In the Mist of the Mountains Part 11

CHAPTER IX

THE INTERVIEW FOR THE "EVENING MAIL"

Kate could hardly have chosen a more inopportune moment. The hero, who had troubled Hugh's repose in the moist atmosphere of the city, persisted in behaving in an untoward fashion, even when translated to an alt.i.tude of three thousand feet or so. He still perorated, still posed like a shop-walker, still behaved like a puppet, with its pulling strings in plainest evidence.

It was a mercilessly hot afternoon. All over the mountains the tourists were asking themselves in bitterness of spirit why they had left their comfortable homes in the city to subject themselves to weather like this. They all had the feeling of being wronged out of their money; the hotel-keepers, the house-agents, had lured them here under false pretences, and positively deserved punishment.

The sweat of heat and mental exertion poured down Hugh's face. He had followed his usual plan of work this year, that of drifting pleasantly along for nine months, jotting down a few notes, and writing a chapter now and again; and then pulling himself sharply together, and trying to work like a horse, and get all his ideas reduced to paper, corrected, re-written, and made ready for Kate to type in three months. Every New Year's Day he sat with Kate and mapped out a plan of work for the fresh year, that was to be utterly dissimilar to this reprehensible practice.

Sometimes they got paper, and planned out each month's work, so many chapters to the month; it was surprising how simple it all looked, put down like that. For instance, one book a year, when a year consisted of three hundred and sixty-five days, was not too much to expect from a moderately active man in full possession of his health and faculties.

One book a year represented say, thirty chapters, sixty or seventy thousand words. Seventy thousand words, divided by three hundred and sixty-five days, represented less than two hundred words a day. It looked like child's play--on the sheet of paper. It fairly astonished Hugh when he saw the whole question of his authorship thus reduced to its simple factors in black and white. Kate had typed the remarkable memorandum for him last year, and pasted it on a card, so that he might prop it up before him on his desk as a constant reminder.

Two hundred words a day! He used to spend much of the early part of January leaning back in his chair, happily planning out the accomplishment of two or three books which had long been in his head, but which want of time had hitherto prevented from getting as far as his writing-block. Yes, he determined (in January) that it was more than possible to have the whole three finished by next December; he was not married, his time was his own, he could order his days as he pleased, and turn night into day, and day into night, exactly when he chose. Why, when the good moods came, did he not write five thousand words a day, easily, eagerly! And this steady writing of a couple of hundred words a day would bring the good mood often, no doubt.

Yes, he would finish the three books this year--the subjects were all to his hand--and possibly the play he had had tucked away in his mind so many years. And some verse, too--the luxury of verse was very dear to him.

Brave January with the sun of resolution flaming high in the sky!

It was December now.

The poet might have as truly spoken of the _facilis descensus_ to December as to the torrid region he mentioned.

It was December, and Hugh's first book still wanted forty thousand words to complete it. The other two works, the play, the verses, were still in the pale nimbus that ever plays tantalizingly around an author's desk.

It was December and the publisher was clamouring for copy. In the proud insolence begot of January's shining possibilities and Kate's neat memorandum, Hugh had promised his book by August.

And the long-suffering, kindly publisher, sympathetic over an author's mood, had refrained from overmuch pressing of his claim for three months. But it was December now and he was growing restive; the MS. had to be typed, had to waste five weeks at sea, to be read in London, to be placed as advantageously as possible for serial rights in various countries, to be ill.u.s.trated, to be printed, proofs had to be sent out for correction, to be returned, ten more weeks had to be lost at sea, and yet the book be published in the sacred season of autumn, nine short months hence.

The publisher was restive and Hugh desperate.

He had sworn to himself this afternoon nearly as fiercely as Pauline had that he would not leave the room until he "got it right." Pauline was granted the relief of tears. Hugh could only give vent to his tumult of mind by tearing off his collar and hurling it into one corner of the room, peeling off his coat and flinging it under his table, and kicking off his white canvas shoes. These last he had purchased from one of the shoe-makers in the township only this morning, having neglected to put any footgear at all in his portmanteau. And being only two and elevenpence--none better were kept in stock--the shoes were badly cut and pinched him atrociously.

One at present reposed, sole upwards, on a chair where it had alighted after a vigorous aerial flight, and the other stood its ground in the middle of the floor.

And this was the manner of author Miss Bibby found herself suddenly shut up with for an interview destined for the _Evening Mail!_

Hugh spun round in his chair at Kate's bland voice. He probably imagined he was in his revolving-chair at home, but he was not, and the frail article beneath him, unused to gyration upon one leg, gave way instantly and all but precipitated him at full length before his visitor.

Max, who an hour before had impugned the butcher's impurity of language, would have found that in some respects a butcher and an author were men and brothers.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "Hugh spun round in his chair at Kate's bland voice"]

There was only one word; but the vigorous deliverance of it made Miss Bibby catch her breath and clasp her hands.

"I have startled you, madam," said Hugh, facing the "limp lavender lady"

as he had called her to Kate; "and I ought to apologize, I am aware, but I don't. I would have apologized had I been betrayed to it in a drawing-room. But this is my work-room, _where I see n.o.body_." The last four words were almost thundered.

Agnes Bibby was praying--actually praying for courage. Her throat was working, her grey eyes had their most startled look. She was twisting her hands nervously together.

Hugh was not in the least conscience-stricken at her evident lack of composure.

He seriously considered for one second the expediency of repeating the word, and adding a few others to it, and so scaring the lavender lady out of his room and out of his life for ever.

But then he noticed she was actually trembling, and though his savage impulses were still well to the fore, he dragged up a chair and said "Sit down."

Miss Bibby sat down uncertainly, still gazing at him as if half expecting he might pounce on her and eat her at any second.

"And now what incredible thing was it I heard my sister say?" he asked.

"She--Miss Kinross--was good enough to try to help me to--an interview--a very short one--with you," said Miss Bibby, gathering breath and strength with the opening of her mouth.

"An interview! And my sister--my sister, Kate Kinross--is party to it!"

"She was willing to help another woman," said Miss Bibby.

"Ah," said Hugh, "I see, the two of you have plotted together to entrap a defenceless man."

Miss Bibby ventured on a faint smile, for the author was certainly smiling now. How was she to know, as Kate might have done, that it was his dangerous smile?

"Well, I hope you are going to forgive me, and grant my request," she said.

"And if I don't--if contumaciously I refuse?" said Hugh.

Surely Miss Bibby's prayer for courage was answered. She looked him gently in the eyes.

"I should try again," she said; and when he laughed at her fluttering audacity, she actually added, "and still again."

"I see, I see," he said, "I'm plainly powerless. Well, 'if 'twere done at all, then 'twere well it were done quickly.' Fire away, Miss Bibby; just regard me as a lamb led to the slaughter." There was a twinkle in his eye so demoniac that Kate would have been truly alarmed.

But now Miss Bibby was at a disadvantage. "I--unfortunately I have come unprepared," she said. "I did not expect to get the interview for quite a week. I brought no pencil and paper, and I might forget something you say." She looked distressedly at his table.

"Oh, don't mention a trifle like that," said Hugh urbanely; "permit me to lend you my fountain-pen"--he handed it to her--"and, this writing-block, is that sufficient paper?"

"Oh, quite," she said gratefully.

"Now then," said Hugh, and he leaned back in his chair and lowered his eyelids over his wicked eyes, "I will answer any question you like to put to me."

"How good you are!" breathed Miss Bibby.

Then there was a dead silence in the little room.

"Well," said Hugh, opening his eyes, "why don't you begin? It cannot be that compunction has suddenly seized you, I fear."

The woman's grey eyes wore their startled look again, there was the pink flag of distress on her cheeks.