 | II. One Week an Editor |  |
2. II.
On going down for the first time to the office of the "Northern Light," I was joined by an old gentleman, Sturgeon by name, who had only been an inmate of the house for a fortnight. He was a Bostonian, a man of about sixty, shrewd, kindly, reticent; he had, he said, come to New York on business, but as yet had given no hint of its purport.
He came down the steps with me on this morning, however, touching my arm as I beckoned to a car. "Walk down the Avenue with me, Mr. Cibber. I wish to consult you," he said; and proceeded to tell me that his errand in New York was to discover a niece, a young girl who had several years before had married a scoundrel by the name of Whyte, who had deserted her and left her to struggle along as best she could. "I could find no clue of her whereabouts until lately," he said. "Then I heard she had work in some of the newspaper offices here. Poor Hetty! A mere child, sir, a soft little dumpling of a thing! What does she know of type-setting or presses? It occurred to me that you would now have the entrée to this sort of life, and be apt to hear of her if she is still in the city."
It did not seem likely to me at all, but I promised the old doctor to do what I could.
"I'll take her home with me at once. I have plenty to keep her and her children in comfort for the rest of her life. As for her husband, I never have seen him and I never wish to see him!" striking his cane vehemently against the brown stone steps as we passed.
"I do not wonder at your anger," said Digby gravely, who had joined us. "Nothing has surprised me more since I came to America, I acknowledge, gentlemen, than the number of women thrown on their own resources for support by husbands and fathers. It is infamous! It is an ineffaceable stigma on the boasted chivalry of your men! There must be widows and single women in every society forced to support themselves; but how any able-bodied man can leave his wife to fight her way alone—I can find no words to express my surprise, my scorn!"
I looked up at his large superb figure, swelling with lofty indignation, and thought what a tower of strength he would be for any woman. No wonder Susy had turned from Hugh Blake to this man.
At the corner of Broadway and Fifth avenue the doctor left me. "You'll look out for Hetty?" he said, pressing my hand.
Digby looked after him attentively. I fancied there were tears in his fine eyes. "What a scoundrel that man Whyte must be!" he said indignantly. "A man's injustice to men I can forgive; but to a woman! However, we cannot help the matter. You are going to remain at the 'Northern Light' office all day?"
"Only until noon."
"That fellow Blake is clerk or porter down there?" Now I did not like the tone in which this was said, so answered him, curtly enough, that Hugh was a book-keeper.
"At a salary of a few hundreds, I suppose!
I stammered out some feeble defence of Susy and left him abruptly. Once or twice before a certain coarse vulgarity had come to light under his courtesy and warmth, just as the pewter betrays itself, gray and cold, beneath the plating on sham silver.
The cheerful sunlight and the busy, animated crowds that passed me by, however, soon caused my ugly suspicions to fade away. We all have our moments of spleen and weakness. This generous, brilliant fellow, I should remember, was a lover and talking of his rival. I tried to put the matter from me by thoughts of the work waiting for me. What a chance these editors had to penetrate all the secrets of human nature! There was I, by virtue of my office on which I had not entered, interested in behalf of old Dr. Sturgeon, ready to find in his lovely niece a woman for whom every man should do his devoir, and in her husband a villain worthy of punishment instant and signal. I was quite sure I could recognize either if they came in my way. If I had any power of intellect, it was my keen skill in reading character. There, as I said before, was the advantage which these editors possessed over all other men. The history of the world, in toto, was not only brought to them hour by hour by post or telegraph, but individuals unveiled themselves to them, came to them for aid, counsel; their words reached and were responded to by innumerable hearts! The editor of the "Northern Light," for example? To think of the timid young tyros that came blushing to him with their first song; the lovers that brought him their secret story, smothered in rhyme, which they had not yet found courage to whisper in the ear of the beloved one; the starving intellectual giants to whom he gave new lease of life by accepting a ten-page article! I should have regarded Craik with more interest if I had thought of these things before. I wondered that he was such a brisk, money-making fellow, giving so much of his thoughts to the quality of his cigars or proper sauce for his fish. His occupation would tend to make him contemplative, philosophic, grave, as that of the hidden oracles of old to whom men carried the riddles of their lives for solution. His office, no doubt (I was in Murray street by this time), would give an index to this mood. I fancied a quiet, sombre apartment, lined with books and pictures, the fit retreat of a scholar and a literary tribune.
I had never been in Craik's office.
I went up the dirty stairs of it now, flight after flight. Every door I passed was covered with dingy, fly-blown signs. "N. Y. and London Assurance Journal"; "Swift's Fashion Bazar"; "E. P. Lewis, Adm'r of Beck. Estate," etc., etc. Dust, clippings, envelopes, cigar ends were ground under my feet. At last, on one door more hacked and blacker than the others, among a line of other gilt letterings, "Methodist Monthly," "Banker's News Digest," etc., I found "NORTHERN LIGHT."
I pushed open the door, and entered with a certain elation and lightness of step. For a month at least I was the scholar, one of the tribunes in the literary world.
The room, in fact, the whole sixth floor of the building, was fenced off into squares by partitions reaching half-way to the ceiling. Desks, pigeonholes, shelves, waste-baskets, were the principal furniture, while the hemp carpet was trodden into holes; the files of newspapers, old maps, and one or two photographs of Lincoln and John Bright that decorated the walls hung askew, and were ridged inch deep with dust. A tray of lunch dishes from a restaurant filled the corner, and a big sleepy cat lay purring beside it. As to the men who sat writing, or hurried to and fro, my first feeling was disappointment. Here were no scholarly sages, but the young dapper fellows in cheviot office clothes, with a bud in the button-hole, whom I met by the score on Broadway. I pulled involuntarily at my grizzled beard, which was so out of place. I had heard some old cronies of my own age bewailing the fact that boys were dictators nowadays in politics, art, and literature. Now I realized the truth of it. I ventured to stop one of these lads.
"I am the editor, in Mr. Craik's absence, of the 'Northern Light.'"
"'Northern Light'? North—? Oh, yes, certainly. I had forgotten that Faddinks had that affair in hand. These are all Mr. Faddinks's publications on this floor. Joe, take this gentleman to the office of the 'Northern Light.'" And raising his hat he was gone.
Certainly, the celerity, courtesy, and directness of these young fellows was an improvement on the manner of my youth, when frogged and furred overcoats, heavy jewelled seals, and suave and wordy circumlocution were in vogue.
I followed Joe to one of the square pens, at the door of which I met Hugh Blake. His sallow face reddened with alarm. "Is anything wrong at home? What brings you here, Mr. Cibber? She is not—"
"She is quite well, I hope, whoever she may be, Hugh," calmly. "I am here in Craik's place." It vexed me to see how the boy's heart was still set on Susy, when I knew that Digby had won her.
He sank back on the instant into his quiet, grave self again. "The office is not what you anticipated, I suspect," with a quizzical laugh on his face. For I had expressed to him some of my pre-conceived notions of the place. He introduced me to Mr. Boggs. Mr. Boggs was a little man, dark, thin, and spare, seated in front of a painfully neat desk with full pigeonholes. So thin and spare was the material of which nature and art had made up Mr. Boggs, that there was not a redundant grain of flesh on his body or loose thread in his tight-fitting clothes. His face was clean shaven, his black hair clung as if wetted to his head; in the high cheek-bones only, which were those of an Indian, was matter wasted, but that evidently had been robbed from the sharp nose.
"Mr. Boggs, Mr. Cibber, of whom Mr. Craik spoke to you," said Hugh.
"Ah, M—Cibber?" Mr. Boggs grudged even the syllables of his words. "Said you would look in. Very happy—'m sure; but November mag-zine's most ready to get out," tying some manuscripts in a shopkeeping way with red tape, and depositing his pen in the inkstand as who should say, "Thirty seconds allowed for conversation; no more."
"I understood that—that I was to prepare the November number?" I stammered.
Mr. Boggs smiled a scant, measured smile from far-off heights of business experience. "A—can't say. Copy's all on hand, two serials, one short story, essay, poem, editorial table, amusing column com-plete," ticking it off with his fingers. "If you wish a revise of proof, certainly," as though called on to humor a child with unnecessary candy.
I stared down at Boggs. Boggs took up his pen, nodded politely, and began to glance over strips of paper printed on one side. My revise! The editorial article that should have contained my views on the Positive Philosophy and the creed of Buddha! It did contain views on the culture of early vegetables, including spinach! Had I wasted all my life for this chance to be defeated by Boggs and spinach at last?
"Mr. Craik requested me to edit the November number," I said, "and I do not limit my duty to reading proof. I have prepared—that is, I have engaged matter which will very nearly fill the magazine."
Mr. Boggs did not waste words nor temper. He looked at me, nodded, tied up the remaining manuscripts, clapped them into their pigeonhole and surrendered his chair with a curt "Very well, sir, I am not responsible." When he reached the next partition I heard him say something about "one of Craik's Delmonico arrangements made after the third bottle," at which the other men laughed.
There I was, monarch of chair, inkstand, and manuscripts. The sudden weight overpowered me. I spent a couple of hours in study of the situation, and then helplessly summoned a mild-eyed young man in spectacles from a near desk.
"These serials would fill the whole number?"
"Yes, sir. Mr. Boggs usually divided them for Mr. Craik."
"And this poetry? It is wretched stuff! Atrocious!"
"Mr. Craik usually gave the poems to Mr. Boggs to condense and polish."
"And—just wait a minute, will you?" as he was going back to his desk. "What the deuce am I to do with this manuscript? I can't read it. Not three words in four."
"That's Mrs. Smith's, sir, I presume. Mr. Boggs can make it out. Only man in the office that can make out Mrs. Smith's manuscript. There is the morning's mail," pointing to a wheelbarrow
"Confound it! Did Mr. Boggs edit this magazine, or Craik?"
"Mr. Craik," urbanely straightening his dove-colored neck-tie, "is a good figurehead, sir. Literary man. Name looks well for the magazine. But every office has its Boggs."
I at least would do without Boggs. I turned to the poems again. The mild young man hesitated and then came closer. "There is only one great mistake you can make, and that is to admit anything of Cheney's."
"Who is Cheney?"
"Oh, I was just coming to warn you against Cheney," said Blake, opening the door. "I have never seen him, but he is the bête noire of all magazine editors. A thorough literary sharper, who will palm off an essay or poem or two or three offices in the same month, take his checks, and have them cashed before it is discovered that the article is translated from the French or stolen verbatim from some obscure English magazine. Curiously enough, he has been playing that game for ten years in New York, and lives by it still, though he is as well known in the profession as the signs in Printing House Square."
"Gentlemanly beggar, Cheney!" said the mild young man, taking off his spectacles and brightening into a man and a gossip. "Played a good trick on Craik. Introduced himself as a fellow of property—Hon. John Cheney of Suffolk. Saw a letter on the desk addressed to one of the Lees of Virginia. 'Kinsman of the Confederate general?' he asks carelessly. Craik tells him yes, a schoolfellow of his own; a Virginian not impoverished by the war. Cheney goes home, reads up the Lee genealogy, writes to this Virginian as a relative from England desirous of purchasing an estate in the South, and giving Craik's name as that of a mutual friend. Eighteen months afterward Craik received one of his manuscripts, with directions to forward a check to him in care of Colonel Richard Henry Lee. He had been living off of and on his "cousins" in Virginia for a year and a half, on the strength of that address on the letter."
"There's a certain admirable genius, after all, in developing such tall oaks from acorns so small," said Blake.
"The very mention of his name to Craik is enough to make him ill-tempered for a day. I feared Cheney, if he found out Mr. Cibber was in charge, would try to run in some of his frauds in the November number, so thought I had better warn him."
"Thank you," I said. "But I have learned to know a swindler by sight. Besides, I have secured valuable assistance as to that number. Digby—you know him, Blake?"
"Yes, I know Digby," said Hugh. If he had been a woman, he would have sighed.
One of the other men (they seemed a genial, social set of fellows) took up the burden of Cheney. "But Cheney is a more genteel literary scoundrel than Hodson," he said. "You must keep a sharp look-out for Hodson, Mr. Cibber. I warned Mr. Craik about him when he took charge of the magazine. Hodson's rule, I told him, was to bring a bundle of manuscripts and when they were returned as rejected, to bring suit for one or two which he would declare had been stolen. By George, sir! before the words were out of my mouth, in came the very man disguised with red whiskers and wig, bustles up, deposits his bundle on the desk. 'I'm in haste, Mr. Craik; will call to-morrow for your decision.' 'Stay' (for I gave him the wink), says Craik, 'we'll look over these together.' Hodson took off his overcoat and sat down, but the operation proving tedious, Craik counted them carefully and gave him a receipt. Off goes Hodson. 'I think we pinned him there,' said Craik triumphantly, turning to put on his new London-made overcoat, and taking hold of Hodson's greasy sack, fresh from the pawnbroker's. Those manuscripts were never called for, you may be sure."
"By the way," I said, perceiving that the men knew so many of the "hangers-on" of literature, "is there a Mrs. Whyte—Hetty Whyte—employed on any press-work, in your knowledge? A young, pretty woman?"
"There's Mrs. Whyte who assists Boggs," hesitated Blake. "Here she comes now. But she is neither young nor pretty, as you see." A pale, insignificant little woman, in rusty black, came through the offices, holding a satchel in one hand and leading a little boy by the other. The child looked jaded and thin.
"She takes Bobby with her as protection," said Blake. "Night or day you meet the two tired, half-starved looking creatures, going to and from her work."
"I thought women could make a nice income with work of this sort?"
"Not such women as this. She's a dull little soul. It's only Boggs's kindness that gives her a chance to earn a trifle. Good morning, Mrs. Whyte!" going forward to take her package. I saw that she had a gentle, patient face, with eyes full of mother love, if she were not young nor pretty. I hoped sincerely that she might prove to be the old doctor's niece; doubtless in his memory she was still only the little Hetty he knew long ago. Blake, at my request, introduced me.
"Pardon me, Mrs. Whyte, but—you are a widow? I ask for business reasons."
"No. My husband is living. I have not seen him for several years. He has been—unfortunate"—her face flushing a little.
"You have kinsfolk in New Hampshire?"
"Yes. But they have lost sight of me for—oh, a very long time. Did you know Colonel Whyte, sir? My boy Bob is very like his father."
"No, I did not know him. When will you be at the office again?"
"In a week from to-day."
"Very well!" I retreated hastily, afraid of committing myself. My plan was laid. I would bring the old doctor down, and let him see her from behind one of the partitions. If she were not his Hetty, he only would be disappointed. I should not add to her trouble and care by any disturbance of questions which might only distress her at the thought of a home and ease waiting for some other woman's children, which hers could never share.
| II. One Week an Editor | |