# The Author of "Trixie"/Chapter 6

The success of his novel was naturally, to the Archdeacon, intensely gratifying. He never doubted—poor gentleman—that its colossal sale was proof of its artistic excellence. As it had been written, ostensibly, by his son-in-law, it was entirely in order for the Archdeacon to subscribe to three press-cutting agencies for notices of the book. He did this quite openly; kept the little green, pink and white slips on the desk in his study; read them (not all) aloud to his visitors; spoke of "that astonishing young son-in-law of mine, Bisham Dunkle​—he wrote this 'Trixie,' you know, that everybody's reading."
The reviews he did not read aloud were those which vilified the book. "This novel," began one of these reviews, "ought to be burnt publicly by the common hangman." He did not read that review to his visitors. Nor yet the one which said: "This is probably the worst novel that has ever been written." There were not many notices of this kind, for most of the reviewers who disliked "Trixie" ignored it. These adverse reviews the Archdeacon, like a wise man, destroyed and forgot; those that were complimentary, however, he pasted into an album and read over and over again. They gave him intense pleasure, the intensest indeed that he had ever known; far, far beyond that which he had felt on being made an Archdeacon. And that had been sufficiently enormous.
​"Yes," he would murmur, as he pored over the close-printed clippings, snuffing up their praise. "Yes, there was a novel in me. There was."
Of course no one, in the Athenæum Club and elsewhere, whom he engaged in conversation about "Trixie" gave him anything but comfortable words. It was known to all his world that Dunkle was his son-in-law. Well, you don't tell a man—not, at any rate, if he is an Archdeacon—that you think his son-in-law's book is hen's-meat. You simply don't do it. You say, "Charming, charming!" or "I haven't yet managed to get hold of it, but I hear on all sides that it is a wonderfully fine story"; or "You must be uncommonly proud of that boy's success." I assume, of course, that you are a gentleman—that is to say, the sole sort of person with whom the ​Archdeacon was in the least likely to converse.
Only once did he meet with verbal criticism that was anything but kindly. It happened in a railway carriage in which he was going to Birmingham to preside at a meeting of the Anti-Gambling League. Opposite him sat a middle-aged, bearded person. Presently this person opened a handbag and produced a copy of "Trixie" which he began to read through a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles. Not shell-rimmed. Steel-rimmed. He was not, I mean, quite a very gentlemanly person.
The Archdeacon fought against temptation for the best part of three and a half minutes. Then he leaned forward, coughed and said: "Forgive me, sir, but I see that you are reading 'Trixie,' and are half-way through it. May I ask you your opinion of it?"
​The bearded person lowered the book and gazed angrily at the Archdeacon through his steel- (not shell-) rimmed spectacles. "I perceive, sir," he said, "that you are a bishop or something of the sort; a priest, at any rate, of the Church of England. That being so, I must decline to tell you my opinion of this book. But I may tell you that I am only reading it because it was given to me as a birthday present by my young and only daughter, whom I passionately love. Last year she gave me a necktie, orange in colour and decorated with dogs' heads. I wore it, sir, for six months; because I love her. Now she has given me this book. This means that she wishes me to read it. So, sir, I read it and shall read it to the end, every last word of it, because I love her. And now, I pray you, permit me to proceed, ​because I would fain be done with this sickening business."
The Archdeacon let it go at that. Subsequently he asked for their opinion of "Trixie" those alone who supposed that he was the author's father-in-law.
For the first month or two after the publication of "Trixie" the Archdeacon was much too happy in the success of his novel to grudge to Dunkle either a scrap of the fame or a penny of the money that was pouring in upon him. The Archdeacon was exceedingly rich, but he couldn't spend more than about half his income, for decency prescribes limits to what an English clergyman shall disburse on luxuries. He had, therefore, far more money than he required, or at any rate, than his position permitted him to use, ​and it irked him in no way to see his daughter and Dunkle wallowing in wealth to which he strictly was entitled. On the contrary, indeed. For the more money Dunkle got out of "Trixie," the less likely was he to betray the Archdeacon's secret.
As for the fame, the loss of that was a thing to which the Archdeacon had, of course, resigned himself from the first. He might not, as the author of a quite worldly novel, aspire to become a Spiritual Lord, and a Spiritual Lord he was determined one day to be. It was wholly out of the question that any fame in connection with "Trixie" should be allowed to attach itself to him, and to this he had made up his mind. And at first he was perfectly content to see the impostor Dunkle going about enveloped in glory to which he had no title. This state of affairs lasted so long as the reviews kept ​appearing; but when this source of excitement began a little to dry up, that Artist Fellow (of whom we wot), his appetite for praise quite unsated, began to make trouble and to demand that Dunkle be unmasked and honour be given where honour was due. The Archdeacon had the devil's own time with this person, who was just as conceited and avid of fame as is the next novelist you are going to meet. He wanted it to be known all over the world that it was he, not Dunkle, who had written that stupendous popular success, "Trixie." He didn't give a curse to be a bishop. The Pastor of Souls might talk himself cross-eyed; nothing he said had the smallest effect upon his associate, who simply repeated and repeated: "Well, all I know is, I wrote the book and I ought to have the credit of it, and the credit of it I propose to have."
​It was now that the Archdeacon reaped the' consequences of having excluded the Pastor of Souls from all collaboration when "Trixie" was being written. If the good Pastor had been allowed to have his say during that period he would have been to some extent responsible for the book; and now he would be in a position to demand his rights against those of the Artist, his rights namely, to remain hidden and to become a bishop if he could. He would at least have had a locus standi in the debate. As it was, he had none. Not, of course, that that made any difference to him. He argued and protested and pleaded just the same. But since he had had nothing to do with the writing of "Trixie" the Artist flatly refused to listen to him. No, the Pastor of Souls was no manner of use to the Archdeacon, who was left to contend with the Artist single-handed.
​The struggle was protracted and ended, I regret to say, in the victory of the Artist. Yes, the Archdeacon and the Pastor of Souls were downed. The Artist took pen in hand and wrote what follows:
   The Vicarage Old Kensington.
   My dear Bisham,
   I should very much like to have a little chat with you at your early convenience. Say to-morrow for tea, at four.
   Affectionately, Samson Roach.
   P.S.—My very dear love to darling Chloë