‘Well,’ I said, ‘let me hear the terms.’
The terms were liberal enough. A certain sum per sheet at a higher rate than I could earn elsewhere, and with the certainty of a market for all I wrote, which at that time I did not possess. But the bait which finally took me was the offer of an immediate cheque for fifty pounds on account and to bind the transaction.
I took counsel of my wife.
‘Can you hesitate?’ she said. ‘Here we hardly know where to look for to-morrow’s food, and you are offered a certain income and fifty pounds as earnest-money.’
I closed with the offer and accepted the retaining fee; and I felt as Dr Faustus might have done when he sold his soul to the Evil One.
Mrs Collingwood Dawson seemed pleased at my compliance, and sketched out to me the part she wished me to take. We were to manufacture novels solely—about three a year. The plot was to be drawn out for me with indications of the points to be worked out. I was to fill in dialogue and description. The ‘author’ was to be at liberty to add, cut out, amend, and put in finishing touches.
‘I shall give you,’ she said, ‘a packet which I have left in the fly, containing the various works of my husband. Read them over critically, and adapt your style to his. I know you are a skilful workman, and will have no difficulty in the matter.’
Business over, my employer joined our family dinner. She was bright and cheerful, and her gaiety was infectious. My wife was charmed with her; the children could not make enough of her. Her presence had all the effect upon me of sparkling wine. When she was gone, I sat down to read Mr Dawson’s works with as little appetite for their perusal as a grocer has for figs. But I was surprised to find that though uneven in quality and often carelessly written, there were abundant traces of a vivid imagination, and an intimate knowledge of the workings of the human heart in morbid and unhealthy developments. These qualities, I may say, appeared only by fits and starts, and were overlaid by a good deal of very commonplace work. The strong point of his fiction, and that which gained, no doubt, the approval of the public, was the plot. His plots were always ingenious and well combined, and kept the interest going to the very fall of the curtain.
Time passed on. I got fairly to work on my new business. I had no fault to find with my employers, and they on their part seemed well satisfied with my services. I had as much work as I could manage; but I found it much easier than of old, inasmuch as I had definite lines to work upon and a distinct object in view. Then the payment was regular, and in virtue of that, our household assumed an aspect of comfort and tranquillity to which it had long been a stranger. As it was no longer necessary for me to live within reach of London, I determined to carry out a plan that had been in my head for some time, and settle for a while in some quiet place in Normandy, where one could have good air, repose, and tranquillity, without the appalling dullness that mantles over an English country town.
All this time I had never seen Mr Collingwood Dawson, and the only address I knew was at his chambers in the Temple; but all business matters were arranged with a Mr Smith, who, I understood, was his agent. My removal involved only a trifling extra cost in postage, and I had work on hand that would keep me going for several months.