of the young lady, and writing himself down an arrant hypocrite in her eyes and in the eyes of the father? He had committed himself beyond redemption.
Suddenly a thought struck him. Suppose the MS. was lost! Suppose he left it in the cab! He remembered there was no name on the parcel. At the impulse of the moment, without stopping to consider the futility of the project, or the objection to it on a moral score, he shouted to the cab to stop, and almost before it had come to a stand he was in the road. Just opposite were the Houses of Parliament. Thrusting some silver into the man's hand, he set off at a rapid pace across Westminster Bridge. There were few passers-by, and after a minute or two of rapid walking he broke into a run. The stony stare of a solitary policeman caused him to adopt a meditative saunter.
As he walked on, he looked out for another cab. At length he heard wheels behind him and turned joyfully. Alas! it was the cab he had just relinquished.
"Hi, sir!" shouted the man, "You've left a parcel be'ind you."
For a moment Didcott stood paralysed. "No, I didn't," he said, at length.
"What!" said the cabman.
"It isn't mine," said Didcott, faintly.
"Why," said the cabman, astonished, "I saw the blooming servant hand it in to you."
Didcott shook his head. "I don't know anything about it," he replied.
The policeman who had witnessed his haste had approached, and stood a silent spectator.
"You'd better take it to Scotland Yard," he observed at this point.
"Why, I knows it's 'is," said the cabman, aggrievedly.
"The gen'lman says it ain't," responded the policeman, judicially.
"Rats!" returned the cabman, plethorically.
Didcott stood miserably silent; he had got beyond his depth, and the conviction that his behaviour was asinine was growing more acute.
"I'll take it to the Yard," said the cabman, disgustedly, "and then I'll call at the 'ouse I picked 'im up at, and tell them."
"Oh, my goodness!" ejaculated Didcott, overwhelmed at the thought. The cabman and the policeman bent frowning brows on him.
"Beg pardon, sir," said the policeman, politely.
Didcott laughed in a strained and unnatural manner. "Ha, ha! So stupid of me! I had forgotten. It does belong to me."
The eyebrows of the other two ascended to the altitudes.
"I'll get it," said Didcott, blithely.
"HE FLUNG THE PARCEL CONTAINING THE MS. OVER WESTMINSTER BRIDGE."
He sprang on to the step, and dragged forth the package. "So much obliged to you. Thank you very much." He tucked the parcel under his arm. "Good-bye."
He turned and hastened along the bridge southwards, leaving the policeman and the cabman regarding him with doubtful eyes. He crossed the bridge, and wandered about in the streets on the Surrey side for nearly an hour before he ventured to retrace his steps.
As he walked back over the bridge, he felt the parcel heavy in his hands. Could he not get rid of it for good and all? Why not drop it over the bridge? No one was in sight. He leant over and looked at the dark waters. Everything was quiet. In an instant, making up his mind, he flung the parcel into the silent river. He heard the splash that followed, and with the sound came an overwhelming sense of guilt.
He turned and hastened homewards, but he had gone only a few yards when, to his consternation, the same policeman confronted him.
"I've been watching you," said the constable.
"Have you?" replied Didcott, vaguely.
"What's that you've thrown into the water?"
"Nothing," said Didcott, finding speech with difficulty.
"Where's that there parcel the cabman gave you?"
Didcott faltered, and then there came a conviction that at any cost he must brazen the matter out.
"I don't know what you mean," he answered, feeling his legs quivering under him.
There was a look of supreme disdain on the policeman's face.
"You'll have to come along of me," he said, briefly.
Didcott shrank back. "With you? Why?"
HE CANNONED INTO A POLICEMAN
AND TOPPLED HIM OVER, BUT
CONTINUED HIS HEADLONG FLIGHT.
"HE CANNONED INTO A POLICEMAN AND TOPPLED HIM OVER, BUT CONTINUED HIS HEADLONG FLIGHT."
The policeman nodded. "That's all right. Never you mind what for."
"I haven't done anything wrong," cried Didcott, piteously. At no time a man of strong nerve, at this crisis he utterly and entirely lost his head.
"That there brown parcel——" began the policeman, argumentatively.
"I don't know anything about it," cried Didcott. "You're mistaking me for someone else. And—and it was only old clothes and things I didn't want."
"You had better explain that to the inspector," said the policeman, unmoved. "What I says is, that things look a bit fishy."
"You've no right to make me come with you," cried Didcott, despairingly.
"Come along," said the constable.
Before Didcott's mind rose a vision of police-court proceedings and newspaper paragraphs; but above all, and dwarfing everything, he seemed to see Miss Winder's scornful face. He eyed the constable, noticing that he was stout and unwieldy of build. The bridge lay silent on either side. In a moment Didcott made up his mind. Darting past the policeman, he ran headlong towards Westminster. He ran as he had never run before. The policeman started in pursuit, but gave up the chase as hopeless after a few yards; he stopped, and Didcott heard the blast of his whistle shrilling in his rear.
Like a hunted hare Didcott flashed past the Houses of Parliament, standing in grim and disapproving majesty. To his heated imagination hundreds of policemen seemed to start from the shadows and join in the pursuit. Certainly one made an effort to stop him, but Didcott dodged, and then easily distanced him. Then rushing blindly along, Didcott cannoned into another, with the result that the constable was toppled over, and Didcott, skipping over his prostrate form, continued his headlong flight. He managed to reach Victoria Street, more by luck than by any consciousness of direction, and down its electric-lit length he fled. In the distance he believed he heard the roar of pursuit.
Luckily he met no more policemen, and the few passers by made no effort to impede his progress. He ran straight, in panic-stricken haste.
To his horror, he found he had entered a blind alley. To retrace his steps seemed hopeless. He gave himself up for lost, when he noticed a little gate cut in the double doors of a work yard standing slightly ajar. He dashed through, and lay on the ground panting. He lay, he knew not how long, in a state of semi-consciousness.
At last, when the faint approach of dawn had begun to lighten the sky, he stole forth and, like a hunted thief, glided homewards to his flat.