# The Author of "Trixie"/Chapter 11

The printing and binding of "Edgar and Lilian" took two months to get itself done. The book was subscribed to the tune of one hundred and twenty-seven thousand in Great Britain alone. In America the figures baffled all computation. The sales on publication—but enough of these dry business details. Suffice it that "Edgar and Lilian" was quite a success.
As in the case of "Trixie," the reviews were mostly favourable, and there was an immense number of them. The Archdeacon had his work cut out to read them ​all and paste those which pleased him into their albums. Dunkle was hunted off his legs. Invitations poured in upon him—to lunch, dine, and sup with perfect strangers; to address the Literary Societies of Polytechnic Institutions; to be the guest of the Fulle Jugges, of the Adullamites, of the Tupper Club and other festive societies; to give away the prizes at academies for the sons of gentlemen; to kick off in charity football matches; to lay foundation-stones; to open bazaars and swimming-baths; to pay their rent for unsuccessful writers, painters, sculptors, musicians, tailors; to take shares in cinematograph palaces; to borrow anything from £1 to £100,000 on his sole note of hand; to be photographed gratis; to become the husband of unknown women; to stand for Parliament; to lecture in America; to appear on the programmes of ​music-halls; to buy out-of-date Encyclopædias Britannicas; to subscribe to mumps hospitals, testimonials to retiring pugilists, monuments to philanthropists, missions to ploughmen, cats' homes, brass bands, Societies for the Discouragement of Fiction Reading; to take tickets for lotteries in Denmark, Austria, Rumania, Mesopotamia, Spitzbergen; to finance actors in Shakespearean Seasons; to contribute articles for nothing to publishers' advertisement-sheets; to breakfast in Downing Street; to allow books to be dedicated to him and then to buy half a dozen copies of them; to accept (and write testimonials to the virtues of) fountain pens, ever-sharp pencils, loose-leaf notebooks, safety razors, strops, shaving-soaps, corn-cures, boot-polishes, corrugated-iron summer-houses, photographic cameras, player-pianos, ice-cream freezers, bicycles, cork jackets, ​tinned soups, baseball bats, shampoo powders, sardines, vacuum cleaners, Virginian cigarettes, hair dyes; to join the boards of limited liability companies; to send copies of his works to the Library of the Seventh Particular Presbyterian Church of Running Horse, Wy.; to write his signature upon stamped photo-card enclosed and oblige and return; to allow publishers other than Messrs. Capper and Ironsides to handle him; and so on.
To none of these invitations did Dunkle reply, but he sent them all along to the Vicarage with his compliments. Then the Archdeacon would sit down at his desk and write: "The Author of 'Trixie' regrets that, owing to pressure of engagements, he is unable to accept the kind invitation of——," etc., or "The Author of 'Trixie' thanks Messrs. Lomax for the handsome gift of their patent braces (to hand this ​morning) and begs to say that he finds them not only exceptionally comfortable, but durable to the highest degree," or "The Author of 'Trixie' has pleasure in sending herewith to the Librarian of the Seventh Presbyterian——," etc., or "The Author of 'Trixie,' while he sincerely sympathises with Mr. Soup in his embarrassments (which he, the A. of T., trusts may prove of quite short duration), is unfortunately compelled by the other many and imperative calls which are made upon his purse to deny himself the satisfaction of——" etc.
The Archdeacon loved writing these letters. Every time his pen traced the words "The Author of 'Trixie'" he thrilled to reflect that in but a few short weeks there would no longer be any need for him to practise such concealment. Now and then he could not resist the temptation to write, "Mr. Samson Roach regrets" ​or "has pleasure" or whatever the case might require; but he was always alert to burn these letters the moment they were completed. No untimely whispers must be allowed to lessen the effect of the surprise he was hatching for the public.
Since it was obviously out of the question for him to employ his secretary upon this work (even had he been willing to delegate so sweet an occupation to another), and since he was therefore compelled to hold himself to it for several hours each day, and behind locked doors too, he announced that he was once more busy with his Commentaries. Yes, so hardened in deceit was he by now that he did not even trouble to invent a new lie for his innocent family to swallow. Such conduct can only be characterised as cynical.
All these letters that he was writing were a great embarrassment to him because he ​could not put them on the hall table, for the maid to take out to the pillar-box, lest their number should dangerously excite the curiosity of his household, and he was obliged to carry them out to the post himself. This he did, generally, late at night, sneaking forth in his pumps what time the Vicarage was sunk in slumber; or he would smuggle them out by day in his silk hat, ten at a time, when he went upon his affairs parochial or archidiaconal.
Thus, happily pondering and gumming in his press-notices, reading and answering his correspondence, he passed his leisure hours during the first month or six weeks subsequent to the publication of "Edgar and Lilian."
It had been agreed (you may remember) that not until the book had enjoyed a sale of three months should the name of its true author be divulged, but ere half that ​time had gone by further waiting had become intolerable to the Archdeacon. The Artist within him might no longer be denied.
   My dear Bisham, he accordingly wrote. What good purpose is to be served by postponing any longer that which we intend to do? Will you and dear Chloë give me luncheon to-morrow, and afterwards you and I can settle gust how our disclosure is to be immediately made.
   Affectionately, Samson Roach.
Next morning, Dunkle, on receipt of this note, took it into his wife's bedroom. He found her in the middle of her third cigarette since the half-dozen of aspirin tablets washed down with black coffee, on which, as was her wont, she had breakfasted. On her head was a boudoir cap ​composed of pink and black ribbons, sequins, old point lace, artificial roses, jet bugles, imitation pearls and swansdown. She wore also a bed jacket of ermine and a complexion mask of white kid. The pedicure, Mrs. Hugshooter, was busy polishing the little-toe-nail of her client's left foot. The while, the horrible old woman exuded scandal.
Dunkle gave the Archdeacon's note to his wife in silence. She read it at a glance and said: "Hug, old pet, hop it for ten minutes, will you?" When they were alone, "This," she continued, "is what I've rather been expecting. I never believed he'd be able to stay the three months. But the fact is, the sooner we have our little chat with him the better. Now that he's set his heart on immediate confession, every minute is dangerous. We don't want to have him confiding his dreadful ​secret to the Athenæum smoking-room through sheer inability to hold it in any longer. So ring him up, Bish, and tell him we expect him here at 1.30 today."
"You really mean to put pressure on him? I mean about that railway-ticket, you know?"
"Well," she said, "what do you think?"
"Chloë, old stitch," he said, "I don't like it; I really don't. One ought to draw the line somewhere, even nowadays. You can't give your own father into custody on a charge of diddling the Great Western. It's simply not done."
"Who's going to give him in charge, you mug?" she demanded. "Not me! You don't suppose I'm exactly panting to proclaim myself the daughter of a swindler. But I imagine I can threaten him, can't I?"
​"Oh well, if you only mean to threaten. But suppose he calls your bluff."
"He won't," she said. "I know him. And what's more, he knows me. I can always bluff the Archdeak. You see, one day, when I was twelve, I asked him to give me a bicycle and he refused; so I told him he would be sorry if he didn't do as I asked. I spoke in a peculiar kind of voice I'd invented, and now, whenever I threaten him, I always use it, so that he may remember and be wise."
"What did you do?" Dunkle asked.
"Well, the P.M. was dining with us that night, so just before dinner I emptied a bottle of red ink into the poor old Archdeak's port decanter, and he missed the bishopric he was after at the time by about fifty miles. Since then the Archdeak's been a little careful how he calls my bluffs. Depend upon it, we shall have no trouble ​whatever with him this afternoon when I speak to him in that peculiar voice of mine. So pip off, laddie, and take an easy mind with you. And just bellow, will you? for that old thing Hug to come and get on with my tootsies."