FICTION.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 1315, 13 May 1897, Page 40

FICTION.

; fields of fair renown. «♦ £By Joseph Hooking.] . All Bights Reserved, CHAPTER XXI. merlin’s ‘great’ book and another. When Merlin came back from his honeymoon he commenced writing his great book —for he had determined that it should be great. Nothing he had hitherto done should come within measureable distance of it. It should be the work by which his name should be handed down to history, and it should set England talking. He planned it with great care, for he was anxious that the structure of the story should be without flaw. He also read a large number of books in order to be able to write with confidence on certain disputed questions. He visited churches of various orders; he studied their different beliefs. He was often seen at the Law Courts, and he was noticed to pay great attention to cases which seemed to illustrate the condition of certain sections of society. He also paid a visit to Captain Harry Blindy, of the Salvation Army, and asked him to teach him the art of ‘ slumming,’ When he arrived at his old lodgings he received an enthusiastic welcome from his former landlady. ‘ If yer wants to learn slummin’, Mr Rosevear,’ said that lady, ‘ ’Arry’s yer man. I calls ’im the most vallyable man in the Awmy, an’ I means to tell the General so at the first fivorable opporehunity. If you axes me, I should say that, the Awmy owes a great .deal of its success to ’Arry, and, although I oughtn’t to say it, the fact that I was brought up a lidy hev hed a good effect upon the Awmy, seein’ as ’ow the Awmy people mostly belongs to the lower horders. Thet’s what I’ve got to tell the General, Mr Rosevear, when a fivorable opporchunity occurs.’ ‘ That is doubtless true, Mrs Blindy,’ replied Merlin; ‘ that is why I came to him. Come, Captain, are you ready ?’ ‘ We’ll have a word of prayer, Mr Rosevear, and then, bless the Lord, I’m ready.’ He accordingly knelt down and offered up a fervent prayer for guidance and help. None who saw him could doubt his sincerity or the earnest purposes of his heart. Whatever Merlin might think of him, the man’s religion was real to him,, and he had no more doubt about the truth of Salvation Army doctrines than he had about his own existence. ‘ Well, how are you, Mr Rosevear ?’ he asked; after they had gone some distance eastward. ‘ Pretty well, Captain. How are you?’ ‘ Nicely saved, bless the Lord, 1 said the Captain, fervently. That night the Captain led Merlin into strange places, and the young man saw peculiar sights—sights which remained in his memory for many a long day. ‘lt was an unpleasant experience,’ mused Merlin, the following morning; ‘ but it has given me some fair copy—l wouldn’t have missed it for anything. I shall be able to work it up into a fine realistic chapter.’ Presently paragraphs appeared in the papers stating that Mr Merlin Rosevear was engaged on a work that would cause a sensation in the reading world. Later, further .notes were issued to the effect that while Mr Rosevear had only recently started writing this new work, the main theories he would advance had been in his mind for years. Later still information -was given that the popular author’s theories would be substantiated by facts which had caused much controversy at the time they had taken place, and while he anticipated much opposition, and possibly abuse when the book appeared, fidelity to truth demanded plain statements. Just before the book appeared an interview appeared in a popular paper, which interview was widely quoted. This contained, among other items of interest, a letter from the publishers to the author, telling him that, owing to the unprecedented orders for the book, the first edition, published at six shillings, would consist of 25,000. Certainly if the taste of the British public qpuld be whetted by puffing notices, Merlin’s book would be eagerly bought by crowds everywhere. The last paragraph which went the round of the papers was to the effect that after much care in selecting the title, Mr Rosevear had „at last decided on ‘ The i Failure of David’s Son.’

The book was widely advertised, and when it came out was rhuch talked about. The first review that appeared described it as ‘ the boldest book of the century ’ ; the second spoke of it as ‘ sublimely daring, but only daring enough to tell the truth.’ A week later it was reported that Mudie had refused to take a single volume, and the following day a leading newspaper contained an interview with the manager of Smith’s library, who, while admitting the work to be of great cleverness, did not think he would be justified in accepting it. As a reason for this he went on to say that theirs was to a large extent a family library, and he did not regard Mr Rosevear’s novel as quite suited for family reading. This was followed by much correspondence. The daily papers teemed with letters. Some spoke of the novel as a sublime work of art, as eminently pure, and the product of an honest man. Others, again, described it as ‘a cesspool novel,’ and as an insult to our national morality. Many criticised the libraries most severely for boycotting it; those of a different opinion thanked the managers for uttering their pi*otest against a vile production. Judging from the correspondence the book was at the same time eminently pure and sordidly corrupt, a that ought to be read in the interests of morality, and at the same time to be avoided as a pestilence. All this, however, had the effect of creating a great demand for ‘ The'Failure of David’s Son.’ It sold in thousands. It was the talk of reading circles everywhere, and the name of Merlin Rosevear passed from lip to lip freely. Never in his most sanguine moments did Merlin calculate upon such a victory. The leading papers, while they might disagree ■with the sentiments of the novel, spoke of it as the work of a master. Booksellers declared that never in their experience had a book sold so freely. And yet Merlin was not altogether satisfied. The enormous sales did not bring him that satisfaction he expected, and spite of hardening himself against severe criticism, he writhed as he saw the opinion expressed that his was a dangerous, if not an unclean, book. He thought he had counted the cost before he had written it, but now he felt he had paid dearly for his popularity. Besides, was his story true to life ? He had tried to persuade himself that he was conferring a favour on humanity by exposing fallacies, and ridding the world of rubbish. He had attacked Christianity, attacked accepted morals, attacked the marriage code, and laughed at things which oldfashioned people accepted as sacred. Now as he read it over old dreams, old ideals, and old hopes came back to his mind. Years ago they were real to him. Was he happier since he had discarded them ? Would humanity be happier if old-world morality went by the board ? After all, was not Christianity a beautiful dream ? Aye, might it not in essence be true ? Still, he had written his book, it had brought him a notoriety shared by very few, and it had made him the most popular author of the year. He turned to a literary paper, and read the publishers’ announcements. MERLIN ROSEYEAR’S NEW BOOK ! THE SUCCESS OF TIIE TIMES ! Following this was a striking statement of the reviews as follows : ♦ ‘ The book of the day.’— The Moon. ‘ The book of the week.’ — Venus. ‘ The book of the month.’ — The Iconoclast. ‘ The book of the year.’— The Nevj Planet. ‘The book of tho century.’— The Boomerang. For a moment ho forgot sad thoughts, forgot all feelings of regret. What higner testimony could he have than this ? Why should he care about the criticisms of people who had not cast off the swaddling clothes of childish orthodoxy ? His was a book for men and women of the world, ■ a book for those who could cat strong 1 meat. It was true the reviews in question were written by men who but what was the use of thinking about that ? How many reviews were spontaneous and uninfluenced by those in authority ? He was in the swim and he would sail with the tide. Perhaps if public feeling veered back towards old-fashioned beliefs again, he —but there was time enough for that yet. He had no need to trouble about money; his marriage had made him wealthy, independent of his books. His wife’s father’s influence, too, was as great as ever, and there was but little danger of his losing literary prestige. Pie, was, moreover, a young man, entering on the very prime of his physical manhood ; the world was at his feet, and he had placed himself

on his high pedestal by his own brains, his own foresight. And yet he was not happy. His home life was not all he desired. For the first month or two after his marriage his wife seemed young and in buoyant spirits, but of late she had grown weary and at times peevish. Yet why should she ? She was the wife of the most popular novelist of the day, the man about whom the tongues of the world were wagging. • I’ll have it out with Kitty,’ he mused one day; ‘ I don’t like the way she behaves at all. Any one might think I was the most complete failure of the time instead of the most brilliant success.’ When Merlin’s book had been out a few months all talk about it ceased —to all appearance suddenly. One day he was the favourite of the reading world; the I next interest in ‘ The Failure of David’s 1 Son ’ had seemingly died out. Such an event not unfrequently happens in the world of letters. Few things in life are more fickle than popular applause. There was no longer a rush at bookstalls to buy his work, neither were his revolutionary ideas the engrossing subject of conversation. His story had had its day, and now suddenly it ceased to interest. The chief reason for this was that a new star had appeared in the literary firmament. A book entitled ‘ Morning ’ had been published by a leading firm of publishers, and diverted attention from ‘ The Failure of David’s Son.’ At first the press had taken but little notice of it, but one day an influential paper had devoted a special article to it, and the next the remainder of the first edition was taken up, and oiders came in rapidly for a further supply. As the weeks passed by interest in the author of ‘ Morning ’ began to be aroused. Who had written it ? No one seemed to know. The name on the title-page was evidently a nom cle •plume . Who was ‘ Arcadia ? ’ Was it man or woman ? The answer was not forthcoming. Some of the reviewers felt sure that ‘ Morning ’ was the work of a man; others again were equally certain that none but a woman could have given such an exquisite picture of life. Just as when ‘Currer Bell’ wrote ‘Jane Eyre’ and-set the world wondering who the new genius was, so the author of ‘ Morning ’ was enshrouded in mystery. Some of the papers attributed the story to a well-known novelist, and said that this author had long desired to know his work would be received without his name being attached to it. Others again laughed at the idea. The writer in question did heavy, ponderous work. His canvas was large, and the figures upon it were many. ‘ Arcadia,’ on the other hand, did not crowd the stage with many actors. Moreover, the touch was light, the writing was clear and crisp, the situations were new. No one, however, not even the publishers, knew who ‘ Arcadia ’ was. The letter accompanying the novel gave no clue. It simply desired that the reply should be sent to ‘Arcadia,’ in care of a London lawyer.. The book, however, was taken up eagerly,. perhaps because it was true to its name. All through the story the early sunlight seemed to rest, everywhere the dew was upon the flowers, the birds were singing, and the shouts of children were heard. One night when Merlin returned from his club he found his wife sitting up for him. ‘ Not gone to bed yet, Kitty ? ’ he said. ‘ No, Merlin.’ ‘ Anything the matter ? You look pale.’ ‘ I might say the same of you, Merlin. You will need another rest soon.’ ‘ Yes, I have been working confoundedly hard. I have been trying for weeks to fasten on a new idea, but nothing grips me.’ ‘ Write something like “ Loveliglit.” ’ ‘ I can’t. I’m gone past that kind of thing. It will do very well for foolish lads and girls. One must describe life as it is.’ ‘As it is, yes. Only some people sec it differently from others.’ ‘ Still carping on that, Kitty. Give it up. I’m not the man to make you foolish. Your desire for a second childhood is madness. Life is not like I described it in my foolish days.’ His wife got up from her chair. ‘ Merlin,’ she said, I feel that I cannot go on living this hollow, heartless kind of life any longer. What is the use of it ? What is there to live for ? I hate what is called society. I loathe this existence without tenderness, beauty, or love.’ ‘ We must take life as we find it, Kitty,’ said Merlin, wearily. ‘ Life is what we make it,’ she replied. ‘ What has brought this cyaze on you again ? ’

‘ I hoped,’ she went on, ‘ that when I married you I should be able to get out of this miserable, artificial life. I hoped to be able to find some sort of faith. I am sick — s ick to death of the miserable twaddle about breaking away from oldfashioned morality. I loathe the atmosphere that we breathe. There must be something in life true and pure.’ ‘Dont be a fool, Kitty. Surely the woman that wrote “Hymen” is above this kind of thing. What book have you been reading ? ’ He went to the table at which she had been sitting and took up the book which lay on it. ‘“Morning,” by “Arcadia,”’ he read. ‘ Surely you have not caught the craze ; surely you are not going to join in the chorus of praise about this twaddle.’ ‘ Have you read it, Merlin ?’ ‘ I should hope not. I have something better to do with my time.’ ‘ I would give everything I possess to be able to write like it.’ ‘ Nonsense.’ ‘ I would. It is something like your “Lovelight,” only—better. I seemed to breathe a new atmosphere as I read it. It made me have great longings, it made faith possible, heaven possible. Life such as is described there is something to be desired.’ * It is some goody-goody Suiiday-school book, I suppose.’ It is a book for any one. It does not arouse interest by describing unlawful love; it appeals to all that is pure and holy. There is not a word of preaching in the book ; it simply tells a beautiful story; it arouses tenderness, sympathy. It makes life young ; it makes romance possible. It tells of such a life as I dreamed of, and hoped for when you and I were wed.’ ‘ Are you tired of me so soon, Kitty ?’ She looked at him as though she i wanted to say something that had long been in her Her lips trembled, but she did not speak. ‘ I think I will go to bed, Merlin,’ she said ; ‘ I’m tired.’ ‘ All right; I won’t come yet. I’m not sleepy. Besides, I see some letters here.’ He watched her as she left the room ; then he said, slowly, * Well, life’s a poor show after all; it’s different from what I thought it would be. Why is it, I wonder ? I’ve got on, that book has been a tremendous success. It is true it has slumped right down, but then I couldn’t expect it to go on selling for ever. Anyhow, I seem to be pushed aside by this new writer. What is there in the book to set them all talking.’ He picked up some packages from the table, and looked at them one by one until he came to a letter which bore the St. Endor postmark. ‘ It’s.from mother,’ he said. ‘ I wonder what news there is from Cornwall ? I wonder how Helen Granville is getting on ? Has she forgotten me ? Mother has not mentioned her lately.’ He broke the seal of the letter. CHAPTER XXII. ‘ MORNING.’ The letter, as he had anticipated, was written by his mother. The poor soul was evidently in great trouble. ‘ I don’t understand your new book at all, Merlin, she wrote. ‘ What was your reason for not sending it to me ? When I was down to Truro the other day I bought it. It was a lot of money to pay, but I paid it. Merlin, my dear boy, if I didn’t know you to bo a Christian young man, who onco had thoughts about the itinerancy, I should have thought that an infidel did write it. As it is, I doan’t know how to make it out. Why did you laugh at religion, Merlin? It is life to your poor old mother. Why did you spunk slightin’about love and marriage? Your father and I loved each other nearly forty years agono, and wo do still just as much as evor. And as for the unfaithfulness* you talk about, why, my dear hoy. what do you mean ? But t here. 1. don't understand it,. I hear how the papers do pay it is a great hook, so l. suppose you must liavo had a sort of under-meaning which 1 don’t understand. When are you goin' to bring your wife home, Merlin? Wo shall bo fine and proud to see her, although we did have other hopes. Wo ain't a seed Miss Granville lately, but folks bo say in’ as how she’s goin’ to make it up with Mr Goorgo Nowlyn after all. Somehow I don’t think she will, unless her father do make her. Pcoplo be sayin’ that Mr Granville liavo been spokilatin’ again, and that nearly all liis money is gone.’ ‘ Poor old mother,’ sighed Merlin, when he had concluded the letter, ‘ I wonder if she isn’t right after all ? This is not a

letter,’ he mused, as he cut the string of a small parcel. ‘ What is it, I wonder ?’ A piece of cardboard dropped from his hands, and on examining it he found an engraving of Sir Noel Paton’s picture, ‘ The Man with the Muck Rake.’ Underneath was written, * Merlin Rosevear: a faithful portrait.’ ‘ Who dares do that ?’ he cried, throwing the picture from him angrily. Then he burst out laughing. , Raking sticks, straw, and rubbish, and missing—and missing the crown of life, am I ?’ he said, ‘ That is the sender’s opinion of me.’ He lay back in his chair a minute, and seemed to be thinking deeply. ‘ Well, it’s not half bad, after all. Who sent it, I wonder ? This is a woman’s writing. Ah, well, it would have some point if the assumption of the picture were true ? A crown of life, eh ? Well, the sticks are real enough—anyhow the chips are—but the crown —bah ! But there, both Bunyan and Baton were dreaming old fools.’ He tried to treat the picture as a-joke, but still the evident meaning of the sender reached him, the arrow rankled in his heart. ‘ I must say nothing about this,’ he mused; ‘if I do, one of those blessed penny-a-liner fellows will make a paragraph of it, and then throughout all tune I shall be known as ‘ The Man with the Muck Rake.’ I suppose it was some poor scrub who can’t make his way that sent it —out of pure spite, no doubt.’ He took a paper from the table and began to read. It was a leading literary journal, one noted for its scrupulous honesty and fairness. Presently Merlin lifted his eyebrows. * Hello ! ! he cried, * here’s a lengthy review of ‘ Morning,’ by * Arcadia.’ What does the Imperial Observer say ?’ He read eagerly for a time, and presently a frown gathered on his brow. ‘ The insolent wretch ! ’ he cried. ‘ If I knew who it was I would wring his dirty little neck, I would, even although I had to be transported for it.’ He turned to the paragraph and read it again :—- ‘ It is a refreshing sign of the times ’ (concluded the article) ‘ that books such as ‘ Morning ’ are being written; it is more refreshing to remember that they are being read and appreciated. This book is a splendid antidote for Mr Merlin Rosevear’s ditchwater, and we venture to predict that long after that gratuitously filthy and vulgar book, “ The Failure of David’s Son,” is forgotten, “Morning” will be read and enjoyed. The books are as the poles from each other; the former is gloomy, pessimistic, foul; the latter is like the rising of the sun on a clear summer morning ; it is optimistic, and as pure as the dew. Mr Merlin Rosevear pulls down, he revels in the evils of human nature, he seeks to destroy faith in religion, and offers nothing in its place. The author of “ Morning ” builds up, he or she delights in portraying what is beautiful and tender in life, and whereas Mr Rosevear tries to show the evil and selfishness in good actions, “ Arcadia ” shows the soul of goodness in things evil. “Morning,” moreover, while free from all preaching, helps one to believe |n those lines of Tennyson, where he says that—--4 “ Nothing walks with aimless feet.” ‘ We have mentioned these two books together, not because they have anything in common, but simply because they are two of the most popular books of the year. Tlio interest in “ The Failure of David’s Son,” however, is nearly gone, while that in “ Morning ” increases ; and it is no wonder; it is as it should be. The sooner Mr Rosovear’s work is forgotten the better; to breatho its atmosphere is to breathe disease; to read “Morning” is like inhaling the pure air of the country. • Who “ Arcadia” may be wo have not (he slightest idea. We think the writer is a woman, but wo are not sure ; anyhow. we gladly welcome this author as a true artist and a powerful novelist; more over, we shall eagerly look forward for all future work from the same pen.’ ‘ It seems to mo I’m gotting it hot tonight,’thought Merlin, bitterly; ‘anyhow, it has knocked all sleep out of me. Where is this precious book ? Kitty left it here, didn’t she ? No, sho must have taken it to her room ; I’ll go and fetch it.’ Ho went to his wife’s bedroom door, and entered silently. He noticed that she was asleep, and then, yielding to momentary impulse, looked long and steadily at his wife’s face. It was drawn with pain, and the tears trickled down her cheek. Evidently she was dreaming, and as he watched her lips b.egan to move and she murmured feebly. ‘ I am so tired,’ she moaned, ‘ so weary of it all, Oh, Merlin, why is it so hollow, so meaningless ? I know I’ye

Hot been ft good woman, but it was not toy fault, end I do long for a better life. Why don’t you help me, Merlin ? Stop writing those awful books, and tell me about the faith you say your mother holds dear. I really can’t live without something true.’ Presently she ceased moaning, and then taking the book he sought, and which lay on his wife’s pillow, he went downstairs again. ‘ The devil seems to be in it all, I think,’ he muttered; “everything conspires to make me wretched. I wouldn’t have married her if I thought she was going to turn out in this way. Fancy the woman who wrote “ Adam and Eve ” and “ Hymen ” becoming lachrymose like this. Hang it all, I’ve been a fool 1 Still my nest is feathered, and Winthrop is Winthrop, I must not forget that.’ He lit a reading lamp and a cigar, and then commenced to read. ‘ I’ll see what there is in “Arcadia,” ’ he mused, “ and if it’s worth while I’ll send a crushing article to the Boomerang ; it may turn the tables a little.’ When he had read a few pages he stopped. ‘ What does it remind me of ?’ he asked aloud. ‘ Why, it seems like the rising of the sun behind the hill-tops at home.’ He read a few more pages, and old memories, old faiths, old hopes came crowding back to him. He forgot that he was the popular author, who had analysed the shady side of London; he was a boy again, a boy with dreams and visions. Presently tears started to his eyes, but he dashed them away hastily. ‘ I’m not a sentimental child,’ he said, half angrily. But Merlin-Rosevear did not go to bed that night. He stayed hour after hour reading ‘ Morning,’ and did not close it until he had turned the last page. This done he sat like one bewildered until the servants came into the room. He hurried out like some one guilty of a wrong deed; he was angry that the servants should have found him in this way, and yet he could not have told why. * She can write, there’s no doubt about that,’ he said to himself. ‘Yes, it is a woman; no man’s hand penned that book, but who can she be ? Can it be—but no; it is impossible, impossible !’ He went up the broad stairway like one in a dream, and was about to enter the bedroom again when he stopped. ‘ My head is dizzy,’ he said, * and my eyes burn. I’ll get a bath.’ He went to the bathroom and bathed his head. ‘ I was a boy again as I read it,’ he mused, ‘ a boy; I could see the corn waving, I could see the dew-drops shining, I could hear the birds singing and the sea surging in the distance. I’ll find out who it is, I will. I’ll go this very morning and see Fred Gray ; he’ll know who wrote it right enough. It’s all wind to say the publishers don’t know who this “ Arcadia ” is. "What about agreements ? what about cheques ? Yes, Gray will know, and he will do anything to oblige me.’ He breakfasted with his wife as usual, and was more affectionate towards her than he had been for day past. ‘Merlin,’ she said, evidently appreciating his more than ordinary kindness, ‘let us-go into J the country somewhere. Let us see life sweet and young. , Let’s go down to your old home.’ «I’m afraid : you wouldn’t be happy there; 'Kitty; my father - and mother are 1 cottagers': . the, house is ' scarcely bigger than a good dog kennel.’ As he spoke he the day that Helen Granville came to see him ; he remembered the love he had felt for her, the love he had since sacrificed. \ I should like to stay in the cottage, Merlin. I should like to see your home and your father and mother; I should like to hear them talk about your boyhood.’ ' ‘ Very well, we’ll see about it,’ he said, hastily, thinking of Helen Granville again, and" wondering whether, if he went down, he might have an opportunity of seeing her. What kind of a meeting would it be ? What would she say ? ‘ It will be beautiful to find some one possessing a simple faith, and living such a life as your mother lives,’ she said. ‘Arrange for us to go quickly if you can, Merlin.’ As soon as he was able Merlin found his way to the office of ]\lr Fredeiick Gray, the managing director of the firm of publishers which had issued ‘Morning.’ Since he had risen to popularity he had received overtures from the same firm, but had decided that on the whole Messrs 'Quill and Steel would do the best for him. He had kept friendly with Mr Gray, however. ‘ It is always well to keep on the right side of a good publishing house,’ he frequently remarked to

his literary friends ; for my part, I think that the author who follows in the wake of Byron, and talks about Barrabbas as a publisher, is a fool.’ When he arrived at Mr Gray’s office he was immediately admitted. He remembered the time when, with trembling steps, he came to the door of this great publishing house, and when he asked to see the publication manager was told that Mr Gray never saw any one except by appointment. He remembered, too, the look of pitying contempt on the clerk’s face as he produced a manuscript, and said he should like a little conversation with the manager about it before it was submitted to a reader. ‘ All manuscrips are dealt with on their merits,’ the clerk said, pompously. ‘ I daresay you’ll recejye an answer in three weeks or so.’ * Then I can’t see Mr Gray ?’ ‘ Impossible 1’ and he had gone away* crestfallen, weary and hungry, yet with a great determination to conquer his difficulties even yet. Now all was different. No sooner did he present his card than the clerk was the soul of politeness. Certainly, he would tell Mr Gray at once, and he hurried to that gentleman’s room without delay, and a few seconds later returned saying that Mr Gray would see Mr Rosevear immediately. ‘ Glad to see you, Mr Rosevear,’ said Mr Gray, holding out his hand as Merlin entered; ‘it is a long time since you called here.’ * I have called in the past though,’ replied Merlin with a laugh, ‘ and have been as good as kicked out.’ ‘ The clerks knew not a famous man in those days.’ ‘ Evidently not. I was thinking as I came up just now of the time when I asked to see you, and was told that you never saw any one except by appointment, and that Mr Gray was very busy.’ ‘ Good ; well, you’ve had your revenge since. Have you got anything good to offer us ? You made a tremendous hit with that “ Sorrows of David,” but I think we shall run you close.’ ‘ “ Sorrows of David ?” ’ ‘ Yes that was the title of our book, wasn’t it ?’ ‘No ; it is “ The Failure of David’s Son.” ’ ‘ Oh, so it was. I was sure it was something about David ; I haven’t read it myself, but of [course I know it has been a tremendous success. I’ll be glad to make terms with you for the next if you are dissatisfied with Quill and Steel. You both made a hit, although the book was, I suppose, very risky as to morals. Still the world wants a sensation, and Quill rejoiced that he was the medium through which it was made. Not that we have anything to complain of. This book of ours is going like wildfire.’ ‘ What book ?’ ‘ Why, “ Morning.” Of course yon have heard about it.’ ‘ Yes, my wife was reading it yesterday.’ ‘lt’s going to be a grand thing for us. It might have been better, but the writer did her business through a lawyer, who is a keen fellow. I wish we had bought the copyright completely. She’d have taken £SO for it but for the lawyer fellow, I’m sure. He, however, stuck out for a royalty. Still we have done and are doing very well by her.’ ‘ Her I It is a woman then ?’ ‘ Oh, yes. I may say that.’ ‘ You haven’t advertised much ’ ‘ No, that’s the best of it; there has been no need. The sale of the book has been steadily increasing each day. We have a difficulty in supplying the demands.’ ‘ You are to be congratulated.’ ‘ We are, indeed.’ ‘ Of course you’ve seen the author ?’ ‘ No.’ ‘ But you know who she is ?’ ‘‘‘Ye—es, we know her name.’ ‘ And her place of residence ?’ ‘ Yes, we hioxv it.’ ‘ Well, who is she ?’ ‘ I’m not at liberty to tell.’ ‘ Nonsense.’ ‘ Fact, I assure you.’ ‘ But what can be the use of concealment ? Is she anything out of the common ? Is she any great lady ?’ ‘ Nothing of the sort. A lady, certainly, but as obscure as Currer Bell of long ago.’ ‘ But from what part of the country does she hail ?’ ‘ I am not at liberty to tell even that.’ ‘ Why, your clerks must know. You will be constantly getting letters for her ?’ ‘ Yes, they are beginning to stream in now.’ ‘ And you forward them to her ?’

‘ Certainly.’' ‘ But your clerks will talk.’ ‘ They know nothing about it.’ 1 Oh, I see—a mystery, eh ?’ ‘ No, only she does not wish to disclose her name yet. At first even we were ignorant of it, but that state of things soon came to an end.’ ‘ Well, I’m curious. I’ve just read the book myself, and I can’t help thinking that I’ve met the author.’ ‘ All things are possible ; the world is small.’ ‘ She hails from a western county, eh ?’ ‘ Perhaps; perhaps from a northern one.” ‘ Oh, I see, you won’t split.’ ‘ A promise is a promise.’ Merlin left not long after, feeling that he had been beaten. Why he did not know, but he desired more than he could say to know the name of the author of the novel called “ Morning.” ’ Feeling unfitted for work, he walked along the Strand, towards the restaurant where he had seen Vivian Gregory on the day when years before he, Merlin, was starving. ‘ I’ll go and have a bite there,’ he said. ‘ I feel as though I were just come from Cornwall again and had no money in my pocket.’ He had barely entered the room when he heard a familiar voice close to him. ‘ Rosevear.’ ‘ Is that you, Gregory ?’ ‘ Yes, will you have some lunch with me ?’ * With pleasure. Got anything new ?’ ‘ I think so. Anyhow, you may be interested to know, I’m off to Cornwall for a holiday.’ ‘ What part of Cornwall ?’ ‘To your old home. To St. Endor.’ Merlin drew nearer to Gregory, as though some suspicion were aroused. ‘ When do you go ?’ ‘ To-night. I leave Paddington by the six o’clock train.’ (To be continued.)