# The Author of "Trixie"/Chapter 14

The Archdeacon came to himself in pitch and stuffy darkness. He had such a headache as he had not supposed to be possible. In his mouth was as it were the bitterness of death; his tongue felt not less than eighteen times its usual size, his throat as hot as Hades' High Street. He tried to put up a hand to his forehead. He couldn't, for his arms were bound closely to his sides. His legs too were shackled at the knees and ankles. He tried to call out, but all he achieved was a whining groan, for a gag was fast between his teeth.
​The darkness into which he glared was pierced by a thin strip of very faint light. It widened until it became an oblong the size and shape of a door. Across it two figures stepped and darkness was again complete. But not for long. A beam of yellow light flashed out. Evidently that of an electric torch. It advanced and came to rest upon the Archdeacon. Then a woman's voice spoke. In it the Archdeacon with a feeling of absolute consternation, recognised the voice of his daughter Chloë.
"Good morning, Venerable," she said. "How goes it?"
The Archdeacon said no word. His mouth was too full for speech.
"Bish," said Chloë. "Take the gag out, will you? But first let me tell you, father, that you'll do yourself no good by giving tongue. No one can hear you, or ​if they do they won't pay any heed. For where do you suppose you are? Why, in Rotherhithe, safe in the deepest dungeon, that is to say, cellar, of Mr. Richard Byles's Seamen's Employment Agency, otherwise known as Dirty Dick's Crimping-house. Above our heads the Thames is flowing at this moment. When it ebbs, you will, unless you're a good boy—but I anticipate. Bisham, unmuzzle the gent and, if he calls out, kick him in the ribs for all you're worth. Because he can't make himself heard beyond these walls is no reason why he should be allowed to deafen us."
Her companion (who was vaguely recognisable as the erstwhile poet Dunkle) removed the gag and gave the Archdeacon a little weak brandy and water in the silver cup of a flask which he produced from his hip pocket.
​"So!" said Chloë. "We can now converse." She pulled a packing-case out of a corner of the cellar and sat down on it. Dunkle remained standing beside the Archdeacon ready to drive the toe of his boot into the unfortunate clergyman's side, should this become necessary.
By now the Archdeacon's eyes had become accustomed to the illumination which the electric torch provided. It was not powerful but it sufficed to show him that he was in a windowless room about twelve feet square, the walls of which were of whitewashed brick, while its floor was of cement. In one corner was piled a heap of wine cases, hampers, soap-boxes, biscuit-tins, bottles and other rubbish, and this was all the furniture.
​He perceived, further, that Chloë was dressed in some very rough-looking clothes—a plaid shawl, a blue apron and a coarse skirt of yellow tweed. On her head was a man's cap. Dunkle's costume was to match. He had a birds-eye scarf round his throat, a jacket and trousers of shiny black twill and a black slouch hat three or four sizes too small for him.
"I see, father," said Chloë, "that you're admiring our togs and I dare say you're wondering why we are wearing them. A moment's reflection will show you that it would be out of the question for us to come down into Rotherhithe sporting the garments of Mayfair. In these duds, however, we are sufficiently inconspicuous, and we never put on anything else when we come East. To smoke opium, you know," she added carelessly as she lit a cigarette which she took from behind her left ear.
​"This," said the Archdeacon, in a hollow voice, "is a hideous dream. It must be. I shall wake up presently in my own bed."
"Not you," said Chloë. "The next place you'll wake up in, unless you listen to reason, will be the hold of a whaler."
"A what?" cried her father. "A whale?"
Chloë squeaked a laugh. "No," she said, "you're not cast to play Jonah, your Reverence. I said a whaler. A ship, ye ken. She sails to-night on the ebb, and she'll be away three years, not less. We've booked a berth for you in the fo'c'sle under the name of Edgar Trix. Captain Buggins is expecting you in half an hour's time. Whether you join up or no depends entirely on yourself. I suppose you understand what I mean."
"I confess, Chloë," said the Archdeacon, "that I am too utterly overwhelmed by ​horror to understand anything whatever. I simply cannot believe that all this is happening. If I am not dreaming, I am the victim of an hallucination; I am stark mad. It is impossible that my own child should be——"
"It's a wise father," Chloë interrupted, "who knows what it's impossible for his own child to do. Take it from me, sir, your senses deceive you in nothing. You sail to-night in the good ship Lizzie Packer and on a three years' cruise, unless you renounce this heartless folly of proclaiming yourself the author of poor dear Bisham's two novels."
"Ah!" said the Archdeacon slowly, "I see."
"Capital!" said Chloë. "Well, what do you say?"
"Why, Chloë," said her father, "I say that if you hadn't given me quite such a ​headache with that naughty drug of yours it would be a most excellent joke. Ha ha! Very amusing indeed! I'd no idea you were such an actress, my child. But don't you think the game's gone on long enough now? I am very uncomfortable lying here tied up on the hard floor and——"
"Oh, fish!" she said. "This isn't a novel by the Author of 'Trixie.' Stop talking all this conventional tripe about hideous dreams and excellent jokes and realise that you're up against The Thing That Is."
"But," he gasped," it can't be. It simply can't! My daughter send me, her own father and an Archdeacon of the Church of England, to sea in a whale ship for three years! No, no. It's not credible. I won't hear of it. Such things aren't done."
"What maddens me about you, father," ​said Chloë, "is that you're so dreadfully behind the times. You're still living under Queen Victoria, in the dear absurd old days when children were supposed to love and respect their parents because they were their parents. Could anything be more fantastic? What a reason for loving anybody—that he conspired to bring one into the world! You are, of course, to me, as a modern daughter, nothing but an elderly man in whose house I happen to have been brought up. Had you treated me nicely I dare say I might like you well enough; but since you have always behaved odiously towards me and since I apprehend that you are likely seriously to diminish my future income, I see no reason why I shouldn't act towards you as I should towards any other person whom I detest and fear. So what do I do? Why, I give you a dose and lock you up in Bisham's study. Then ​I put on my hat and trot round to Regent Street, where I find little Ching Foo, my cocaine merchant, on his pitch at the Vigo Street corner. I tell him what I want done and an hour later he arrives in a motor-van and we all jolt off here to Dirty Dick's together. Meanwhile the arrangements for shanghaiing you have been completed, and these, unless you throw in the towel, will be carried out at once. I need hardly tell you that a man of your age and luxurious habits cannot reasonably expect to survive the experiences which await you in the South Pacific and elsewhere. But of course you may. We must, at any rate, hope hard for the best. Mustn't we, Bish?"
"Certainly," said Dunkle.
"Fatal girl," groaned the Archdeacon. "What do you require of me?"
"Before we come to that," said Chloë, "let me tell you something that you ought ​to know. The Bishop of Pontefract is dead and they have offered you his job. Mother telephoned the good news just as Ching Foo and Bisham were putting you in the van. It was the P.M. telephoned to the Vicarage. As you weren't in, he's given you till midday to let him know if you accept or not. So you see, if you agree to wash out your authorship of those two books, you not only needn't go whaling, but you can be a bishop into the bargain. On the other hand, refuse our demands and it's into the fo'c'sle of the Lizzie Packer for yours, old gentleman, and ta-ta for ever to those big transparent sleeves."
"Tell me," said the Archdeacon hoarsely, "what it is you want me to do? Tell me at once."
"Why," she said, "it's of the simplest. Give Bisham here your key to your locker in that Safe Deposit and your authorisation ​in writing to use it. He goes there at once and abstracts that copy of 'Edgar and Lilian,' burns it and comes back here to say so. Then we take you out of this, pay Dirty Dick his charges for our accommodation and hop it west in the first taxi we strike. You ring up the P.M. and tell him you're on for Pontefract. He says 'Right ho!' and makes out your certificate. In due course you're sworn in and mother's made happy. As for those two novels, well—you'll soon come to believe that you only dreamt you wrote them. I'm sure you will. Won't he, Bisham?"
"Of course," said Dunkle.
"All you've got to do," Chloë went on, "is to say to yourself a hundred times, every morning while you shave, 'I only dreamt that I wrote those two novels,' and as sure as eggs you'll believe it in a couple of weeks. Then at night, when you're doing ​your abdominal exercises, you must say to yourself, 'I don't give a hoot for literary fame.' Say it a hundred times per noctem for a month, and I'll wager my reputation you'll believe it. Won't he, Bisham?"
"Certainly," said her husband.
"So," she concluded, "all you have to do is hand over that key and write out that authorisation and in the same moment your troubles are at an end."
"Well," said the Archdeacon, "I accept your terms. I'd rather be a famous novelist than a bishop any day, but I'd rather be a bishop than go cruising after spermaceti. I admit you've done me down, Chloë. You've been too many for the poor old dad. So won't you untie me now and shan't we be going?"
"You forget," she said, "that little matter of the key."
"Oh!" said the Archdeacon grinning, ​"there isn't any key, you know. All that about the deposited extra manuscript is just a little fairy-tale I made up. You see, after I'd handed over the manuscript of 'Edgar and Lilian' to Bisham, it occurred to me that he might burn it, so as to prevent me from having any evidence of having written the book. It was too late of course to get it back and make the copy I ought to have made before letting it go out of my possession; so I did the next best thing, viz:—told him that I had a copy banked in the Sloane Street Deposit. It worked too. You both swallowed the tale, but there wasn't a single word of truth in it from beginning to end."
"Indeed?" Chloë screamed passionately. "Then let me tell you, you horrible old liar, that there's not a single word of truth from beginning to end of my story that they've offered you the Bishopric of ​Pontefract. I made it up as an additional inducement to you to be sensible. And there isn't a single word of truth, either, from beginning to end of my story about taking you to Dirty Dick's at Rotherhithe, or about that Chinaman or that whaling voyage or anything else. If you care to know, you are, at this moment, in the cellars of Bisham's and my house in Grosvenor Street, where you've been lying since Bish and I hauled you down here at two o'clock this morning, when our little dance ended. It's now a quarter past five and I should recommend you to make your way back to Kensington as quick as you can. If you're quiet you can let yourself into the Vicarage and get to your bed and no one there need so much as suspect that you've been out all night. And let me tell you," she went on as she and Dunkle began hastily to untie his fastenings, "let ​me tell you that if you should be so ill-advised as to make any move to claim the credit of having written 'Trixie' and your other story, Bisham will fight you to the House of Lords, if they've not put you in an asylum before you get there. Won't you, Bish?"
"I believe you," said Dunkle.