Chapter V

Four-thirty in the afternoon was Eversedge Sibley's hour for leaving his office. If he had cared about escaping earlier he could easily have got away, for since his father's death he stood at the head of the old publishing house; but to him business was the romance, poetry, and adventure of life. He passionately loved the champ and roar of the printing-presses as many people love a Wagner opera. There were never two days alike. Something new was always happening. Yet just because he was young for his "job," and knew that he was a man of moods and temperament, he forced himself to be bound by certain rules. One of these rules was, even if he chose to linger a few minutes after four-thirty, that no caller need hope to be admitted. That was a favorite regulation of Sibley's. It made him feel that, after all, he was very methodical. One afternoon, however, he did a worse thing than break this rule. He went back from the elevator, the whole length of the corridor to the outer office, simply to enquire about a man he had met at the lift door.

They almost collided as the man was stepping out and as Sibley was about to step in. But he did not step in. He let the lift shoot down without him, while he paused to stare after the man.

"Strange-looking customer!" he thought.

Sibley himself was a particularly immaculate person. Being somewhat of the Latin type, black eyed and olive skinned, he was shamefacedly afraid of looking picturesque. He dressed, therefore, as precisely as a fashion-plate. The man who had got out of the lift might have bought his clothes at a junk-shop, and a foreign junk-shop at that. They were not clothes a gentleman could wear--yet Sibley received a swift impression that a gentleman was wearing them at that moment: a remarkably tall fellow, so thin that his bones looked somehow too big for him.

He walked past Sibley with no more than a glance, yet it was partly the glance which impelled Sibley to stop short and gaze at the back of a badly made tweed coat, the worst sort of a "reach-me-down" coat.

The quick mind of the publisher was addicted to similes. (He had once written a book himself, under a _nom de guerre_. It had failed.) The thought sprang to his mind that the glance was like the sudden opening of a dingy box, which let out a flash of secret jewels.

In spite of his shocking clothes, the man had the air and bearing of a soldier. Sibley noticed this, in criticizing the straight back, and it aroused his curiosity more than ever in connection with the scarred face.

Any one who got out at the tenth floor of the Sibley building must want to see Eversedge Sibley or one of his partners, so evidently this person intended to ask for some member of the firm. He looked the last man on earth to be a budding author; yet Eversedge Sibley had caught sight of a paper-wrapped roll of manuscript. One who was not of the publishing or editorial world might have mistaken it for something else; but no manuscript would disguise itself from eyes so trained to fear and avoid it.

"Looks more like a heavy-weight champion invalided after a desperate scrap, than a writer; or like Samson betrayed by Delilah," thought Sibley, rather pleased with the fancy.

He put out his hand to touch the bell for the lift to come up again, but did not touch it. Instead, he turned and walked back along the marble-walled corridor to the door of the reception room. The tall man had just arrived and was talking to a wisp of a creature facetiously known in the office as "the chucker out."

"Mr. Sibley has gone, sir," little McNutt was insisting, with dignity. "He doesn't generally receive strangers. Mr. Elliot is in, though, and might see you if you could wait--"

As he spoke, McNutt caught sight of his "boss" at the door, and by looking up a pair of thick gray eyebrows, he made a distressful signal of warning. It would be awkward for Mr. Sibley to be trapped and buttonholed here, just as he had been officially described as out. McNutt could not remember the boss ever coming back after he had gone for the day, and appearing in the publicity of the reception room. If he had forgotten something, why didn't he let himself in at the door of his own private office, which was only a little further along the hall? But, there he was, and must be protected.

"Who is Mr. Elliot?" enquired the stranger.

Eversedge Sibley spent a short holiday in England every summer, and knew that the vilely dressed man had the accent of the British upper classes. His curiosity grew with what it fed on.

"Mr. Elliot is the third partner in the firm," explained McNutt, to whom such ignorance appeared disgraceful.

"Thank you, I'd rather wait until to-morrow and try to see Mr. Sibley himself," said Denin.

"I am Mr. Sibley," the publisher confessed, on one of his irresistible impulses. "I've just come back for something forgotten. I can give you a few minutes if you like."

The man's face lit. It could never have been anything but plain, almost ugly, even before the scars came; yet it was singularly arresting. "That's very good of you," he said.

Sibley ushered the odd visitor into his own private office, but before he could even be invited to sit down, Denin got to his errand.

"You must have thousands of manuscripts sent to you," he began, with a shyness which appealed to Sibley. "I--suppose you hardly ever read one yourself? You have men under you to do that. But I felt I shouldn't be satisfied unless I could put the--the stuff I've written into your own hands. Probably all amateurs feel like that!"

"Manuscripts which our readers pronounce on favorably I always go through myself before accepting them," Sibley assured his visitor. "But of course, there are a good many that--er--they don't think worth bothering me with."

"There's no reason for me to hope that mine will deserve a better fate," Denin said. "All the same it would--be a great thing for me if you should bring it out--publish it on both sides of the water. It isn't as if I expected money for my work. I don't. I shouldn't even _want_ money. On the contrary--"

Sibley cut him short with a warning. "We're not the sort of publishers who print books that authors have to bribe us to put on the market. If a book's worth our while to publish, it's worth our while to pay for it."

Denin laughed. "I wasn't going to suggest any arrangement of that kind," he apologized. "I'm too poor for such a luxury. I've just come to New York, third class, and I must 'hustle' to make my living. But I wrote this on shipboard, while I had the time--"

"You wrote a whole book on shipboard!" exclaimed Sibley.

Denin was taken aback by the publisher's surprise. "Well, it was a slow boat--twelve days. And my mind was full of this story. I had to write it. I kept at it night and day. But for all I know there mayn't be enough to make a book. That would be a bit of a blow! I'm as ignorant as a child of such things."

"About how many thousand words does your manuscript amount to?" Sibley asked, glancing at the rather thin brown packet tied with a string.

"I haven't the remotest idea!" Denin admitted. "It didn't occur to me to count words."

"H'm!" muttered the publisher. "You say it's a story--a novel?"

"It's a sort of a story," its writer explained. "I may as well mention--you're sure to guess if you glance over my work--that I've been fighting in France. I was pretty badly knocked out--some months ago. And you can see from the look of me that I can't be of use as a soldier while the war lasts, if ever. Otherwise I shouldn't be in New York now. One doesn't chuck fighting in these days unless one's unfit. While I was in hospital, I got to thinking how a man might feel in certain circumstances--(not like my own, of course; but one imagines things)--and--well, the idea rather took hold of me. Here it is. I don't expect you to read the thing yourself. It's not likely that--"

"I promise you so much," said Sibley, with suppressed eagerness. "I _will_ read it myself before handing it over to any one else."

The scarred face flushed; and again came that sudden light as from a secret glitter of jewels. "I can't thank you enough!" Denin almost stammered.

"Don't thank me yet. That would be very premature!" Sibley smiled generously; but even if he had wished to do so, he couldn't have patronized the fellow. "You mustn't be too impatient. I'm a busy man, you know. I'll have a go at your manuscript as soon as I can, but you mustn't be disappointed if you don't hear for a week or ten days. By the way, you'd better give me a card with your name and address."

Denin laughed again, a singularly pleasant laugh, Sibley thought it. "I haven't such a thing as a card! My name is--John Sanbourne. And if I may have a scrap of paper, I'll write down my address. I forgot to put it on the manuscript. I mayn't be at the same place when you're ready to decide. But I'll tell them to forward the letter, and then I'll call on you. I'd rather do that than let the story go through the post. I've got--fond of it in a way--you see!"

Sibley did see. And the man being what he was, the fondness struck the publisher as pathetic, like the love of Picciola for his pale prison-flower. Reason told Sibley that the ten or twelve days work of an amateur (one who had lived to thirty or so, without being moved to write) would turn out mere twaddle. Yet instinct contradicted reason, as it often did with Sibley. He had a strong presentiment that he should find at least some remarkable points in the work of this scarred soldier, whose square-jawed face seemed to the secretly romantic mind of Sibley a mask of hidden passions.

Only a few times since he became head of the house had Eversedge Sibley consented to see a would-be author whose fame was all to make. The few he had received had been fascinating young women of society with influence among his friends, famous beauties, or noted charmers; but he had never taken so deep an interest in one of them as in the poverty-stricken, steerage passenger. He went as far as the reception room in showing his guest out; and then instead of going down to his motor, which would be waiting for him, let it wait. He returned to his office, and looked again at the address which the author had laid on his parcel of manuscript.

"John Sanbourne!" Eversedge Sibley said to himself, aloud. The man's face was as sincere as it was plain, nevertheless Sibley was somehow sure that his real name was not Sanbourne. He was sure that the inner truth of the man, if it could but be known, was a contradiction of the rough and strange outside; and he wished so intensely to get at the hidden inner side that he could not resist opening the parcel there and then.

Never had Eversedge Sibley seen such a manuscript. He was used to clearly typed pages of uniform size, as easy to read as print. This was written partly with pencil, partly with pen and ink, apparently three or four different kinds of pens, each worse than the other. The paper, too, consisted of odds and ends. The whole thing suggested poverty and the meager condition of a steerage passenger. But this squalor, which in most circumstances would have caused Sibley to fling down the stuff in fastidious disgust, sent a thrill through him. No ordinary man with ordinary things to say could have had the courage to struggle through such difficulties, to any desired end. The longing to tell this story, whatever it was, must have been strong in the man's soul as the urge of travail in the body of a woman.

In spite of the mean materials, the writing was clear, and suggested--it seemed to the mood of Sibley--something of the man's strength and intense reserve.

"'The War Wedding,'" he read at the top of the first page. "Heavens, I hope it's not going to be in blank verse!"

It was not in blank verse. He had to read only the first lines to assure himself of that.

The story began with the description of a garden. It was simply done, but it painted a picture, and--praise be to the powers, there were no split infinitives nor gush of adjectives! Eversedge Sibley saw the garden. He was the man who walked in it, and met the girl who came down the stone steps between the blue borders of lavender. The story became his story. For an hour he forgot his office, his waiting chauffeur, and everything else that belonged to him.

So he might have gone on forgetting, if Stephen Eversedge, his junior partner and cousin, had not peeped anxiously in at the door. "They said you'd gone away and then come back. I thought I'd just ask if anything was the matter," he excused himself to the master mind.

"The matter is, we've got hold of the most wonderful human document--good God, yes, and _soul_ document!--that any house in this country or any other has ever published!" The words burst out from Sibley like bullets from a _mitrailleuse_.