Mark

by H.H. Munro (SAKI)

　　

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Augustus Mellowkent was a novelist with a future; that is to say, alimited but increasing number of people read his books, and there seemedgood reason to suppose that if he steadily continued to turn out novelsyear by year a progressively increasing circle of readers would acquirethe Mellowkent habit, and demand his works from the libraries andbookstalls. At the instigation of his publisher he had discarded thebaptismal Augustus and taken the front name of Mark. "Women like a name that suggests some one strong and silent, able butunwilling to answer questions. Augustus merely suggests idle splendour,but such a name as Mark Mellowkent, besides being alliterative, conjuresup a vision of some one strong and beautiful and good, a sort of blend ofGeorges Carpentier and the Reverend What's-his-name." One morning in December Augustus sat in his writing-room, at work on thethird chapter of his eighth novel. He had described at some length, forthe benefit of those who could not imagine it, what a rectory gardenlooks like in July; he was now engaged in describing at greater lengththe feelings of a young girl, daughter of a long line of rectors andarchdeacons, when she discovers for the first time that the postman isattractive. "Their eyes met, for a brief moment, as he handed her two circulars andthe fat wrapper-bound bulk of the _East Essex News_. Their eyes met, forthe merest fraction of a second, yet nothing could ever be quite the sameagain. Cost what it might she felt that she must speak, must break theintolerable, unreal silence that had fallen on them. 'How is yourmother's rheumatism?' she said." The author's labours were cut short by the sudden intrusion of amaidservant. "A gentleman to see you, sir," said the maid, handing a card with thename Caiaphas Dwelf inscribed on it; "says it's important." Mellowkent hesitated and yielded; the importance of the visitor's missionwas probably illusory, but he had never met any one with the nameCaiaphas before. It would be at least a new experience. Mr. Dwelf was a man of indefinite age; his high, narrow forehead, coldgrey eyes, and determined manner bespoke an unflinching purpose. He hada large book under his arm, and there seemed every probability that hehad left a package of similar volumes in the hall. He took a seat beforeit had been offered him, placed the book on the table, and began toaddress Mellowkent in the manner of an "open letter." "You are a literary man, the author of several well-known books--" "I am engage on a book at the present moment--rather busily engaged,"said Mellowkent, pointedly. "Exactly," said the intruder; "time with you is a commodity ofconsiderable importance. Minutes, even, have their value." "They have," agreed Mellowkent, looking at his watch. "That," said Caiaphas, "is why this book that I am introducing to yournotice is not a book that you can afford to be without. _Right Here_ isindispensable for the writing man; it is no ordinary encyclopaedia, or Ishould not trouble to show it to you. It is an inexhaustible mine ofconcise information--" "On a shelf at my elbow," said the author, "I have a row of referencebooks that supply me with all the information I am likely to require." "Here," persisted the would-be salesman, "you have it all in one compactvolume. No matter what the subject may be which you wish to look up, orthe fact you desire to verify, _Right Here_ gives you all that you wantto know in the briefest and most enlightening form. Historicalreference, for instance; career of John Huss, let us say. Here we are:'Huss, John, celebrated religious reformer. Born 1369, burned atConstance 1415. The Emperor Sigismund universally blamed.'" "If he had been burnt in these days every one would have suspected theSuffragettes," observed Mellowkent. "Poultry-keeping, now," resumed Caiaphas, "that's a subject that mightcrop up in a novel dealing with English country life. Here we have allabout it: 'The Leghorn as egg-producer. Lack of maternal instinct in theMinorca. Gapes in chickens, its cause and cure. Ducklings for the earlymarket, how fattened.' There, you see, there it all is, nothinglacking." "Except the maternal instinct in the Minorca, and that you could hardlybe expected to supply." "Sporting records, that's important, too; now how many men, sporting meneven, are there who can say off-hand what horse won the Derby in anyparticular year? Now it's just a little thing of that sort--" "My dear sir," interrupted Mellowkent, "there are at least four men in myclub who can not only tell me what horse won in any given year, but whathorse ought to have won and why it didn't. If your book could supply amethod for protecting one from information of that sort it would do morethan anything you have yet claimed for it." "Geography," said Caiaphas, imperturbably; "that's a thing that a busyman, writing at high pressure, may easily make a slip over. Only theother day a well-known author made the Volga flow into the Black Seainstead of the Caspian; now, with this book--" "On a polished rose-wood stand behind you there reposes a reliable and up-to-date atlas," said Mellowkent; "and now I must really ask you to begoing." "An atlas," said Caiaphas, "gives merely the chart of the river's course,and indicates the principal towns that it passes. Now _Right Here_ givesyou the scenery, traffic, ferry-boat charges, the prevalent types offish, boatmen's slang terms, and hours of sailing of the principal riversteamers. If gives you--" Mellowkent sat and watched the hard-featured, resolute, pitilesssalesman, as he sat doggedly in the chair wherein he had installedhimself, unflinchingly extolling the merits of his undesired wares. Aspirit of wistful emulation took possession of the author; why could henot live up to the cold stern name he had adopted? Why must he sit hereweakly and listen to this weary, unconvincing tirade, why could he not beMark Mellowkent for a few brief moments, and meet this man on levelterms? A sudden inspiration flashed across his. "Have you read my last book, _The Cageless Linnet_?" he asked. "I don't read novels," said Caiaphas tersely. "Oh, but you ought to read this one, every one ought to," exclaimedMellowkent, fishing the book down from a shelf; "published at sixshillings, you can have it at four-and-six. There is a bit in chapterfive that I feel sure you would like, where Emma is alone in the birchcopse waiting for Harold Huntingdon--that is the man her family want herto marry. She really wants to marry him, too, but she does not discoverthat till chapter fifteen. Listen: 'Far as the eye could stretch rolledthe mauve and purple billows of heather, lit up here and there with theglowing yellow of gorse and broom, and edged round with the delicategreys and silver and green of the young birch trees. Tiny blue and brownbutterflies fluttered above the fronds of heather, revelling in thesunlight, and overhead the larks were singing as only larks can sing. Itwas a day when all Nature--" "In _Right Here_ you have full information on all branches of Naturestudy," broke in the bookagent, with a tired note sounding in his voicefor the first time; "forestry, insect life, bird migration, reclamationof waste lands. As I was saying, no man who has to deal with the variedinterests of life--" "I wonder if you would care for one of my earlier books, _The Reluctanceof Lady Cullumpton_," said Mellowkent, hunting again through thebookshelf; "some people consider it my best novel. Ah, here it is. Isee there are one or two spots on the cover, so I won't ask more thanthree-and-ninepence for it. Do let me read you how it opens: "'Beatrice Lady Cullumpton entered the long, dimly-lit drawing-room, hereyes blazing with a hope that she guessed to be groundless, her lipstrembling with a fear that she could not disguise. In her hand shecarried a small fan, a fragile toy of lace and satinwood. Somethingsnapped as she entered the room; she had crushed the fan into a dozenpieces.' "There, what do you think of that for an opening? It tells you at oncethat there's something afoot." "I don't read novels," said Caiaphas sullenly. "But just think what a resource they are," exclaimed the author, "on longwinter evenings, or perhaps when you are laid up with a strained ankle--athing that might happen to any one; or if you were staying in a house-party with persistent wet weather and a stupid hostess and insufferablydull fellow-guests, you would just make an excuse that you had letters towrite, go to your room, light a cigarette, and for three-and-ninepenceyou could plunge into the society of Beatrice Lady Cullumpton and herset. No one ought to travel without one or two of my novels in theirluggage as a stand-by. A friend of mine said only the other day that hewould as soon think of going into the tropics without quinine as of goingon a visit without a couple of Mark Mellowkents in his kit-bag. Perhapssensation is more in your line. I wonder if I've got a copy of _ThePython's Kiss_." Caiaphas did not wait to be tempted with selections from that thrillingwork of fiction. With a muttered remark about having no time to waste onmonkey-talk, he gathered up his slighted volume and departed. He made noaudible reply to Mellowkent's cheerful "Good morning," but the latterfancied that a look of respectful hatred flickered in the cold grey eyes.

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