An unknown quantity

Front matter

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BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Book I Evelyn Dreams

THE FIRST CHAPTER I

T he normal man or woman meeting Henry Evelyn Rendle for the first time, if that meeting had occurred within the limits marked by his twentyfourth and twenty-sixth years, would undoubtedly have called him a prig. The fact that his married sister Rachel did so call him to his face and, with an effect almost more devastating, to the faces of her friends, probably accounted for the infrequency of their meetings and for the air of constraint with which, when the chances of London threw them to¬ gether, he received her rather blatant attempts at peacemaldng.

‘‘It’s not,” he frequently protested, “that I mind fair criticism, I’m the last person in the world to do that, but I want to be criticised for what I am, not for what I’m

The reply was unvarying: “Exactly, my dear, just as I said, a prig.”

“Simply because I’ve got an artistic con¬ science-”

“Artistic fiddlesticks! a prig you are, my dear, and a prig yon ^11 remain unless I can bully or bore you into being sensible. Nobody else’ll have the patience to try.”

It was, perhaps, natural that the claims of blood should, on such terms, prove irksome to him, and he turned always from these interviews, with a toss of his very fair hair and protesting strides of his very long legs, to recover among his intimates the sense of understanding that he despaired of finding in the complacent Philistinism of Belgravia. The change, of course, brought instant relief, for those intimates of his took Art and the conscience that was supposed to accompany it every bit as seriously as he did, and though they were fond of applying many terms of abuse to individuals who disagreed with them, the epithet ‘‘prig” was rarely heard to pass their lips.

On one subject, that of Success, Evelyn’s con¬ science was, at this time, peculiarly sensitive. He and his friends were fond of erecting, for contro¬ versial purposes, a strange, abstract figure known to them as “The Successful. Abtist,” to which they attributed, in the lengthy process of furious argu¬ ments, the characteristics of a dangerous but alto¬ gether despicable giant.

That Evelyn should take up, on this point, an un¬ compromising attitude was, perhaps, not strictly logical, but then, as Eachel was never tired of point¬ ing out, logic was not his strongest quality. He had, at this time, already produced two novels in the hope, presumably, that they would succeed, and fully intended to add to the number as many more as his publisher would accept. It must not be supposed, however, that he failed entirely to apply his theories to himself—^he had, in fact, at one time, brooded almost morbidly upon tlie subject—nor that he was ignorant of the difficulties confronting his attitude of loyalty to a high ideal. The problem was not one of easy solution until, in a moment of inspiration, he found that he could quite sincerely calm the trouble¬ some voice of conscience by substituting for the word success the better-sounding one of recognition. Kecognition he desired, was ready to force, indeed he vdshed above all things that he might have to force it, and so crown the ultimate victory, in the convincing presence of many gallantly slain oppo¬ nents, with a greater dignity.

When, therefore, on a bright March morning, he found among his letters a short invitation from a well-known literary agent, he allowed his natural feelings to surge unchecked into an emotion of pleasurable excitement of which the knowledge would have drawn from Eachel expressions of sincere and voluble approval.

He read through the document again and this time checked, momentarily, the winged ecstasies that threatened to carry him quite off his feet and fly with him through the window, out above the roofs of Ebury street. There was, after all, something slightly mercenary about the bold caption of the paper, something he didn’t altogether approve, but, well—he hesitated, but only for a second or so— this was, oh yes, most certainly it was, a matter of recognition. He re-read the letter for the third time with a renewed and unclouded sense of gratification. The rest of his post he barely glanced at and imme¬ diately forgot. That single typewritten sheet, how¬ ever, charged, could he but have known it, with the full force of Destiny, he carried with conscious pride all morning in his pocket. A dozen times he glanced at it, twice in the gratifying presence of friends, and at two-fifteen precisely, with a pleasant conscious¬ ness of walking into an adventure, prepared to act upon it.

That he should have been thus pleasurably affected by so ordinary a communication from Messrs. Hope, Cosser and Norris, is but natural, for there can be few things sweeter to young authorship than the intimation that an eminent literary agent has condescended to ‘Hake an interest.’’ Not even the excitement of seeing immature audacities printed, bound, and saleable, can quite compare with the satisfying richness of the later experience. To speak of “My Agent” is more subtly satisfying than to talk glibly of “My Book,” for it gives a sense of atmosphere that seems to promise per¬ manence. In the kindly warmth that emanated from Mr. Norris’s request for an interview, an artistic austerity, colder even than Kendle’s, would, mo¬ mentarily, have melted. In principle, of course, as he still reminded himself, though now with a less sturdy conviction, he didn’t approve of agents any more than be approved of anything connected with what he was pleased to call “commercial art.” Still —well, he would be firm, he would make it clear that the public need expect no concessions from him. If Mr. Norris liked to take him on his own terms he would be willing, at least, to consider the general situation. With his scruples thus finally quieted he walked that afternoon a full two inches, as it were, above the cobble-stones of Covent Garden, in a mood to accept with enthusiasm any adventure, nor did the sense of satisfaction diminish in strength when a small boy in livery led him with careless scorn up four flights of stairs to the room where he was re¬ quested to wait until Mr. Norris should condescend to see him.

The apartment into which he was shown was light and cheerful. On the walls hung numerous photo¬ graphs, signed in flowing hands, of many of the famous and most of the popular authors of the day. In their company he felt, somehow, at home. They seemed to smile at him, and he found himself won¬ dering how long it would be before his own portrait would take its place in the collection and beam auto¬ graphed encouragement upon future aspirants. He checked his wandering thoughts self-consciously with the reflection that he didn’t know, after all, whether he could submit to be ranked with such neighbours. At best he could think of most of them as successful only, and that, in the sense that here applied, he would never let himself become. The thought sobered him, but only for a moment: a lyric mood came hard upon the heels of doubt; anything, he felt, might happen.

Within a minute or two something quite definitely 'did happen, for a door, hitherto unnoticed, opened suddenly, and a girl came quickly into the room. At the sound of the latch he rose anticipating the ex¬ pected summons, but sat down again with a feeling of mild disappointment as soon as he realised that the new-comer had nothing to do with him. Without even a glance in his direction she walked over to a typewriter standing on a table in the window, sat down, and seemed immediately to be absorbed in the work from which she must have been called away a few minutes earlier.

For a while Evelyn sat on as though nothing had happened, then curiosity mastered him. He glanced at the window, turned away his eyes and let them wander again round the gallery of portraits, glanced once more and, realising that his interest was unde¬ tected, indulged in a lengthy investigation. The girl sat square to him, her face hidden by the back of the machine over which she was bending. The picture thus presented to him was decidedly imperfect, in fact it consisted only of two extremely attractive ankles in black silk stockings, the lower half of a blue serge skirt, swift glimpses of a yellow silk blouse, and an agitated crown of hair dark as ebony. Sud¬ denly as he looked the little typewriter bell gave a sharp ‘Hing,’’ and the girl glanced up quickly to make the new adjustment. Eendle, caught un¬ awares, failed to turn his head in time and their eyes met. Only for a moment did they face one another, for after a second’s pause she pushed the ‘‘roller” raspingly over and bent once more to the keys. He too looked away, but he felt that his heart, quite unaccountably, was throbbing. He had been conscious in a flash of a face that bore out the promises of ankles and hair, a confused impression of pallor, dark eyes, and a small red mouth hidden almost as soon as seen, but provocative, exciting.

Embarrassment swept into the room like a gust of warm wind. Each was conscious now, with nerves almost painfully alert, of the other’s presence. The tapping of the machine seemed to Evelyn slightly less dauntless than before. He ventured another quick look and found, this time, eyes to meet his glance. They were not withdrawn so rapidly as they had been before and he ventured a timid smile. The eyes smiled back but the mouth was hidden. No bell sounded, but the tapping ceased and a low, pleasant voice said softly:

“I do hope this doesn’t annoy you?”

He felt himself blushing. A sense of annoyance at such “gaucherie” flashed through his brain and vanished; but the blush remained.

‘‘Oh, no,” he answered, “I don’t mind it at all.”

“I can easily leave it until you’ve gone.” She made the preliminary movements of rising.

“Please don’t go, I like it, honestly I do”; his tone was half imploring, half shy.

Eyes smiled back at him, this time with accom¬ paniment of lips. He noticed now with a feeling of pleasure how full the mouth was, so small in repose but eloquent and sensitive; and as she laughed, a glimpse of tiny white teeth deliciously hiding.

The tapping recommenced, but this time certainly with less assurance. Evelyn got up and walked over to the fireplace, ostensibly to light a cigarette with a twist of paper, really to get a less interrupted view of the window. He turned with the flaming spill in his hand.

“Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Oh, no, please do.” Then, after a moment’s pause, shyly, delightfully, ‘ ‘ I love the smell. ’ ’

He held his case towards her. “Won’t you have one too?”

This time she laughed, a pleasant clear ripple of sound: not a giggle, he noticed with joy, but a real laugh.

“Oh no, thank you very much,” she said, “I couldn’t here, besides I hardly ever do.”

“Sometimes though?”

‘^Well, once in a way,’’ she admitted.

‘ ‘ Take one away with you then, I should like you to.”

She hesitated prettily for a moment, then with an¬ other smile at his obvious embarrassment, took the cigarette he otfered her.

‘‘Well, if you really press me so, I will then; thanks ever so much.”

h’or a minute or so they were both silent: the typewriting was not resumed, but the girl busied herself with some papers on the table beside her. Evelyn smoked quickly. He noticed that his hand trembled as he took the cigarette from his mouth.

She looked up as he moved from the mantelpiece on which he had been leaning.

“I’m afraid you’re being kept waiting a terribly long time,” she said. “Mr. Norris is very busy just now, but he’ll be ready in a few minutes; I’m his secretary.”

Evelyn had conquered by now his first shyness; his blush had gone and he answered confidently with a smile:

“Well, do you know I’m not sure that I’m as anxious as I was to see him!”

The words came on an impulse, and as soon as he had spoken them he repented. They were vulgar, he was taking advantage of her perfectly natural pleasantness. A wave of self-disgust surged over him as she bent her face, faintly flushed, but with eyes still smiling, to her work.

He was about to blurt out some awkward apology for his rudeness, when the door through which she had originally come, opened and a man’s voice called sharply:

An Unknown Quantity ii

‘‘Miss Linnet 1’’

Without a glance at her abashed visitor, the girl rose, took a scribbling pad from the table, and went swiftly from the room, closing the door behind her.

After a second or so she returned.

“Mr. Norris will see you, sir, if you will come this Way,^’ she said.

As he passed through the door she did not even look at him.