The Bromley Gibberts Story
The room in which John Shorely edited the Weekly Sponge was notluxuriously furnished, but it was comfortable. A few pictures decoratedthe walls, mostly black and white drawings by artists who were sounfortunate as to be compelled to work for the Sponge on thecheap. Magazines and papers were littered all about, chiefly Americanin their origin, for Shorely had been brought up in the editorialschool which teaches that it is cheaper to steal from a foreignpublication than waste good money on original contributions. Youclipped out the story; changed New York to London; Boston orPhiladelphia to Manchester or Liverpool, and there you were.Shorely's theory was that the public was a fool, and didn't know thedifference. Some of the greatest journalistic successes in Londonproved the fact, he claimed, yet the Sponge frequently boughtstories from well-known authors, and bragged greatly about it.Shorely's table was littered with manuscripts, but the attention of thegreat editor was not upon them. He sat in his wooden armchair, with hisgaze on the fire and a frown on his brow. The Sponge was notgoing well, and he feared he would have to adopt some of the many prizeschemes that were such a help to pure literature elsewhere, or offer athousand pounds insurance, tied up in such a way that it would looklavishly generous to the constant reader, and yet be impossible tocollect if a disaster really occurred.In the midst of his meditations a clerk entered and announced--"Mr.Bromley Gibberts.""Tell him I'm busy just now--tell him I'm engaged," said the editor,while the perplexed frown deepened on his brow.The clerk's conscience; however, was never burdened with that message,for Gibberts entered, with a long ulster coat flapping about his heels."That's all right," said Gibberts, waving his hand at the boy, whostood with open mouth, appalled at the intrusion. "You heard what Mr.Shorely said. He's engaged. Therefore let no one enter. Get out."The boy departed, closing the door after him. Gibberts turned the keyin the lock, and then sat down."There," he said; "now we can talk unmolested, Shorely. I should thinkyou would be pestered to death by all manner of idiots who come in andinterrupt you.""I am," said the editor, shortly."Then take my plan, and lock your door. Communicate with the outeroffice through a speaking-tube. I see you are down-hearted, so I havecome to cheer you up. I've brought you a story, my boy."Shorely groaned."My dear Gibberts," he said, "we have now----""Oh yes, I know all about that. You have matter enough on hand to runthe paper for the next fifteen years. If this is a comic story, youare buying only serious stuff. If this be tragic, humour is what youneed. Of course, the up-and-down truth is that you are short of money,and can't pay my price. The Sponge is failing--everybody knowsthat. Why can't you speak the truth, Shorely, to me, at least? If youpracticed an hour a day, and took lessons--from me, for instance--youwould be able in a month to speak several truthful sentences one afterthe other."The editor laughed bitterly."You are complimentary," he said."I'm not. Try again, Shorely. Say I'm a boorish ass.""Well, you are.""There, you see how easy it is! Practice is everything. Now, about thisstory, will you----""I will not. As you are not an advertiser, I don't mind admitting toyou that the paper is going down. You see it comes to the same thing.We haven't the money as you say, so what's the use of talking?"Gibberts hitched his chair closer to the editor, and placed his hand onthe other's knee. He went on earnestly--"Now is the time to talk, Shorely. In a little while it will be toolate. You will have thrown up the Sponge. Your great mistake istrying to ride two horses, each facing a different direction. It can'tbe done, my boy. Make up your mind whether you are going to be a thiefor an honest man. That's the first step.""What do you mean?""You know what I mean. Go in for a paper that will be entirely stolenproperty, or for one made up of purely original matter.""We have a great deal of original matter in the Sponge.""Yes, and that's what I object to. Have it all original, or have it allstolen. Be fish or fowl. At least one hundred men a week see a stolenarticle in the Sponge which they have read elsewhere. They thenbelieve it is all stolen, and you lose them. That isn't business, so Iwant to sell you one original tale, which will prove to be the mostremarkable story written in England this year.""Oh, they all are," said Shorely, wearily. "Every story sent to me is amost remarkable story, in the author's opinion.""Look here, Shorely," cried Gibberts, angrily, "you mustn't talk to melike that. I'm no unknown author, a fact of which you are very wellaware. I don't need to peddle my goods.""Then why do you come here lecturing me?""For your own good, Shorely, my boy," said Gibberts, calming down asrapidly as he had flared up. He was a most uncertain man. "For your owngood, and if you don't take this story, some one else will. It willmake the fortune of the paper that secures it. Now, you read it while Iwait. Here it is, typewritten, at one-and-three a thousand words, allto save your blessed eyesight."Shorely took the manuscript and lit the gas, for it was getting dark.Gibberts sat down awhile, but soon began to pace the room, much toShorely's manifest annoyance. Not content with this, he picked up thepoker and noisily stirred the fire. "For Heaven's sake, sit down,Gibberts, and be quiet!" cried Shorely, at last.Gibberts seized the poker as if it had been a weapon, and glared at theeditor."I won't sit down, and I will make just as much noise as I want to," heroared. As he stood there defiantly, Shorely saw a gleam of insanity inhis eyes."Oh, very well, then," said Shorely, continuing to read the story.For a moment Gibberts stood grasping the poker by the middle, then heflung it with a clatter on the fender, and, sitting down, gazed moodilyinto the fire, without moving, until Shorely had turned the last page."Well," said Gibberts, rousing from his reverie, "what do you think ofit?""It's a good story, Gibberts. All your stories are good," said theeditor, carelessly.Gibberts started to his feet, and swore."Do you mean to say," he thundered, "that you see nothing in that storydifferent from any I or any one else ever wrote? Hang it, Shorely, youwouldn't know a good story if you met it coming up Fleet Street! Can'tyou see that story is written with a man's heart's blood?"Shorely stretched out his legs and thrust his hands far down in histrousers' pockets."It may have been written as you say, although I thought you called myattention a moment ago to its type-written character.""Don't be flippant, Shorely," said Gibberts, relapsing again intomelancholy. "You don't like the story, then? You didn't see anythingunusual in it--purpose, force, passion, life, death, nothing?""There is death enough at the end. My objection is that there is toomuch blood and thunder in it. Such a tragedy could never happen. No mancould go to a country house and slaughter every one in it. It'sabsurd."Gibberts sprang from his seat and began to pace the room excitedly.Suddenly he stopped before his friend, towering over him, his longulster making him look taller than he really was."Did I ever tell you the tragedy of my life? How the property thatwould have kept me from want has----""Of course you have, Gibberts. Sit down. You've told it to everybody.To me several times.""How my cousin cheated me out of----""Certainly. Out of land and the woman you loved.""Oh! I told you that, did I?" said Gibberts, apparently abashed at theother's familiarity with the circumstances. He sat down, and rested hishead in his hands. There was a long silence between the two, which wasfinally broken by Gibberts saying--"So you don't care about the story?""Oh, I don't say that. I can see it is the story of your own life, withan imaginary and sanguinary ending.""Oh, you saw that, did you?""Yes. How much do you want for it?""L50.""What?""L50, I tell you. Are you deaf? And I want the money now.""Bless your innocent heart, I can buy a longer story than that from thegreatest author living for less than L50. Gibberts, you're crazy."Gibberts looked up suddenly and inquiringly, as if that thought hadnever occurred to him before. He seemed rather taken with the idea. Itwould explain many things which had puzzled both himself and hisfriends. He meditated upon the matter for a few moments, but at lastshook his head."No, Shorely," he said, with a sigh. "I'm not insane, though, goodnessknows, I've had enough to drive me mad. I don't seem to have the luckof some people. I haven't the talent for going crazy. But to return tothe story. You think L50 too much for it. It will make the fortune ofthe paper that publishes it. Let me see. I had it a moment ago, but thepoint has escaped my memory. What was it you objected to as unnatural?""The tragedy. There is too much wholesale murder at the end.""Ah! now I have it! Now I recollect!"Gibberts began energetically to pace the room again, smiting his handstogether. His face was in a glow of excitement."Yes, I have it now. The tragedy. Granting a murder like that, one mana dead shot, killing all the people in a country house; imagine itactually taking place. Wouldn't all England ring with it?""Naturally.""Of course it would. Now, you listen to me. I'm going to commit thatso-called crime. One week after you publish the story, I'm going downto that country house, Channor Chase. It is my house, if there wasjustice and right in England, and I'm going to slaughter every one init. I will leave a letter, saying the story in the Sponge is thetrue story of what led to the tragedy. Your paper in a week will be themost-talked-of journal in England--in the world. It will leapinstantaneously into a circulation such as no weekly on earth everbefore attained. Look here, Shorely, that story is worth L50,000 ratherthan L50, and if you don't buy it at once, some one else will. Now,what do you say?""I say you are joking, or else, as I said just now, you are as mad as ahatter.""Admitting I am mad, will you take the story?""No, but I'll prevent you committing the crime.""How?""By giving you in charge. By informing on you.""You can't do it. Until such a crime is committed, no one would believeit could be committed. You have no witnesses to our conversation here,and I will deny every assertion you make. My word, at present, is asgood as yours. All you can do is to ruin your chance of fortune, whichknocks at every man's door. When I came in, you were wondering what youcould do to put the Sponge on its feet. I saw it in yourattitude. Now, what do you say?""I'll give you L25 for the story on its own merits, although it is abig price, and you need not commit the crime.""Done! That is the sum I wanted, but I knew if I asked it, you wouldoffer me L12 10s. Will you publish it within the month?""Yes.""Very well. Write out the cheque. Don't cross it. I've no bankaccount."When the cheque was handed to him, Gibberts thrust it into the ticket-pocket of his ulster, turned abruptly, and unlocked the door. "Good-bye," he said.As he disappeared, Shorely noticed how long his ulster was, and how itflapped about his heels. The next time he saw the novelist was undercircumstances that could never be effaced from his memory.The Sponge was a sixteen-page paper, with a blue cover, and theweek Gibberts' story appeared, it occupied the first seven pages. AsShorely ran it over in the paper, it impressed him more than it haddone in manuscript. A story always seems more convincing in type.Shorely met several men at the Club, who spoke highly of the story, andat last he began to believe it was a good one himself. Johnson wasparticularly enthusiastic, and every one in the Club knew Johnson'sopinion was infallible."How did you come to get hold of it?" he said to Shorely, withunnecessary emphasis on the personal pronoun."Don't you think I know a good story when I see it?" asked the editor,indignantly."It isn't the general belief of the Club," replied Johnson, airily;"but then, all the members have sent you contributions, so perhaps thataccounts for it. By the way, have you seen Gibberts lately?""No; why do you ask?""Well, it strikes me he is acting rather queerly. If you asked me, Idon't think he is quite sane. He has something on his mind.""He told me," said the new member, with some hesitation--"but really Idon't think I'm justified in mentioning it, although he did not tell itin confidence--that he was the rightful heir to a property in----""Oh, we all know that story!" cried the Club, unanimously."I think it's the Club whiskey," said one of the oldest members. "Isay, it's the worst in London.""Verbal complaints not received. Write to the Committee," put inJohnson. "If Gibberts has a friend in the Club, which I doubt, thatfriend should look after him. I believe he will commit suicide yet."These sayings troubled Shorely as he walked back to his office. He satdown to write a note, asking Gibberts to call. As he was writing,McCabe, the business manager of the Sponge, came in."What's the matter with the old sheet this week?" he asked."Matter? I don't understand you.""Well, I have just sent an order to the printer to run off an extra tenthousand, and here comes a demand from Smith's for the whole lot. Theextra ten thousand were to go to different newsagents all over thecountry who have sent repeat orders, so I have told the printer now torun off at least twenty-five thousand, and to keep the plates on thepress. I never read the Sponge myself, so I thought I would dropin and ask you what the attraction was. This rush is unnatural."Better read the paper and find out," said Shorely."I would, if there wasn't so much of your stuff in it," retortedMcCabe.Next day McCabe reported an almost bewildering increase in orders. Hehad a jubilant "we've-done-it-at-last" air that exasperated Shorely,who felt that he alone should have the credit. There had come no answerto the note he had sent Gibberts, so he went to the Club, in the hopeof meeting him. He found Johnson, whom he asked if Gibberts were there."He's not been here to-day," said Johnson; "but I saw him yesterday,and what do you think he was doing? He was in a gun-shop in the Strand,buying cartridges for that villainous-looking seven-shooter of his. Iasked him what he was going to do with a revolver in London, and hetold me, shortly, that it was none of my business, which struck me asso accurate a summing-up of the situation, that I came away withoutmaking further remark. If you want any more stories by Gibberts, youshould look after him."Shorely found himself rapidly verging into a state of nervousnessregarding Gibberts. He was actually beginning to believe the novelistmeditated some wild action, which might involve others in adisagreeable complication. Shorely had no desire to be accessory eitherbefore or after the fact. He hurried back to the office, and therefound Gibberts' belated reply to his note. He hastily tore it open, andthe reading of it completely banished what little self-control he hadleft."Dear Shorely,--I know why you want to see me, but I have so manyaffairs to settle, that it is impossible for me to call upon you.However, have no fears; I shall stand to my bargain, without anygoading from you. Only a few days have elapsed since the publication ofthe story, and I did not promise the tragedy before the week was out. Ileave for Channor Chase this afternoon. You shall have your pound offlesh, and more.--Yours,"BROMLEY GIBBERTS."Shorely was somewhat pale about the lips when he had finished thisscrawl. He flung on his coat, and rushed into the street. Calling ahansom, he said--"Drive to Kidner's Inn as quickly as you can. No. 15."Once there, he sprang up the steps two at a time, and knocked atGibberts' door. The novelist allowed himself the luxury of a "man," andit was the "man" who answered Shorely's imperious knock."Where's Gibberts?""He's just gone, sir.""Gone where?""To Euston Station, I believe, sir; and he took a hansom. He's goinginto the country for a week, sir, and I wasn't to forward his letters,so I haven't his address.""Have you an 'ABC'?""Yes, sir; step inside, sir. Mr. Gibberts was just looking up trains init, sir, before he left."Shorely saw it was open at C, and, looking down the column to Channor,he found that a train left in about twenty minutes. Without a word, hedashed down the stairs again. The "man" did not seem astonished. Queerfish sometimes came to see his master."Can you get me to Euston Station in twenty minutes?"The cabman shook his head, as he said--"I'll do my best, sir, but we ought to have a good half-hour."The driver did his best, and landed Shorely on the departure platformtwo minutes after the train had gone."When is the next train to Channor?" demanded Shorely of a porter."Just left, sir.""The next train hasn't just left, you fool. Answer my question.""Two hours and twenty minutes, sir," replied the porter, in a huff.Shorely thought of engaging a special, but realised he hadn't moneyenough. Perhaps he could telegraph and warn the people of ChannorChase, but he did not know to whom to telegraph. Or, again, he thoughthe might have Gibberts arrested on some charge or other at ChannorStation. That, he concluded, was the way out--dangerous, but feasible.By this time, however, the porter had recovered his equanimity. Porterscannot afford to cherish resentment, and this particular porter sawhalf a crown in the air."Did you wish to reach Channor before the train that's just gone, sir?""Yes. Can it be done?""It might be done, sir," said the porter, hesitatingly, as if he wereon the verge of divulging a State secret which would cost him hissituation. He wanted the half-crown to become visible before hecommitted himself further."Here's half a sovereign, if you tell me how it can be done, short ofhiring a special.""Well, sir, you could take the express that leaves at the half-hour. Itwill carry you fifteen miles beyond Channor, to Buley Junction, then inseventeen minutes you can get a local back to Channor, which is duethree minutes before the down train reaches there--if the local is intime," he added, when the gold piece was safe stowed in his pocket.While waiting for the express, Shorely bought a copy of theSponge, and once more he read Gibberts' story on the way down.The third reading appalled him. He was amazed he had not noticed beforethe deadly earnestness of its tone. We are apt to underrate or overratethe work of a man with whom we are personally familiar.Now, for the first time, Shorely seemed to get the proper perspective.The reading left him in a state of nervous collapse. He tried toremember whether or not he had burned Gibberts' letter. If he had leftit on his table, anything might happen. It was incriminating evidence.The local was five minutes late at the Junction, and it crawled overthe fifteen miles back to Channor in the most exasperating way, losingtime with every mile. At Channor he found the London train had come andgone."Did a man in a long ulster get off, and----""For Channor Chase, sir?""Yes. Has he gone?""Oh yes, sir! The dog-cart from the Chase was here to meet him, sir.""How far is it?""About five miles by road, if you mean the Chase, sir.""Can I get a conveyance?""I don't think so, sir. They didn't know you were coming, I suppose, orthey would have waited; but if you take the road down by the church,you can get there before the cart, sir. It isn't more than two milesfrom the church. You'll find the path a bit dirty, I'm afraid, sir, butnot worse than the road. You can't miss the way, and you can send foryour luggage."It had been raining, and was still drizzling. A strange path issometimes difficult to follow, even in broad daylight, but a wet, darkevening adds tremendously to the problem. Shorely was a city man, andquite unused to the eccentricities of country lanes and paths.He first mistook the gleaming surface of a ditch for the footpath, andonly found his mistake when he was up to his waist in water. The raincame on heavily again, and added to his troubles. After wanderingthrough muddy fields for some time, he came to a cottage, where hesucceeded in securing a guide to Channor Chase.The time he had lost wandering in the fields would, Shorely thought,allow the dog-cart to arrive before him, and such he found to be thecase. The man who answered Shorely's imperious summons to the door wassurprised to find a wild-eyed, unkempt, bedraggled individual, wholooked like a lunatic or a tramp."Has Mr. Bromley Gibberts arrived yet?" he asked, without preliminarytalk."Yes, sir," answered the man."Is he in his room?""No, sir. He has just come down, after dressing, and is in the drawing-room."I must see him at once," gasped Shorely. "It is a matter of life anddeath. Take me to the drawing-room."The man, in some bewilderment, led him to the door of the drawing-room,and Shorely heard the sound of laughter from within. Thus ever arecomedy and tragedy mingled. The man threw the door open, and Shorelyentered. The sight he beheld at first dazzled him, for the room wasbrilliantly lighted. He saw a number of people, ladies and gentlemen,all in evening dress, and all looking towards the door, withastonishment in their eyes. Several of them, he noticed, had copies ofthe Sponge in their hands. Bromley Gibberts stood before thefire, and was very evidently interrupted in the middle of a narration."I assure you," he was saying, "that is the only way by which a storyof the highest class can be sold to a London editor."He stopped as he said this, and turned to look at the intruder. It wasa moment or two before he recognised the dapper editor in thebedraggled individual who stood, abashed, at the door."By the gods!" he exclaimed, waving his hands. "Speak of the editor,and he appears. In the name of all that's wonderful, Shorely, how didyou come here? Have your deeds at last found you out? Have they duckedyou in a horse-pond? I have just been telling my friends here how Isold you that story, which is making the fortune of the Sponge.Come forward, and show yourself, Shorely, my boy.""I would like a word with you," stammered Shorely."Then, have it here," said the novelist. "They all understand thecircumstances. Come and tell them your side of the story.""I warn you," said Shorely, pulling himself together, and addressingthe company, "that this man contemplates a dreadful crime, and I havecome here to prevent it."Gibberts threw back his head, and laughed loudly."Search me," he cried. "I am entirely unarmed, and, as every one hereknows, among my best friends.""Goodness!" said one old lady. "You don't mean to say that ChannorChase is the scene of your story, and where the tragedy was to takeplace?""Of course it is," cried Gibberts, gleefully. "Didn't you recognise thelocal colour? I thought I described Channor Chase down to the ground,and did I not tell you you were all my victims? I always forget someimportant detail when telling a story. Don't go yet," he said, asShorely turned away; "but tell your story, then we will have each man'snarrative, after the style of Wilkie Collins."But Shorely had had enough, and, in spite of pressing invitations toremain, he departed out into the night, cursing the eccentricities ofliterary men.
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