The Author of "Trixie"/Chapter 13
The Archdeacon spent the afternoon at his desk, making copy after copy of his proposed letter to the newspapers. As he worked he whistled, for he was very happy. "To-morrow," he kept telling himself, "I shall wake up to find myself famous; that is to say, if I can only go on sleeping until the first editions of the evening newspapers are out. The reporters ought to be round here by eleven at latest. I'd better arrange for a spread of cocktails and sandwiches in the dining-room. Cigars also. An author should neglect nothing that can help him to a good Press. When I've got these letters done I must rough out something for the journalists on 'How "Trixie" came to me,' or 'What it feels like to Emerge,' or 'Should Archdeacons write novels?' They'll want to photograph me, of course. I'd better be done here at my desk, like this" he cupped his chin in his left palm, and gazed soulfully upwards—" or like this" he leant back in his chair, folded his arms, stuck a pipe in his mouth and adopted a frown of intense concentration—"or like this"—he seized a pen, put a finger to his brow and assumed the attitude of one who writes—"or like this"—he took a copy of "Trixie" in his left hand and a copy of "Edgar and Lilian" in his right, and held them up, one on each side of his grinning face, so that their titles were plainly visible.
"And," he went on, "how about sending this fountain pen of mine, this Pirene, to its makers, accompanied by a letter to say that I wrote 'Trixie' with it. To be sure, I didn't, for that one is lost, but what odds? No one'll know, and the Pirene people will be sure to make a feature of it in their advertisements. The pen that wrote 'Trixie'! Archdeacon Roach, the world famous author, writes: 'I send you herewith the dear old Pirene with which I wrote every word of "Trixie." It costs me rather a pang to part with it, but I feel that you ought, etc., etc.' Something like that. With an enlarged photograph of the pen, or better still of my hand, holding it."
Thus, while he pursued the almost mechanical business of multiplying his and Dunkle's letter, the Archdeacon permitted his thoughts to occupy themselves rosily with the future. During the afternoon he struck out scores of happy ideas for the furtherance and consolidation of his celebrity. Many—nay, most of them he jotted down in a little book which he always carried about with him, a little book which he had hitherto used for noting such subjects for sermons as, from time to time, occurred to him.
He finished his letters. Then he told his wife and daughters that he was summoned to the bedside of a dying parishioner and that as the person in question was at her country house near Marlow, he might not be back till late at night. This was a purely gratuitous lie. There was not the slightest reason why he should conceal from his family that he was to dine with the Dunkles. But it had begun to amuse him to tell lies to his family.
Then he hurried to the Athenæum Club where he dined grossly and extravagantly, drinking champagne wine and Napoleon brandy and smoking a ten-shilling cigar afterwards.
As some of the clocks were striking nine he reached the door of Chloë's house in Grosvenor Street.
Across the blinds of the drawing-room windows a procession of coupled shadows was rapidly passing, and upon several musical instruments a tremendous rhythmical noise was being made. Every now and then it was punctuated by a howl of laughter, a scream of anguish or a bellow of rage. Somebody was also, at irregular intervals, bursting a motor-tyre, springing a rattle, banging a tin can with a poker, sounding a klaxon, ringing the bell of a fire engine, throwing down a tray-load of crockery, pulling the string of a steam siren and touching off a mine of high explosive. The Archdeacon remembered that Chloë had said they were to have some friends in for dancing.
He was admitted and ushered straight into Dunkle's so-called study. Presently Chloë came in. "Ah!" she said brightly, "here's the Famous Hauthor. Bisham'll be down in a moment to sign those letters which I see bulging out your breast pocket. What'll you have? Whisky? Right. Take a pew while I mix you one." She went over to a table on which stood a tantalus and some tumblers, while the Archdeacon sank into a vast arm-chair and stretched out his toes to the fire.
"Don't drown it, dear child," he said.
She brought him his refreshment. In her other hand was one for herself. This she raised to the level of her eyes. "I give you," she said, "homage to The Author of 'Trixie' and no heel taps." She drank out her glass and the Archdeacon, fatuously smiling, copied her example.
"Thank you, my love," he said. "Thank you very much. I hope you won't mind my saying how wise I think you and Bisham have been to accept the inevitable annorrocompelmiroo" The glass dropped from his hand; his head fell backwards; his jaws opened; his eyes closed; he began to breathe stentorously.
At the same moment the door opened and Dunkle came in. "Well, Archdeacon," he began cheerfully, but broke off at once as his eyes assured him that anything he might say to their guest would be wasted.
"By jelly!' he said, "you've lost no time, old tub."
"No," said Chloë, "I've no time to lose. I want to dance. That knock-out drop I've administered will keep him quiet for a good eight hours, that is to say till five to-morrow morning. When the boys and girls have gone we can deal with him in such further fashion as may be necessary and requisite. Come on." She took her husband's arm and, after extinguishing the lights, drew him out of the room. She locked the door on the outside and slipped the key into her garter-pocket. Then she and Dunkle went upstairs to rejoin their guests.