A purpose had instantly formed itself in Ray’s mind which he instantly set himself to carry out. It was none the less a burden because he tried to think it heroic and knew it to be fantastic; and it was in a mood of equally blended devotion and resentment that he disciplined himself to fulfil it. It was shocking to criticise the dying man’s prayer from any such point of view, but he could not help doing so, and censuring it for a want of taste, for a want of consideration. He did not account for the hope of good to the world which Hughes must have had in urging him to befriend his book; he could only regard it as a piece of literature, and judge the author’s motives by his own, which he was fully aware were primarily selfish.
But he went direct to Mr. Brandreth and laid the matter before him.
“Now I’m going to suggest something,” he hurried on, “which may strike you as ridiculous, but I’m thoroughly in earnest about it. I’ve read Mr. Hughes’s book, first and last, all through, and it’s good literature, I can assure you of that. I don’t know about the principles in it, but I know it’s very original and from a perfectly new stand-point, and I believe it would make a great hit.{321}”
Mr. Brandreth listened, evidently shaken. “I couldn’t do it, now. I’m making a venture with your book.”
“That’s just what I’m coming to. Don’t make your venture with my book; make it with his! I solemnly believe that his would be the safest venture of the two; I believe it would stand two chances to one of mine.”
“Well, I’ll look at it for the fall.”
“It will be too late, then, as far as Hughes is concerned. It’s now or never, with him! You want to come out with a book that will draw attention to your house, as well as succeed. I believe that Hughes’s book will be an immense success. It has a taking name, and it’s a novel and taking conception. It’ll make no end of talk.”
“It’s too late,” said Mr. Brandreth. “I couldn’t take such a book as that without passing it round among all our readers, and you know what that means. Besides, I’ve begun to make my plans for getting out your book at once. There isn’t any time to lose. I’ve sent out a lot of literary notes, and you’ll see them in every leading paper to-morrow morning. I’ll have Mr. Hughes’s book faithfully examined, and if I can see my way to it—I tell you, I believe I shall make a success of the Modern Romeo. I like the title better and better. I think you’ll be pleased with the way I’ve primed the press. I’ve tried to avoid all vulgar claptrap, and yet I believe I’ve contrived to pique the public curiosity.{322}”
He went on to tell Ray some of the things he had said in his paragraphs, and Ray listened with that mingled shame and pleasure which the artist must feel whenever the commercial side of his life presents itself.
“I kept Miss Hughes pretty late this afternoon, working the things into shape, so as to get them to the papers at once. I just give her the main points, and she has such a neat touch.”
Ray left his publisher with a light heart, and a pious sense of the divine favor. He had conceived of a difficult duty, and he had discharged it with unflinching courage. He had kept his word to Hughes; he had done all that he could for him, even to offering his own chance of fame and fortune a sacrifice to him. Now he could do no more, and if he could not help being glad that the sacrifice had not been accepted of him, he was not to be blamed. He was very much to be praised, and he rewarded himself with a full recognition of his virtue; he imagined some words, few but rare, from Peace, expressing her sense of his magnanimity, when she came to know of it. He hoped that a fact so creditable to him, and so characteristic, would not escape the notice of his biographer. He wished that Hughes could know what he had done, and in his revery he contrived that his generous endeavor should be brought to the old man’s knowledge; he had Hughes say that such an action was more to him than the publication of his book.
Throughout his transport of self-satisfaction there ran a nether torment of question whether Peace Hughes{323} could possibly suppose that he was privy to that paragraphing about his book, and this finally worked to the surface, and become his whole mood. After his joyful riot it was this that kept him awake till morning, that poisoned all his pleasure in his escape from self-sacrifice. He could only pacify himself and get some sleep at last by promising to stop at the publisher’s on his way down to the Every Evening office in the morning, and beseech her to believe that he had nothing to do with priming the press, and that he wished Mr. Brandreth had not told him of it. Nothing less than this was due him in the character that he desired to appear in hereafter.
He reached the publisher’s office before Mr. Brandreth came down, and when he said he would like to see Miss Hughes, the clerk answered that Miss Hughes had sent word that her father was not so well, and she would not be down that day.
“He’s pretty low, I believe,” the clerk volunteered.
“I’m afraid so,” said Ray.
He asked if the clerk would call a messenger to take a note from him to his office, and when he had despatched it he went up to see Hughes.
“Did you get our message?” Peace asked him the first thing.
“No,” said Ray. “What message?”
“That we sent to your office. He has been wanting to see you ever since he woke this morning. I knew you would come!”
“O yes. I went to inquire of you about him at{324} Chapley’s, and when I heard that he was worse, of course I came. Is he much worse?”
“He can’t live at all. The doctor says it’s no use. He wants to see you. Will you come in?”
“Peace!” Ray hesitated. “Tell me! Is it about his book?”
“Yes, something about that. He wishes to speak with you.”
“Oh, Peace! I’ve done all I could about that. I went straight to Mr. Brandreth and tried to get him to take it. But I couldn’t. What shall I tell your father, if he asks me?”
“You must tell him the truth,” said the girl, sadly.
“Is that Mr. Ray?” Mrs. Denton called from the sick-room. “Come in, Mr. Ray. Father wants you.”
“In a moment. Come here, Mrs. Denton,” Ray called back.
She came out, and he told her what he had told Peace. She did not seem to see its bearing at once. When she realized it all, and had spent her quick wrath in denunciation of Mr. Brandreth’s heartlessness, she said desperately: “Well, you must come now. Perhaps it isn’t his book; perhaps it’s something else. But he wants you.”
She had to rouse her father from the kind of torpor in which he lay like one dead. She made him understand who was there, and then he smiled, and turned his eyes appealingly toward Ray. “Put your ear as close to his lips as you can. He can’t write any more. He wants to say something to you.{325}”
Ray stooped over and put his ear to the drawn lips. A few whiffs of inarticulate breath mocked the dying man’s endeavor to speak. “I’m sorry; I can’t catch a syllable,” said Ray.
A mute despair showed itself in the old man’s eyes.
“Look at me father!” cried Mrs. Denton. “Is it about your book?”
The faintest smile came over his face.
“Did you wish to ask Mr. Ray if he would speak to Mr. Brandreth about it?”
The smile dimly dawned again.
“Well, he has spoken to him. He went to see him last night, and he’s come to tell you”—Ray shuddered and held his breath—“to tell you that Mr. Brandreth will take your book, and he’s going to publish it right away!”
A beatific joy lit up Hughes’s face; and Ray drew a long breath.
Peace looked at her sister.
“I don’t care!” said Mrs. Denton, passionately, dropping her voice. “You have your light, and I have mine.{326}”