CHAPTER XXXIV.--ROSE AND FRERE GO TO VISIT MR. NONPAREIL THE PUBLISHER.

Lewis, having slipped away for a moment to take leave of Mrs. Arundel, who dismissed him with a parting injunction to take care Ursa Major did not devour Rose, the trio descended the stairs, Frere taking an opportunity to whisper to Lewis, “She was down upon me then in every sense of the word; didn’t believe a woman could get ready in five minutes on any consideration; but your sister has more sense than I ever expected to see under a bonnet, that’s a fact.”

“Don’t you think for once you could dispense with that dreadful umbrella?” inquired Lewis, who had imbibed a few Leicesterian prejudices from his residence at Broadhurst.

“Dreadful umbrella! why what’s the matter with it?” exclaimed Frere, half unfurling his favourite; “it’s-water-tight, and has a famous strong stick to it; what more do you want in an umbrella, eh?”

“It might have been made of silk,” suggested Lewis mildly.

“Yes, and be stolen and brought back again regularly three times a week,” returned Frere. “I had a silk one once, and the expense that umbrella was to me, to say nothing of the wear and tear of mind it occasioned, was perfectly terrific. I shudder when I think of it; there are not a dozen cabmen in London who have not received half-a-crown for bringing home that umbrella. It was a regular bottle-imp to me, always being lost and always coming back again. The ’bus conductors knew it by sight as well as they know the Bank; they were for ever laying traps to get it into their possession, with a view to obtain the reward of honesty by bringing it home again. I got rid of it at last, though; I lent it to a fellow who owed me five pounds, and I’ve never seen man, money, or umbrella since. Now this dear old cotton thing, not being worth finding, has never been lost; however, if you’ll promise to take care I have it to-morrow when I call, I’ll leave it here, and if your sister gets wet don’t blame me.”

“Rose, will you undertake the heavy responsibility?” asked Lewis. “I think I may safely promise so to do,” was the reply. “There is a little foot page in this establishment in whom I have the greatest confidence, and to his custody will! commit it.”

And Frere’s anxious mind being soothed by this assurance, they started on their expedition. Twenty minutes’ brisk walking--which would have been brisker still if Rose had not gently hinted that ladies were not usually accustomed to stride along like postmen; to which suggestion Frere responded with something very like a growl,--twenty minutes’ walking brought them to the very elegant front of Mr. Nonpareil’s shop, where Lewis left the two others. A nice young man, with Hyperion curls outside his head, and nothing save much too high an opinion of himself within, who lounged gracefully behind the counter, replied to Frere’s inquiry “Whether Mr. Nonpareil was at home,” after the fashion of the famous Irish echo, i.e., by another question. Elevating his eyebrows till they almost disappeared in his forest of hair, he drawled out--

“Wh-a-y? did you w-a-ant him?”

“Of course I did, or else I should not have asked for him,” returned Frere sharply; then handing his own card and Bracy’s note of introduction across the counter, he continued, “Take those to your _master_, and tell him that a lady and gentleman are waiting to see him.”

At the word “master” Hyperion coloured and appeared about to become impertinent, but something in Frere’s look induced him to alter his intention, and turning on his heel, he strode into the back shop with an _air martyre_, which was deeply affecting to the risible muscles of the pair he left behind him.

“There’s an animal!” exclaimed Frere, as the subject of his remark disappeared behind a tall column of account books. “Now that ape looks upon himself as a sort of Admirable Crichton, and I’ll be bound has a higher opinion of his own mental endowments than ever Shakespeare or Milton had of theirs. I dare say the creature has his admirers, too: some subordinate shop boy, or the urchin who runs of errands, takes him at his own price and believes in him implicitly. Ye gods, what a ‘ship of fools’ is this goodly vessel of society!”

“I hope he does not rest his claims on the ground of his personal attractions,” returned Rose with a quiet smile.

“His strength must lie in his hair, if he does,” replied Frere, “like that of his Israelitish Hercules of old. But see, here he comes, shaking his ambrosial locks; and behold, he smiles graciously upon us. Bracy’s note has worked miracles.”

Approaching with a smirk and a bow, Hyperion politely signified that Mr. Nonpareil was disengaged, then again retreating, led the way through a sort of defile of unsold literature to the sanctum of the enterprising publisher. This remarkable apartment was of the most minute dimensions, a very duodecimo edition of a room, embellished with a miniature fireplace, an infinitesimal writing-table, and a mere peep-hole of a window looking across many chimney-pots into space. In the middle of this retreat of learning, like an oyster in its shell, reposed that Rhadamanthus of literature--the heroic Nonpareil. His outer man was encased in black, as became the severity of his office; a white neck-cloth encircled his august throat, while a heavy gold watch-chain and seals attested his awful respectability. He was of a most respectable age, neither incautiously young nor unadvisedly old; he was of a most respectable height, neither absurdly short nor inconveniently tall; his weight, 12 stone 6 lbs., was most respectable--it had not varied a pound for the last ten years, nor could one look at him without feeling that it would remain exactly the same for the next ten years; he had a most respectable complexion, red enough to indicate that he lived well and that it agreed with him, but nothing more. Nobody could suspect that man of an apoplectic tendency; he was much too respectable to think of dying suddenly; the very expression of his face was a sort of perpetual life assurance; _he_ go out of the world without advertising the day on which he might be expected to appear most respectably bound in boards! The idea was preposterous. His manner naturally expressed his conviction of his own intense respectability, and was impressive, not to say pompous; while from a sense of the comparative want of respectability in everybody else it was also familiar, or as his enemies (all great men have enemies) declared, presuming.

As Rose and Frere entered he stood up to receive them, favoured Frere with a salutation half-way between a bow and a nod, partially extended his hand to Rose, and as she hesitated in surprise, hastily drew it back again, then motioning them to the only two chairs, save his own judgment-seat, the apartment contained, resumed his throne, and smiling graciously at Rose, leant back, waiting apparently until that young lady should humbly prefer her suit to him.

Perceiving his design, Rose glanced appealingly at Frere, who came to her assistance by plunging at once in _médias res_ with his accustomed bluntness.

“Well, Mr. Nonpareil,” he began, “touching the object of our visit to you, I suppose Bracy has told you in his note what we’ve come about?”

“Yes--that is, so far; Mr. Bracy signifies that your visit has a business tendency,” was the cautious reply.

“Why, we certainly should not have come here for pleasure,” returned Frere shortly; then catching Rose’s look of dismay he continued, “I mean to say we should not have thought of taking up your valuable time” (here he gave Rose a confidential nudge with his elbow to indicate that he spoke ironically), “unless we had a legitimate object in doing so.”

In answer to this the Autocrat merely inclined his head, and revealed a highly respectable set of teeth; so Frere resumed--

“This young lady, Miss Arundel, has determined, by the advice of Mr. Bracy and--ahem!--myself, to make you the first offer of a very valuable work which she has written--a tale of a very unusual description, peculiarly suited, as I consider, to the present state of society, pointing out certain social evils, and showing how a more consistent adherence to the precepts of Christianity would prove the only effectual remedy.”

At these last words Mr. Nonpareil, who, having apparently lapsed into a state of torpor, had listened with a face as immovable as if it had been cast in bronze, suddenly pricked up his ears and condescended to exist again.

“If I understand you, Mr.----Frere,” suggested that gentleman--“Mr. Frere,” continued Nonpareil, “if I comprehend your meaning, sir, this lady wishes to dispose of the copyright of a religious novel?”

“That’s it,” replied Frere.

“Then my answer must mainly depend on the exact height of the principles.”

“On the how much?” inquired Frere, considerably mystified.

“On the exact height of the principles, sir,” returned Mr. Nonpareil with dignity. “I possess a regular scale, sir, which I have had worked out minutely, proceeding from the broad outlines of Christianity to the most delicate shades of doctrine, and descending even to the smallest points of the canon law. Such an ecclesiological table is most important in our line. Public opinion, sir, fluctuates in such matters, just like the funds, up one week, down the next, up again the next. Now I’ll just give you an instance. There was a little work we published, I dare say you’ve seen it, ‘Ambrosius; or, The Curate Confessed.’ It was thought rather a heavy book when it first came out. The public would not read it; the trade did not like it; it hung on hand, and I expected to lose from £200 to £300 upon it. Well, sir, the Surplice question began to be agitated. Fortunately, the author had made Ambrosius preach in a white gown. I immediately advertised it freely, the thing took, we sold 3000 copies in a fortnight, and instead of losing £300 I made £600. But that’s not all, sir. Shortly after that the Rev. Clerestory Lectern, one of the very tip-top ones, went to Rome, and took his three curates, a serious butler, and the family apothecary with him. This made a great sensation, convulsed the public mind fearfully, and brought on a general attack of the ultra-protestant epidemic. Accordingly, I sent for the author of ‘Ambrosius,’ offered him terms he was only too glad to jump at, shut him up in the back-shop with half a ream of foolscap and a bottle of sherry, and in little more than a week we printed off 5000 copies of ‘Loyoliana; or, The Jesuit in the Chimney Corner.’ The book sold like wild-fire, sir. A second edition was called for and went off in no time, and I believe I might have got through a third, only Lord Dunderhead Downhill joined the Plymouth Brethren and married his kitchen-maid, which brought public opinion up again several degrees and spoiled the sale; but I made a very nice thing of it, altogether.”

So saying, Mr. Nonpareil rubbed his hand gleefully, pushed his hair off his forehead, and looked at Rose as if he longed to coin her into money on the spot. After a pause he inquired abruptly, “What’s the name, ma’am?”

“The name of my tale?” began Rose, slightly flurried at the conversation so suddenly taking a personal turn. “I thought of calling it ‘Helen Tremorne.’”

“Very gogd, ma’am--very good,” returned Mr. Nonpareil approvingly; “euphonious, aristocratic, and vague. Just at this time, a title that does not pledge a book to anything particular of any kind is most desirable. About how long do you suppose it will be?”

“Mr. Frere thought it would make two small volumes about the size of a work called ‘Amy Herbert,’ I believe,” replied Rose.

“Quite right, ma’am, quite right, a very selling size, indeed,” was the answer; “clever book, ‘Amy Herbert,’ very. So much tenderness in it, ma’am; nothing pays better than judicious tenderness; the mothers of England like it to read about--the daughters of England like it--the little girls of England like it--and so the husbands of England are forced to pay for it. If you recollect, ma’am, there’s a pathetic governess in ‘Amy Herbert,’ who calls the children ‘dearest’--well imagined character, that. She’s sold many a copy has that governess. May I ask does ‘Helen Tremorne’ call anybody ‘dearest’?”

“I really scarcely remember,” said Rose, hiding a smile behind her muff.

“It would be most desirable that she should, ma’am,” returned Mr. Nonpareil solemnly. “Some vindictive pupil, if possible, ma’am--the more repulsive the child, the greater the self-sacrifice--people like self-sacrifice to read about--they call such incidents touching; and just at the present moment pathos sells immensely. Pray, ma’am, may I ask are you high or low?”

“My principles would not lead me to sympathise with the very ultra party on either side,” replied Rose, slightly annoyed at being forced to allude to such subjects in such a presence.

“Ah! the _via media_; yes, I see--very good, nothing could be better. Just at the present time the via media is, if I may be allowed the expression, the way that leads to fortune; nothing sells like it--it’s so vague and safe, you see; the heads of families buy it in preference to any more questionable teaching. May I ask have you fixed on any sum for which you would dispose of the copyright of your story?”

Rose glanced at Frere, who responded to the appeal by naming a sum exactly double the amount which Rose, in her humility, would gladly have accepted. She was about to say so, but a slight contraction in her companion’s brow warned her against committing such an imprudence. Mr. Nonpareil, however, did not appear alarmed at the magnitude of the demand, but promising to peruse the manuscript carefully (which promise he fulfilled by sending it to his paid reader, never even glancing at it himself) and to give a definite answer in the course of a few days, he bowed them out of his den in the most respectable manner possible. As soon as they had quitted the shop, Rose exclaimed, “Well, if all publishers are like Mr. Nonpareil, the less personal communication I hold with them the better I shall be pleased.”

“Ay, but they are not,” returned Frere; “many of them are men of great intelligence, simple manners, and who possess much out-of-the-way knowledge, which renders them very agreeable companions. There are pompous and narrow-minded individuals in all professions. Nothing is more illogical than to generalise from a single instance; it’s certain to lead to the most absurd results. Why, I’ve actually encountered an honest lawyer and met with a disinterested patriot before now! But here comes Lewis; I wonder what conclusion he has arrived at in regard to tailors.”