I assented sympathetically; and realising that a house holding such a figure of living death within it must of necessity be more or less gloomy and depressing to a young and vigorous nature, I lost no opportunity of giving Lady Sibyl whatever slight pleasures were in my power to procure, for her distraction and entertainment. Costly flowers, boxes for the opera and ‘first nights’ at the play,—every sort of attention that a man can pay to a woman without being considered officious or intrusive I offered, and was not repulsed. Everything progressed well and favourably towards the easy attainment of my wishes,—I had no difficulties, no troubles of any kind,—and I voluntarily led a life of selfishly absorbed personal gratification, being commended and encouraged therein by a whole host of flatterers and interested acquaintances. Willowsmere Court was mine, and every newspaper in the kingdom had commented on the purchase, in either servile or spiteful paragraphs. My lawyers had warmly congratulated me on the possession of so admirable a property which they, in strict accordance with what they conceived to be their duty, had personally inspected and approved. The place was now in the hands of a firm of [p 168] decorators and furnishers, recommended by Rimânez, and it was expected to be in perfect order for my habitation in early summer, at which time I purposed entertaining a large house-party of more or less distinguished people.
Meantime, what I had once considered would be the great event of my life, took place,—namely the publication of my book. Trumpeted forth by the most heraldic advertisements, it was at last launched on the uncertain and fluctuating tide of public favour, and special ‘advance’ copies were sent to the office of every magazine and journal in London. The day after this was done, Lucio, as I now familiarly called him, came in to my room with a mysterious and mischievous air.
“Geoffrey,” he said—“I’m going to lend you five hundred pounds!”
I looked up with a smile.
“What for?”
He held out a cheque towards me. Glancing at it I saw that the sum he mentioned was filled in and endorsed with his signature, but that the name of the person to whom the money was to be made payable, had not yet been written.
“Well? What does it mean?”
“It means”—replied he—“that I am going to see Mr McWhing this morning. I have an appointment with him at twelve. You, as Geoffrey Tempest, the author of the book Mr McWhing is going to criticise and make a ‘boom’ of, could not possibly put your name to such a cheque. It would not be ‘good form’—it might crop up afterwards and so betray ‘the secrets of the prison-house.’ But for me it is another affair. I am going to ‘pose’ as your businessman—your ‘literary agent’ who pockets ten per cent. of the profits and wants to make a ‘big thing’ out of you, and I’m going to talk the matter over with the perfectly practical McWhing who has, like every true Scot, a keen eye for the main chance. Of course it will be in confidence,—strict confidence!” and he laughed—“It’s all a question of business you know,—in these commercial days, literature has become a trade like everything else, and even critics only [p 169] work for what pays them. As indeed why should they not?”
“Do you mean to tell me McWhing will take that five hundred?” I asked dubiously.
“I mean to tell you nothing of the kind. I would not put the matter so coarsely for the world! This money is not for McWhing,—it is for a literary charity.”