CHAPTER XXII

She had no address of Henry's, but that evening she wrote to the

hotel at Brunnen, trusting that it would be forwarded to him

somewhere. The composing of the letter gave her much mental debate.

She wanted to pour out passionately all that she was really

feeling--the mere phrasing of love was relief and almost joy; but the

old muddle as to whether it was fair to write thus to a man who was

returning from her to his wife intervened. And finally her letter

amounted to little more than saying, "I never meant not to say

good-bye to you." But she hoped he would read everything in her few

lines.

There was a moment's afterglow of bygone happiness as she put the

letter in the concierge's box. From that moment she encouraged the

conviction that he would write a reply to her--just one, before the

silence settled. She would stop and stand in the passage of the

hotel while she deliberated where he would first be able to write and

how long the letter would take to reach her.

Friday morning, she decided, was the earliest she could expect it.

Then, walking on, she would compose his letter.

Now Owen joined them from the camp at Aldershot where the Sillborough

Cadet Corps had been training. He was full of the war rumours in

England, and Daphne, going for walks with him, pretended to listen.

Sometimes she played against him a desultory set of tennis, though

the game and everything about it, its cries and its scoring, had a

stab for her.

On the Friday morning, when she dared to hope that his letter might

have come, she was afraid to approach the pigeon-holes in the

concierge's office; and yet, by a will-effort, she walked there

quickly, satisfied with her pluck. Sickness took her heart when she

saw her pigeon-hole empty and many of the others full. In despairing

hope she asked the concierge had that morning's post been.

Yes.

She turned about gaily.

"He hasn't had time to write. Or letters take a long time over these

slow mountain railways. I'll give him till to-morrow morning."

Still, at each of the other posts during the day she looked for the

letter and suffered the blow of disappointment to see her empty

pigeon-hole. Sometimes she would go back and look in the other holes

in case her letter had been put in one of them by mistake.

On the Saturday morning she went with a sudden high hope to the

place.... But her throat was affected and her mouth dried when again

the empty pigeon-hole stared at her. There must be one. And she

asked the concierge merrily:

"What, isn't there really a letter for me?"

"No, Miss Bruno."

And she laughed:

"Oh, what a shame!"

Walking away, she told herself that he was writing a long one and

adding to it day by day.

The next morning, as nervously she approached the office, she saw

that there was a single white envelope in her space. Her heart

thumping with eagerness and terror, she said to the concierge:

"There _is_ one this time!"

"Yes, Miss Bruno, there's one for you," and he took it out and gave

it to her.

The handwriting was Miss Carrell's.

The August days went by, and the pain of going to the office after

each post, or of returning from a walk in the hope that the letter

would be there, was slowly drugged down by monotony. "He'll never

write now. After all, why should he? Mine was nothing but an answer

to his good-bye letter."

Only once did her control utterly fail her. It was after dinner in

the lounge, and her father, Owen and she were listening to the string

band. She had been talking vivaciously, almost happily, to some

friends in the neighbouring chairs. Then the band struck up a

selection from _Tannhäuser_, and the familiar tunes stopped all talk.

She leaned back in her chair and stared at a hunting picture on the

wall. The music, good or bad, well played or badly played, was

stirring up all the pain which she temporarily trampled down. The

Pilgrims' Chorus seemed the very notes and chords of her despair.

And the song "O Star of Eve" was one of its melodies. As the tune

went on inclemently she felt her breath getting shorter and a misery

rising in her so massed and tumultuous that if it did not burst in

tears it would madden and kill her.

She got up while control was still with her, walked across the

lounge, and once outside the door, rushed up the stairs to her

bedroom. There she flung herself on her bed, and passionately

crying, kept repeating aloud, "I don't care how soon the end

comes.... I don't care how soon the end comes...." At intervals she

would stop her crying and muttering to think, "But no, I don't want

to die and be out of the world where Henry is.... I must be in the

same world as he is.... If only he would die and I could die too...."

Mr. Bruno had instantly guessed what her abrupt departure meant. At

the end of the Brunnen stay he had learned with surprise that the

American boy whose appearance, even if it held a remarkable mind,

suggested a callow undergraduate, was a married man. And Daphne was

much in love with him. It looked horribly like the real thing. Her

request to be taken away he assumed to have followed a confession of

the boy's, who certainly struck him as a _gentil_ youth. He blamed

neither. What was the good of telling people not to love if they

did? And now Daphne was in the grip of her tragedy--Daphne

suffering! He must go to her. He mustn't leave her to writhe in it

alone. But he didn't know what to say. Now that he came to think of

it he had never spoken seriously to her in his life--always behind a

veil of banter. "I can't get through to her. I never have been able

to get through to her."

In the applause after the orchestra's finale he rose from his seat,

saying to Owen, "Keep my place for me, old man," and walked upstairs.

The passage and door of Daphne's room frightened him, and for a long

time he strode up and down wondering what he was going to say. What

could he give her of comfort and advice? Though he had written forty

books, he had no complete and rounded code of living. And of

religion, nothing.

Well, there it was. He knocked on her door. No answer came, though

he heard a quick movement inside.

"Daphne."

She did not reply, and he walked back along the corridor, abandoning

the task. But at the head of the stairs he stopped.

"No, poor darling, I must go in and see her. I shall find something

to say when I'm there."

He walked slowly back, and, without knocking, turned the handle of

her door. It was unlocked and he stepped into the room. He saw

Daphne in the long easy-chair, sitting sideways, her heels drawn up

under her, her elbow hanging over the arm but bent to make a support

for her head. Her hair was tumbled and falling, her shoulders

shuddering.

"Duffy, my darling!"

She did not move, but now her shoulders steadied as if petrified.

"Duffy, what's the matter?"

He was annoyed with his feebleness. How could she answer such a

question?

"My dear.... I know all about it.... Daphne, I can't bear to see

you suffering...."

She raised her head and looked up at him, admitting all in a sentence.

"Daddy, how do people stand it?"

What answer could he give to that? The child ought to have some

religion--some stay--some hope. He stood there awkwardly with two

fingers of his right hand pushed into his waistcoat pocket. Then he

began to walk up and down as he struggled to express for her the few

things that he believed.

He had searched nature in vain, he said, for a God of pity. All that

he was able to see was that men had pity. Pity for all things ...

and amazing courage when God or nature was showing no pity to them.

And in spite of modern thought-waves, the unshakable conviction was

still with him that men were only at their best and happy when they

were yielding to their pity. Or, of course, when they were summoning

a defiant courage about them and lifting their heads above their

trouble.

"I'm trying, dear, to give you the minimum of religion that I have

found, and perhaps you'll be able to build more on it. It's rather a

rebel's creed, I'm afraid. It amounts to saying that men, because

they have pity and unconquerable courage, are greater than God, Who

seems to have no pity.... And then I think, if that is so, let us

glory in transcending him. Let us at all costs keep these things....

I don't know how far I have kept them myself, but I should like you

to...."

His daughter smiled her affection through her tears.

So much of a general code he tried to give her. In meeting her

present need he felt he was happier. Daphne was staring at him as he

spoke with interested eyes. To begin with, said he, she was much,

much better off than many, because her love had apparently been

returned. Many had loved as passionately but without requital, and

had survived. It would be futile to tell her to cut out her love,

but what she must do was to transmute it. One could transmute a

suppressed love into two things: into service of others and into art.

Didn't Dante transmute his love for Beatrice into his "Divina

Commedia"? So his love was always with him and always expressed.

"You used to want to write, dear. I hope you will. You'll find that

much of what you are suffering now will escape into that, and it will

be ever so much better than it would otherwise have been. Remember,

there have been little housemaids in London who have had to suppress

their love and have had no mind to understand these things ... and

yet they have endured and survived.... But I'll tell you one thing

that you must guard against. Books and Art are very great, and no

life is half a life without them; but they are apt to become a fixed

idea, excluding everything--unselfishness and all the rest. And so

you get set as selfish, and only occasionally a kindly impulse in you

shows you what you might have been.... So the remedy, I feel, is to

get this other idea equally--the idea that there is no happiness

apart from pity and service...."

His daughter had risen and was standing before him.

"Daddy, I always think you're wonderful.... Don't--don't tell Owen

anything about it, will you?"

He passed his hand over the back of her head, aware of moistened eyes.

"Don't suffer too much, my Daphne. I can't stand it."

Daphne shook her head and smiled confidently.

PART IV: _Things as They Are_

CHAPTER XXIII

A day in September Mr. Bruno and his children came again to the

little garden of firs. The news from South Africa had been such that

he preferred to be in France with a view to winding up his affairs

there in the event of an early return to England. And Daphne was

glad to be out of Switzerland. She had not been able to bear the

conversations of guests who mentioned places associated with

Henry--the Urirotstock, the Rutli, the Furka Pass, the Mythen. All

mountains hurt her.

On the doorstep Miss Carrell greeted the family, inquiring of Daphne:

"Have you had a nice holiday, dear?"

"Absolutely ripping," said Daphne.

And with this sickening lie she carried her wooden despair into the

house.

A wooden despair it was, these first weeks. She would take her

memories with her on lonely walks in the Montmorency Forest. Its

autumnal lights pierced her. She made a pilgrimage to the grave to

Géneviève Rollier in Taverney Churchyard; and now more than ever did

the tawdry wreaths and the words "_A Man Epouse_," "_Nous ne

t'oublierons jamais_," inflate her to pity. She really felt, as her

father had encouraged her to feel, an infinite gentleness towards all

the world.

"You can't reach to pain fully," said she, remembering some words of

Henry's, "till you have suffered yourself." And she was aware of a

little pride in her suffering.

She set to work again upon her book "Madame Rolland." There was a

whole reservoir of manuscript to be distilled into some last shapely

urn. But now, as she studied it--on the other side of her great

experience--it seemed shallow, light, unfelt, invented. "Invention's

the very opposite of creation," Henry had said; and this minute she

saw its truth.

The clearer parts of her brain told her brutally what she ought to

do. She ought to scrap every bit of this stuff, even though it were

the product of two years' brain-bullying, because it had been written

when her angle was all wrong, and would only go lumpy and formless if

she tried so late to infiltrate it with truth. More, since Henry was

always correct, she ought to postpone writing for publication till

she had read much more and learned something of "the best that had

been thought and written throughout the ages."

But could she do this? Could she scrap it all and postpone, even

abandon, the thought of fame? No, the old Daphne of three months ago

was too strong to be shed at once by this new creature of selfishness

and consecration. She would re-fashion the book to meet her truer

measures, but she must keep her eyes on fame. Next year, or the year

after, she must make her little stir whose ripples would reach to

Henry.

So she struggled on with "Madame Rolland," though sensible of

compromise and conflict. The sceptic in the corner kept protesting,

"In spite of me you're heading for one more blunder."

Another subject, besides her book and her settled sadness, found a

small welcome at her door. This talk about war in South Africa--it

was always dramatic. The letters of Owen, who had returned to

Sillborough, were full of it. It was thrilling to read each morning

in the English or French papers of the Boers' impudent ultimatum and

the British Government's haughty refusal to discuss such terms; of

the threatening mobilisation in the Orange Free State and the calling

out of the reserves in England; of the last dark summoning of

Parliament. But this interest was mild compared with her interest in

her book. It occupied about the same relation to "Madame Rolland" as

a bright little grocer's boy, calling every day, occupies to the

mistress of a house.

This grocer's boy, however, came in and sat down in the best room

during the days when war was declared. The English papers were

better than any drama now, with their huge pictures of Sir Redvers

Buller in his cocked hat, about whom she had misgivings because his

chin receded, and of that old darling Oom Paul Kruger, who, with his

curtain-fringe of beard and chimney-pot hat, was so ugly as to be

perfectly sweet. The French papers, with their abuse of the English,

were things to be read; and in a moment of patriotic fervour she was

anxious to shake off the dust of her heels on such a rude country.

"I vote we go," said she to her father.

And her father shocked her by saying cold-bloodedly:

"But my sympathies, I'm afraid, are rather with Oom Paul than with

Tante Victoria."

"Daddy!" she exclaimed, after a shriek of laughter at such a name for

the venerable Queen, "how can you say such a thing? You're not a

pro-Boer."

But all he did was to smile and murmur, "_Et tu, Daphne_."

"I don't see there's any _Et tu, Daphne_ about it. You can't think

they're right."

"Neither side's ever perfectly right, dear. But that's no reason why

the big man should start to pummel the little fellow and kick his

posterior. Little men are always self-assertive or nobody'd notice

them much.... However, the damage is done. And now it's for us to

wonder how long our house and our lives will be safe among these

emotional French." (Mr. Bruno knew there was nothing in this

alarmist suggestion, but could not resist uttering it. His

difference from the ordinary panic-monger was his ability to stand

outside himself and laugh at his own delight.) "Supposing they burn

our house about our heads."

"Will they really? How ripping! Is it going to be as exciting as

that?"

"Who knows? The French are without some principle of balance.

However, I shouldn't talk to Miss Carrell about these things; and

certainly not to Hollins. Panic is a light sleeper in minds that

have never been properly _trued_."

"Oh, no, I won't," promised Daphne, proud to be held of stabler make

than Miss Carrell and Hollins, and impressed (as often during talks

with her father) at the enormous number of defective people in the

world. She was struck, too, at his originality in being a pro-Boer,

and wondered whether to learn up the part and be one herself.

"Besides," Mr. Bruno concluded, "we shan't be able to keep up these

two homes. No one'll buy any books."

The early and continued successes of the Boers, however, alienated

his sympathy from them. It was as if he felt they were going too

far. And one morning, on finishing his perusal of a smashing Boer

victory, he turned to Daphne and said, "Well, dammit, I think we'd

better win now," which relieved her considerably. Then they prepared

to return to England. On a day in December, after the incredible

defeats at Stormberg, Magersfontein and Colenso, the trunks of the

Brunos were packed, labelled, and standing in the hall at St. Leu.

Daphne went for a farewell walk along the roads of the forest. The

trees were quite bare, but many of the dead leaves still littered the

paths. Though mid-afternoon, the sun-rays, slanting through the

boles, had the sad effulgence of evening. Her random progress led

her as far as the Pont de Diable and back upon her tracks. It was on

this homeward stroll, just as she was nearing the edge of the trees,

that she was abruptly withdrawn from her inward thinking by the sight

of a man approaching her. The cut of his black overcoat and his

height suggested that he was English. On his perceiving her he

quickened his steps. It was Roger Muirhead surely. Yes, it was he;

and tall and handsome he looked. He was now smiling recognition, and

she replying with questioning eyebrows. That he had come in search

of her was manifest, and the thought could only please. A rapid

wonder passed by her mind: was she to be given at last the

opportunity of saying, as she had always wished to do, "It's no good,

Roger. I don't love you"? But now, in her dominant gentleness, she

had lost the desire to say it. He mustn't be hurt like that. Not

more than was inevitable. Less, much less, were it possible.... And

while she thought these things she was smiling at him with

questioning eyebrows.

"What on earth's produced you in these parts?"

Roger lifted his shoulders and looked embarrassed.

"Oh, I was in Paris ... and thought I might as well look you up.

Your people at the house told me you were here, so I said I'd come

and look for you ... as I've got to go back to Paris almost at once."

"It's awfully nice of you."

"Oh, no, it isn't.... At least ... Oh, I'd better tell you the

reason why I've come. (May I walk back with you?) What do you think

it is?"

"You've just said: to see us; to see some English friends who happen

to be in the same strange land as you are in. I always find that

people whom one would hardly know in England, if one meets them in a

racket of foreigners, are one's best friends."

Roger gave silence to this as he walked by her side, and she feared

she had hurt him more than she meant. So she hastily added:

"It's topping to see you."

"No--no--I ... Duffy, it was to find you, and you only, that I came."

Her heart throbbed. "I wasn't really staying in Paris. I left

England on the impulse of the moment last night, and I shall have to

get back to-night."

She said nothing, but walked on with him, occasionally kicking at the

dead leaves.

"Duffy, I've been in love with you ever since you appeared at that

ball. No, please let me go on. I--I'm sure you were meant for me,

because each time the first sight of you has been enough to make me

fall in love with you. That blasted waltz--I've been humming it ever

since, on purpose to work myself into a sad condition."

"But----" she began.

"No, please let me go on. This is what made me come out. I've

joined Sinclair's Horse, and I'm going to South Africa almost

immediately. I expect my orders for the front any day now. It's all

been perfectly glorious except--well, I've been dreaming how splendid

it would be if I could go out engaged to you. I can't bear to think

of any one else walking off with you in the meantime.... So I

resolved to charge straight at it.... Duffy, if we were engaged I

should be able to write to you. And----"

"Roger, I'd give anything to be able to do what you ask, but I--I

can't----" The words "I don't love you" should have come here, but

she would not say them. The way of gentleness was to remove his

castle brick by brick, not to shatter it at a blow. "I'll write to

you, however, regularly...."

They walked on, she diverging him towards an opening in the trees,

for he seemed unconscious or indifferent which direction he took. He

must speak next; and it was a while before his answer came.

"Oh, Duffy, I know I've jumped it on you rather, but I was forced to,

wasn't I? Do take that into consideration, and--I mean, it's a time

for deciding things quickly and not spreading them over their usual

period. I feel sure--I know you're destined to love me--you _did_

once--and I don't believe--I never have believed that you are

absolutely without feeling for me now. Little things made me

think----"

After all her indifference, of which she had been so proud, these

words came as a sharp temptation--a temptation to say, "You're as

wrong as you can be. I've no trace of love for you"; but she held

them back. Sometimes it wasn't easy to be gentle....

"Duffy, do say you will be engaged to me."

"I can't, Roger.... We don't know each other well enough...."

"Exactly. I've never had a reasonable chance. I've only had two

spells of acquaintance with you. And the very way we've been forced

apart each time makes me think we're intended for one another. I

believe that a fate waits for every man and that you are mine."

"Roger, you're incurably romantic, aren't you?"

This never offended him.

"Perhaps I am, if it's romantic to believe that. All I know is that

I love you with all my heart and soul."

"I'm awfully sorry, Roger ... but I can't do what you ask.... I wish

I were able to."

They were now out of the trees and walking down the slope to St. Leu.

The nearing of the houses prompted Roger to say despairingly:

"Well, if you can't go as far as that, will you promise not to get

engaged to any one else till I come back or am killed----?"

"Roger, you mustn't be killed. Don't say that."

He scarcely listened to her interruption.

"Duffy, promise me you won't get engaged to any one till I come back.

The war can't last long. If we don't wipe up a few Dutch farmers in

six months we shall be a poor set. Wait till I come back so that I

can have the chance of a run with the others."

This was the humblest thing he had said, and it went to her heart.

"There'll be no others," she murmured.

"Of course there will be. As I told you once before, there'll always

be heaps who want you. That's what makes me mad.... Throughout the

journey here I was in mortal dread lest I should find you already

engaged; and when I glanced at your finger just now and realised you

were still unwon I believed in my fate again."

"Roger, you must get that idea out of your head.... It's a little

sentimental, isn't it?"

This was to put it a different way. To be called romantic was

pleasing, but to have his love and his faith dubbed sentimental had

clearly injured his pride.

"Does that mean you won't promise me anything?"

"I am afraid so. It wouldn't be fair."

"All right." His face, as she always phrased it, had "tightened."

They were at the bottom of the hill, and he put out his hand. "Well,

good-bye."

"Come and have some tea with us," she said hastily.

"No, thanks. I must get back."

He took her hand coldly, and after a glance at his watch, murmured

something and moved on in front of her. She watched him stride a

little way and then, unable to let him go like that, ran hurriedly

after him.

"Roger," she called.

"What?" He stopped and turned.

"I don't want you to go like that."

He smiled his wry smile.

"Well, there's no other way to go unless you do what I ask. And I'm

not going to pester you for favours. I don't do that sort of thing

easily.... You're the only person in my life I've ever humbled

myself before. I shouldn't have done it if this war hadn't forced my

hand. After all, I've kept this to myself for nearly two years."

"But Roger----"

"And I don't ask you to be engaged to me, but only to wait till I

come back, so that I may have a fair run with the other fellows. It

isn't much. The war won't go on for ever. Besides, I should be

invalided or wounded sooner or later; or killed, which would relieve

you of your promise."

"Roger, don't talk like that. If you'll promise not to think there's

much chance of our ever getting married I'll promise to do what you

asked."

"Duffy, you will?" There was almost a note of triumph in his voice.

"Oh, thanks ... thanks awfully. It makes all the difference. You

may call me romantic, if you like, but I shall feel now as if I were

fighting to--to win through to you in spite of everything you say."

Having allowed a faint haze of falsity to arise it was useless to try

dissipating it now. Best continue being kind.

"And you know you are not really bound to go by the midnight boat.

Come back and see the family. It's all returning to England

to-morrow, and you can meet us in Paris and look after Miss Carrell

and Hollins as far as London, while I look after Father."

He met this with his grim smile; and, chatting naturally, though

sometimes she caught him staring at her in admiration, they walked

back to the house.

Roger's visit and request were at least flattering, and she wanted to

tell some one about it. Especially since he had been such a success

on the journey to London and had looked magnificent. Her father she

could not tell, for he had seen her moving on her tragic plateau, and

would feel that those who walked up there should walk above vanities.

Miss Carrell? Was she right in suspecting that gentleness forbade

unnecessary brag to Miss Carrell about offers of marriage? There was

Hollins. She must tell Hollins. And in the evening following the

day of their return to Old Hall House she begged the old servant to

come and sit in the playroom and mend her stockings there. For

twenty minutes she discussed a miscellany of topics, awaiting the

propitious moment. And when they had reached the voyage of yesterday

she asked:

"What did you think of Mr. Muirhead?"

Hollins pursed her mouth at the hole she was darning.

"Not much. I went to the door myself when he come, and before he

could speak I thought, 'He's English.' They look quite different,

don't they? They look gentlemen. But this one struck me as having

rather a sort of condescending tone, if you know what I mean."

"Do you know what he came for?"

"He said he happened to be around and knew you but not the master, so

I sent him after you."

"You didn't know what you were sending, did you? If I tell you what

he really came for will you promise not to tell any one?"

Hollins, perceiving the glimmer of an interesting revelation, laid

down her stocking. What it was she probably had no idea, still

thinking of her young mistress as a schoolgirl.

"Of course I won't say anything if you tell me not to."

"He came to ask me to marry him."

"Miss Duffy! Good gracious! ... But I never knew there was anything

between you. I never seen him before. Good gracious.... I'm sorry

I said I didn't quite take to him, first go off, as you might say.

It was only his manner, and I suppose it was natural for him to think

I was an ordinary servant.... Lord.... Miss Duffy!"

"Don't get excited. I refused him.... But I _did_ promise not to

get engaged to any one else till he comes back. He's going to the

war, you see."

"But he isn't a soldier, is he?"

"Not professionally. He's Sir Roger Muirhead's son."

"Then what's he want to go out there for?"

"Oh, a lot of men besides the regulars are going now."

"Are they? I don't know what they're up to. Aren't there enough

soldiers? It seems we're getting beat everywhere. Well, I hope your

Mr. Moorhead'll teach them Boers a lesson. They appear to fight

pretty dirty, waving white flags and all that."

"Oh, I think that's largely made up."

"Oh, no, it isn't. I seen it in the papers yesterday."

"Well, the French papers tell a very different story."

"They _would_, 'ating us as they do, and being a race of liars, as

far as I can make out."

"Personally, I rather admire the Boers and think they're putting up a

jolly plucky fight."

Hollins took up her stocking again with an unbelieving smile and a

shake of the head.

"No, Miss Duffy, that won't do. You ain't a pro-Boer, as they say.

One can't hold with English people as says the other side is right.

Not that I ever met any who did, and I don't believe they're proper

English at all. But lor! to think of that young gentleman asking you

to marry him!" This was obviously the more interesting subject to

her. "To think that all that sort of thing's beginning.... Why, it

seems only yesterday that the bell rang and the noos come to your

father as how he'd got a little daughter. And then when your mamma

asked for you to be brought to her, before she passed away--it don't

seem twenty years." She stopped her darning to scratch her head with

the needle. "Funny you're not in the least like her. She was fair

and small and timid like. Lor! I remember I used to say that with

your eyes you'd soon have the young men hanging around. And now it's

comin' to pass. I used to say your eyes is your trump card...."

"Yes, but they're the only trump I've got," grumbled Daphne.

"Otherwise I've a putrid hand."

"It don't look like it, do it?" smiled Hollins, "seeing that there's

been one after you before you're twenty. And such a handsome one,

too." She folded up the completed pair of stockings and pushed her

wooden ball into the heel of one of Mr. Bruno's socks. "What I

always says is, Life's a funny business. The noos come that you'd

arrived at that there horrible home, and you're brought to the hall

door, where I met you carried in; and then time passed with cooking

and washing and mending, and you in the house growing so naturally

that one hardly noticed your growing at all or worried about it--and

now you're going to disappear out of the hall door into another life.

Seems strange somehow."

CHAPTER XXIV

The papers now filled with pictures of Field-Marshal Lord Roberts,

who was to proceed at once to the command in South Africa, and of

Lord Kitchener, who was to be his Chief of Staff. Of Lord Roberts

Daphne had never heard, but she thought his moustache and imperial

rather sweet. Lord Kitchener, on the other hand, had been one of her

schoolgirl heroes at the time of his return from the Sudan, and she

was jealous for him that he should not be in supreme command. Lord

Roberts, in comparison with Kitchener, was just a toy of an old man,

such a one as she always called "a poor little soul." "Still,

generals of that sort are often very pure little men," said Daphne

comfortingly.

Owen returned from Sillborough for the Christmas holidays, and after

the feast spent a mysterious night in town. The next evening he

apologised to his father and sister and announced that he had joined

the Imperial Yeomanry. He expected to leave for South Africa any day

now.

Mr. Bruno muttered a mild oath, but was not displeased with his son.

"I can't say I believe in your war, colonel," said he, "but as my

good friend Nietzsche puts it with some originality, 'It's the

fighting halloweth every cause.'"

"Lor' bless you, I don't believe in it either," Owen disclaimed. "I

only think it's jolly decent--like sin.... Don't you?"

As for Daphne, she succumbed to a really bourgeois pride and

sentimentality about her brother. Ever since he had shot up six

inches above her and could lift her out of a carriage lest her

dancing shoes were soiled, she had promoted him to a worldly

superiority over herself. It was extraordinary how boys, who were

such miserable fowl at ten years old, developed into something much

more competent and assured than yourself. She was as excited as he

about sleeping-bags, bandoliers, revolvers, grey-coats,

field-glasses, riding-boots and badges of rank. And it was a

pleasure to write to Roger that her brother Owen was following him

and was in the cavalry, so it was possible they would meet.

Roger had left for Cape Town very soon after his hawk-swoop on Daphne

in the wood. He wrote regularly and more and more affectionately.

It was plain that the loneliness and woman-hunger of soldiering had

heightened his love, and that he was picturing her now as much more

wonderful than she was. These letters, so courteous, reverent, and

yet breathing in every line an impassioned love, raised in her a

great tenderness towards Roger, an emotion very different from the

humble worship which was her love for Henry.

This was always present: if not actually in her thoughts it was very

close, behind a semi-transparent veil. If the veil thickened, making

Henry for a space a well-nigh incredible memory, and herself ashamed

that her love could quiet so, it needed but the appearance of his

figure in a dream for her to awake and find the wound open, aching in

sharp air. Or she would look out of her window at night and see the

English clouds shaping themselves as mountain ranges, with two

points, perhaps, like the points of the Mythen; and immediately any

hardening ground would be painfully broken again, and wild sentences

arise, "I can't live without you, Henry!" "I must have you, Henry!"

This pain swelled her tenderness to Roger; and when he wrote begging,

"Please, _please_ send me a photograph," she determined to comply;

and determined that it should show her at her very best--or better

than that. It might be the last picture he would ever see of her.

She went to the most expensive photographer's in Brighton, and on the

arrival of proofs, opened them eagerly. They were too

wonderful--_perfect_! As she studied the picture, large and softened

in the latest style, she was (as she said) "astonied, and there was

no more bitterness in her." It was she--and yet it was the ideal of

her; it was her own dream of herself that she had failed to realise.

The longing was in her mind for Henry to see it. Still, there was

happiness in sending it off to Roger, and thinking of his joy in its

possession, and imagining it on his camp-table throughout the war.

On a May afternoon she rose from her writing-place with a glow of

lonely triumph, such as that experienced by Gibbon when he had

completed "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." She had

written the last word of "Madame Rolland." Whatever happened to this

manuscript, she had actually written a book--a story with a

beginning, a middle, and an end.

Whether it were good or bad, she could not decide. A few parts she

felt sure were splendid, of a great many she feared the worst.

What to do with it now? She could not bring herself to show the

manuscript to anybody before sending it to the publishers. Her

father she had always meant to surprise by its publication; Miss

Carrell was a nonentity, and Hollins, if she struggled through it,

would certainly say it was beautiful. And having shut herself within

herself of late she had no very intimate friends. Mrs. Montague

Jevons was abroad. If only Henry could have criticised it! But her

book, she knew, would have been quite different then. Desiring only

to earn his commendation, and indifferent to the world, she would not

have compromised.

Over what name should it be sent to the publishers? Her own she

would have liked. "Daphne Bruno" sounded an author's name.

"But, no. If it's as rotten as I sometimes think it, I should let

father down. Besides, it might go a bit on his name, and that I

don't want."

"Helen Gilder" was her final concoction. "'Madame Rolland,' by Helen

Gilder."

Now the manuscript had to be typed. There was a lady who did typing

in Haywards Heath, where she had a little office over a shop in

Boltro Road. It would be very pleasant walking the two miles there

with the manuscript under her arm.

Half an hour later she was in the office of Miss Elsie Troon, typist,

and saying with a mixture of self-consciousness and vanity:

"I want this typed, please; and what is the very soonest I could have

it?"

Miss Troon, a stout blonde, was quite unmoved at having an author in

her office. She looked at the manuscript, giving Daphne an

uncomfortable moment as the title page passed beneath her eyes,

estimated the number of words, and named a date.

"I should have liked it before that, as I have got to send it to the

publisher's reader as soon as possible."

This sounded excellent, and was reasonably true.

Miss Troon, her blood still unwarmed, promised to have it completed

by a day earlier, and Daphne departed, carrying down into the street

an anxiety lest any disaster overtook the manuscript while it was out

of her hands. Apart from this anxiety, her walk home was very happy,

and her sense of work completed made it seem like the first evening

of a holiday.

When the day came to fetch the typescript she was almost as excited

as if she were going to see her book in print. But she showed no

emotion to the phlegmatic Miss Troon, not even examining the work

before it was packed up. And in the street, with some idea that Miss

Troon might be leaning out of her window and watching, she refrained

from undoing the parcel till she was round a corner. But thereafter

she walked home along the town and the country road reading it page

by page and occasionally walking into other pedestrians or the hedge.

It was very well typed, and seemed to have shed some of its

amateurishness with this change of dress. Certain corrections she

made with her pencil, standing in the middle of the road or with a

foot on the hedge.

Her scheme was to send it to the most important publishers first

(avoiding her father's lest they recognised the owner's name) and

work downward to the smaller people. It was rather thrilling,

composing a letter to the firm; writing on the fly-leaf of the

typescript: "Property of Miss Daphne Bruno, Old Hall House,

Wivelsfield, Sussex," and then making up the parcel. The last knot

tied she went out and posted it.

"I only expect to get it back. Of course, I must expect to get it

back once or twice."

The first time it returned she took the parcel from the postman's

hand with a steady face, and the hope that he would not observe her

heightened colour and slight abstraction. She carried it into the

playroom and redirected it, with a new letter, to the second

publisher on the list. Every morning she watched the postman coming

up the drive, and on a day three weeks later saw in his hand the

parcel of unmistakable shape. The third time she was out when it

came, and found it in the hall, on returning from a ride. It was a

day in July, and the anniversary, so her diary told her, of one of

the most intimate conversations with Henry, under the mountains of

Brunnen. The fourth time she saw it again in the postman's hands;

and lest he should begin to suspect what it was and know her for a

humbled failure, she ran out and joked with him as she took it from

his hands.

The fifth time it stayed away so long that she thought she might

write for information, and did so in a very courteous letter.

"It'll reach them to-morrow morning, and I ought to get an answer the

next day after breakfast."

That next day there was, surely enough, a letter for her with the

publisher's imprint. This set one's heart going fast and awkwardly;

no parcel, just a letter alone. With quivering fingers she opened

and drew out the typed sheet.

"DEAR MADAM (it said),--We desire to thank you for giving us the

opportunity of reading your novel, 'Madame Rolland,' but after

carefully considering it we have regretfully decided that we cannot

make you any offer for its publication. We are therefore returning

it under separate cover...."

She tossed down the sheet with the words, "All right, I'll send it to

the next, and you'll be sorry some day."

This much of comfort she tried to suck from the letter, that they had

taken long to make up their minds. But the sceptic had another view;

he hinted that they had not read it at all and, on receipt of her

inquiry, had returned it by the next post.

That winter and spring she sent it to three or four more publishers,

directing it each time in a soulless, automatic way, entirely without

hope, but liking to tell herself that she hadn't given in. She wrote

nothing else, and read little. Ambition had drawn into a shell and

was hibernating there. Careless now to whom she submitted it, she

tried a Mr. D. J. Stendal, whose advertisement she had seen in a

corner of a weekly paper. Beneath its tabulated titles it had added,

"Authors Invited to Submit Books."

His reply came a week later. It said that Mr. Stendal was interested

in her work and would like to see her at some time suitable to

herself, either at his office in Queen Victoria Street, or, since he

would be in Brighton that week-end, at the Old Ship Hotel.

Now her heart beat to a tune of high hope again. Ambition leapt from

its shell as if it had never been torpid at all. From Mr. D. J.

Stendal's crested paper and offices in Queen Victoria Street she

conjectured that his house must be in no small way. And Mr. D. J.

Stendal was coming himself. Did this mean that her book was so good

that the head of the firm was prepared to wait on her? Or was

it--was it that Mr. D. J. Stendal, despite his note-paper, had less

standing than--she hurried to look again at his advertisement. It

was certainly a very small advertisement, giving the titles of some

poetry books by writers with unfamiliar names.

Less excited, but still pleased that some one was prepared to publish

her work, and fortifying herself with the words, "Beggars can't be

choosers," she wrote that she would be happy to interview Mr. Stendal

in Brighton.

Monday was the day assigned; and it was an April afternoon, warmer

than any that had gone before so that the spirit of holiday was along

the Brighton front, when Daphne pushed open the door of the Old Ship

Hotel and asked at a counter for Mr. D. J. Stendal.

"He's expecting me," said she to the attendant, wondering if he knew

Mr. D. J. Stendal was a publisher, and would guess her to be one of

his authoresses.

While a boy in buttons went to look for her host, she watched the

people as they came and went, and vaguely pitied them their flat

occupations or commonplace holiday. Not one of them, probably, was

at the verge of exciting things.

"Mr. Stendal's just here, miss," said the returning boy; and he led

her to an ante-room where he pointed to a little, clean-shaven,

sharp-featured man, in a blue serge suit, who was staring out of the

window at the sea-front. On the table beside him was an empty cup of

coffee, its saucer littered with cigar ash. A disappointingly

insignificant little man--but then, what about Lord Roberts. "Let's

hope D. J. is just such a pure little man," thought Daphne.

"That's 'im, miss."

Mr. Stendal turned from the window as she drew near and rose.

"Ah, Miss Bruno, I imagine, Miss Daphne Bruno. Yes. It's

exceedingly kind of you to give me the opportunity of discussing

things with you personally. Won't you sit down?" He smiled.

"You're even younger than I thought."

With the quick sensitiveness of an author Daphne wondered what this

meant.

"Am I?"

"Yes. Well, you don't mind my cigar, I suppose?--well, we've all

read 'Madame Rolland' with interest, and on certain considerations

have decided that we should like to publish it for you."

The "We've all" reassured her; evidently the firm was not small. But

it was a shock to hear the title rendered in English as "Maddum

Rollend."

"Yes," she said inquiringly.

"'Helen Gilder' I see you call yourself. I wonder why?"

"Oh, I made it up."

"But why, when--or p'raps you didn't want the name confused with the

great Tenter Bruno?"

Daphne flushed.

"Not particularly."

Mr. Stendal now looked out of the window, which had the effect of

bringing into the ante-room the sounds of horse-traffic and the

footsteps of passers-by and the shrieks of children.

"You're not any relation to him by any chance, are you?"

"Well, yes," said Daphne, with an awkward smile.

"Oh, _relly_?" Mr. Stendal's eyes came away from the window and

looked straight at his visitor, whimsically. "Relly? This _is_

interesting. Not his daughter, by any chance? Of course, he lives

this way, doesn't he? Not his _daughter_?"

Daphne nodded, very red. And Mr. Stendal's eyebrows were surprised

and delighted.

"Well, relly. I _am_--I count this interview a great privilege.

Yes, and now I come to look, you're not unlike some of his pictures.

But why, Miss Bruno--why, with a name to conjure with like

yours--don't you publish under it? Your book has a charm, an

innocent charm, that pleased me, but"--his lips compressed, as his

head shook doubtfully--"the difficulty always is to start an unknown

author. You can't get the necessary publicity. And no book, however

good, can do much without that. With your father's name we could at

least get notice taken of it. We should--I might say, we should be

honoured to publish 'Rollend' for your father's daughter."

"Yes, but that's just what I don't want."

The sensitive Daphne's heart was drooping at the thought that her

work was not really good. Doubtless the great houses who only

published work on its merits had rightly turned it down.... But no,

she wouldn't think that. She would believe in it despite everything.

It was not that she was a fool, but only that she preferred to be.

"Why don't you want it, Miss Bruno?"

"Because I want it to go on its own strength ... and father knows

nothing at all about it."

Mr. Stendal smiled sympathetically--knowingly.

"I see--I quite see. I quite appreciate your position. It's to be a

surprise, eh? ... And may I ask if--you'll forgive me, I'm sure, for

no lady minds being considered younger than she is--may I ask if

you're still a minor?"

"Does that mean, am I twenty-one?"

"Yes."

"I was twenty-one last February."

Mr. Stendal smiled benignantly.

"Dear me! What it is to look sixteen! You see, you need to be over

twenty-one if you're going to sign an agreement. In your own

interest I mentioned it."

"Agreement?" Her brows furrowed.

"Oh, yes, there's always an agreement between publisher and author."

"I didn't realise that."

"No? Well, it's quite a simple matter.... Now, as regards terms.

You mustn't expect to make a great pile of money with your first

book."

"Oh, I don't," assured Daphne.

"No. Especially when it's without any particular sting. The great

houses find it difficult to sell seven hundred copies of an unknown

writer's book.... Myself, I make quite a feature of publishing the

work of young writers--why, I can't say--they appeal to me, perhaps.

But, as I expect you know, it's generally poytry I publish. Now, in

the case of poytry, which is even more difficult to sell, the author

generally contributes towards the cost of production, and after a

certain number have been sold, he begins to get a royalty on each

copy." Mr. Stendal smiled benignly. "Now, I don't propose to ask

you to contribute anything. Nor do I propose to buy your copyright

for a sum down--I always think that's so unfair--if the book was to

go, I might make hundreds, while you'd only get your small sum." He

then told the stories of several famous novels which had made

thousands for their publishers and nothing for their authors, and

Daphne was astonished; many of them were books she had read. "Yes,

it's pure roguery, isn't it?" nodded Mr. Stendal. "Well, what I

suggest is that, after you've sold a thousand copies, you get a

royalty on every copy of ten per cent. of the published price. I

shall be losing money till I've sold something in the neighbourhood

of a thousand copies."

"It sounds all right," smiled Daphne.

"I might even, if you sold, say, five thousand, raise the royalty to

fifteen per cent."

"Oh, thanks."

"Yes, I desire to be perfectly fair. Well, now the question of name.

I quite appreciate that you don't want your father to know anything

about it. If it's a success, you want to be able to tell him that

Helen Gilder is relly Miss Daphne Bruno. Whereas, if it isn't a

success, you needn't say anything."

"Yes, that's it."

"Quite so. Still, may I suggest that you publish it anonymously?

Anonymous books sometimes cause a good deal of talk and

speculation--which helps them considerably. Now 'Rollend' is a

slight book--very nice as far as it goes--but it can't afford to do

without these adventitious aids. 'Helen Gilder' will do it no good

at all. Anonymity might help a little--nothing much, but a little.

'Tennyrate, I strongly recommend it."

She agreed to this, and, a little later, the conversation terminated

in amiable chaff from Mr. Stendal, and the assurance, at the door of

the hotel, that he would forward the agreement at once.

Out in the sunshine of the Brighton front her thoughts were a mixture

of disappointment and exultation, misgiving and hope: disappointment

at the qualified praise of Mr. Stendal and the faint aura of doubts

that hung around his person; exultation because her book would at

least be printed and stand on her shelves, which was more than any of

these people in the carriages or on the pavements had achieved;

misgiving lest the critics laughed at her work, and hope that they

might pronounce it very good.

"I wish I knew if it were good or bad. However, I won't let myself

expect it's going to do anything big.... But, of course, it's quite

possible it might be good and catch on. And then..."

She gave herself to the more pleasurable business of imagining the

sensation in the papers and the surprise that would be sprung on her

father and Owen and Roger. Roger, being an ambitious person, would

hardly suspect that she also could do a noisy thing in the world.

Probably, though not admitting it, he would be a little jealous. And

if it were a success, and published in America, under its author's

real name, and Henry saw it!

CHAPTER XXV

Owen and Roger wrote frequently. They had met at Krugersdorp, as

both reported in their letters:

"I struck Roger Muirhead's crowd the other day," said Owen. "My

dear, Roger's a great man. He's doing things properly. If you can

conceive an amalgam of the Iron Duke, Frederick the Great, Cromwell

and Halifax, that's Roger. He's the sort that says: 'My men may fear

me, but I think you'll agree they'll follow me anywhere.' I really

believe he imagines the British are in the right and the Boers in the

wrong; though Heaven knows why. And did you know he was religious?

But he is. He never fails to take his men to church if there's a

parade. It seems the old boy, his pater, is a tremendous churchman;

though, again, Heaven knows why. I blew into his tent, and on a box

beside his bed was the same photograph of you as you sent me. Is he

still smitten with you, or how did he get it? I'm sorry I don't like

him if _you_ do. I'll try to; but, honestly, I think him at present

rather pompous and superior. He must always disagree with you lest,

by agreeing, he should appear to be less than you. I can look into

his head and see his motives hopping and popping about, just as if

his skull were made of glass, which makes me think I must inherit

some of your dear father's insight. But he may grow out of these

things. He's very young. And I must say he never misses a chance of

being wounded or killed. He's either unco brave, or so ambitious

that he's ready to be killed if only he can do some enormously brave

deed and have it trumpeted all over the world.

"Love to father, and tell him I met a British officer the other day

who had read one of his books. Love to Miss Carrell and dear old

Herbert Hollins.--Your hero brother,

"OWEN BRUNO."

Daphne, reading this letter, was more annoyed with Owen than critical

of Roger. It was irritating that her brother should sit in judgment,

and contemptuously, on a man who had asked her to marry him.

"After all, Owen, just as much as Roger, has created a character that

he tries to live up to--the humorous, cynical young man.... When

he's been through some pain"--this she thought with a little

pride--"he'll be more generous."

Roger's letter had come by the same mail:

"I met your young brother the other day. He's a curious kid. He

always seems to want to laugh at everything. I think I've got as

much humour as most men, but I like to believe there are some ideals

worth holding. If he doesn't believe we're doing a decent job out

here, what on earth has he come for? I am afraid I was rather rude,

but I can't stick it when people try to make out that every country

and every class and every school is right except their own, and I am

afraid I'm apt to speak my mind sometimes. It's not as though I was

a Tory without an idea beyond my own interests. Like father, who's

one of the few capitalists who have ever stood for Liberalism, I'm a

Liberal, but I believe in this war and came out to it, though many of

my political friends cried shame on me for doing it...."

Now she was annoyed with Roger. "Owen's right: Roger's egotism leaks

out everywhere." And even as she said it she remembered that all her

thoughts for the last year and more, while men were dying daily on

the veldt and the British armies, after an echoing humiliation, were

only recovering in a long-drawn tussle, had been concentrated on

herself and her desire to do something big.

"I doubt if there's much to choose between any of us; every one I've

had anything to do with has lived in a self-created role; Miss

Durgon, old Miss Vidella, Miss Sims, Daddy, Roger, Owen and myself.

Henry, I believe, did it least of all. Or his role was a better one;

of itself it destroyed the play-actor.... Roger must think me rather

a fool, if he imagines I don't see all these things. But 'Madame

Rolland' 'll make him open his eyes."

And then, one morning as she was casually opening the paper, she

found herself looking straight at a portrait of Roger. Quick

self-reproach hampered her heart; she feared he was dead. It beat

again with relief and excitement when she saw beneath the picture:

"The Hero of Wittfontein. Lieut. Roger Muirhead, whose heroism is

reported on page 5."

Eagerly turning to page five she read under sensational headlines a

column in honour of Roger. It was usual enough in those days to see

the exploits of English officers illuminated and stressed till they

seemed Homeric; but few had given the journalistic imagination a

better opening than Roger. It rushed in a torrent over his deed and

lapped worshippingly about his feet. He had been in command of a

small post at a place called Wittfontein, which lay across the line

of Hertzog's raid into Cape Colony. He and his "handful" of men had

been attacked by a large force of Boers who had expected to sweep

them up in a morning's work before proceeding to the main column

advancing on Britstown. But Lieutenant Muirhead thought differently.

Nothing else would satisfy him but to remain undefeated behind their

raid, or to delay them by resisting to the last man, while his

commanding officer got wind of the position. So all day, though

wounded in shoulder and knee and faint with loss of blood, he had

crawled among his men, revolver in hand, stiffening the resistance of

this "tiny Ladysmith" and refusing to give up the place of command.

The enemy had actually abandoned all attempt at capture, although

when the British relieving force arrived at the Wittfontein post,

_not one of its defenders was found to be without a wound_. Mr.

Muirhead was by this time unconscious. The men, now that the Boers

had cleared off and left them victors, were in high spirits and full

of praises for their officer. Some of their remarks were quoted.

"Doubt if we could have done it without him." "He's severe enough,

but he don't tell no one to do what he wouldn't do himself." (What

music to Roger's ears must this sentence have been!) "He was bound

to do something big if the war went on long enough, and he didn't get

himself killed."

A thought so unworthy had stirred in Daphne's mind that, in order to

drive it back and refuse it foot-room again, she jumped up and rushed

into her father's study to find more papers and more accounts of the

Hero of Wittfontein; she took them for proud showing to Miss Carrell

and Hollins, and she hurried to her table and wrote to Roger. "Oh,

Roger, I'm thrilled. It's wonderful to be your friend." This was

expiation, because for a moment she had felt jealousy and

disappointment that Roger had achieved his fame before her.

The papers during several days gave space to Lieut. Muirhead. They

reported his improvement in hospital, gave a summary of his life, and

spoke of his desire after the war to enter politics.

Daphne wondered if his head would be turned, and could not expel the

thought that, now he was so big a man, with the world at his feet, he

might see fit to drop her as he had done once before. Perhaps the

interval between his letters would increase till they stopped

altogether. He was in no wise pledged to her. But his next letter,

under a base hospital address, began: "My dearest Duffy," which was a

phrase he had never employed hitherto. What emotion, in the glow of

his triumph, had impelled its use?

The early part of the letter was studiously occupied with ordinary

details of his life; but they were only like a creeper on its real

structure, which said:

"You will, I suppose, have heard of the scrap at Wittfontein. I

can't think what they are making all this fuss about. It was, of

course, a nasty day, but we had to fight whether we liked it or not.

The only alternative was to give ourselves up, and that isn't done.

I had no use for handing over my weapons and the weapons of my men to

the Boers. Hundreds of others would have done what we did and been

mopped up. We were saved, and therefore everybody hears about it.

And as for all that talk about my keeping command when I was wounded

in the leg and shoulder (they might have added the thigh and wrist as

well), what could I do? We were surrounded, and I had nowhere to go

and get into bed. And I didn't fancy seeing my sergeant take over

command as long as I was in my senses. The men were distinctly

cock-a-hoop when the Boers melted, and most of the puff in the papers

is due to their generous enthusiasm.

"However, I dare say all this praise will please the pater and mater,

so I am glad of it for their sakes. But I am still happier if it

pleases you at all, because you are more to me even than them.

Duffy, I have wanted all the war to do something big, simply to seem

worthy of you. And dearest (forgive me for writing that word, but I

feel I must, and it can't hurt you), when I first got into hospital

feeling frightfully low (emotionally exhausted, I suppose) I made

sure I was going to die; and all the time I thought of you as I found

you in that wood or left you on Victoria Station, and I didn't want

to die, for I wanted, at any rate, to be in the same world as you..."

Daphne's eyes moistened; these were words she had used in her

thoughts of Henry.

"... When I picked up that divine photograph from the table beside me

I simply longed for you. I would try to imagine you coming through

the door into the ward. And when I thought I might be sent home, I

was lifted to the seventh heaven at the thought of seeing you within

a measurable distance of time.

"I only tell you this because it is proof of how much I love you. If

I have achieved any sort of fame, I am happy because I have got

something to offer at your feet. I want to say this, Duffy: if you

have yet learned to love me, and feel you could marry me, I should

love to consider myself engaged to you, and should be only too happy

if you cared to tell everybody that we were engaged. But, if not,

well, I shall understand, and I expect I shall be home soon enough to

plead my cause better."

"Poor, dear Roger," said Daphne, moved. "You thought I'd like to

proclaim my engagement to you just now when your name is on

everybody's lips. I think it was sweet of you to offer me the

chance."

She laid down the letter and walked to the window. Who could

say?--had Switzerland never happened she might have learned to love

him. He was a little egotistical and pompous, but so was she and

every one else. It would have been nice to say she was his

_fiancée_, and to have all the papers seizing on to it. And now she

mustn't hurt him by too final a refusal.

She spent a long time phrasing her reply:

"MY DEAR ROGER,--Honestly, I am awfully proud of your last letter,

and think everything in it was splendid of you. I certainly like you

better than I have ever done, but not enough to say I'll marry you.

You see, I haven't seen very much of you. But it's ripping to hear

you are coming back soon...."

Like a moving staircase time carried her towards the date of "Madame

Rolland's" publication. Excitement fought with timidity, now

uppermost, now under, but generally winning. Often she scanned her

father's literary papers, hoping to find a preliminary notice. She

saw none, but, though disappointed, was not angry. If the story were

a success there would be plenty of notices of her next book. The

night before publication she took her secret to bed with her, where

it kept her pillow hot and her body restless.

With the day she rose and hastily dressed, in a desire to be down

before the others that she might separate for herself a few minutes

with the newspapers. An advertisement might be there, and possibly

one or two reviews. Of course she would not expect big

advertisements like her father's--just her book in a column of other

titles.

It was a mid-week day, bringing several papers and journals. One by

one, having found nothing, she laid them by. When the last was

abandoned empty her shoulders shrugged and her hand dropped to her

side.

"All right," she said resignedly, hardly knowing what she meant by

the words, and added: "I think he might have put in a small

advertisement."

Restless throughout the day, she decided to go where there were

bookshops that she might see if "Madame Rolland" were in the windows.

Brighton, of course. She escaped from the house and took the train.

And in Brighton she wandered from book-shop window to book-shop

window, seeking in vain the cover or the back of her book. At last,

thinking desperately that she must have some encouragement to go on

with, she entered a shop to ask for "Madame Rolland" over the counter.

It was a nervous business when the young man enquired her needs, and

she had to utter the title of her own book.

"Have you a copy"--she coughed, and cleared her throat--"of 'Madame

Rolland'?"

The young man shook his head.

"No, miss. Not in stock. Is it an old book?"

"No, no. I think it's published to-day."

"Is it? We haven't heard of it. Who is it by?"

"Oh, I think it's anonymous."

"Indeed, miss? Who publishes it?"

"Stendal. Mr. D. J. Stendal."

The young man bowed, and said nothing. Obviously he did not like to

admit that the name was unfamiliar. Daphne, by now, though sanity

told her it was nonsense, was apprehensive lest he thought her the

authoress, and had no desire beyond getting out of the shop. But not

too quickly, or she would confirm his suspicions.

"Yes, D. J. Stendal," she said again.

"Well, we can get it for you, miss, in a couple of days."

"Oh, don't trouble. I'll try to get it elsewhere. Thank you so

much."

This inquiry she repeated at every bookshop, and always with the same

result. One man, indeed, did find the book mentioned in a list sent

out by Mr. Stendal, and she had the satisfaction of seeing "Madame

Rolland" in print on a slip of paper.

"Perhaps you'd like to keep that list, miss," said the

man--innocently, it was to be hoped.

"Oh, thanks. Well--yes--I will."

She passed out into the crowded Western Road, carrying Mr. Stendal's

list. After a few hundred paces her thoughts were disturbed by a

strong smell of coffee that seemed to rise from the pavement, and she

found herself opposite an Oriental café. It was tempting. A cup

would remove the parched taste from her mouth, and the gathering

tiredness in her head and eyes. She climbed the stairs to the first

floor, and sat at a table by the window. Here she sipped her coffee,

or rested her face in her palm, as she watched the carts and buses

and pedestrians below.

"It looms so important to me," thought she, "that I can't imagine how

microscopically small it is to all these people and everybody else."

Hope sprang afresh next morning when six presentation copies arrived;

and in the next weeks she trusted to see some advertisement or review

in this paper or that. But nothing could she track till one day, as

she was walking on Ditchling Common, a carriage passed her, and Mrs.

Montague Jevons immediately stopped her coachman, and hailed Daphne

in a sentence that gave her a leap of delight.

"Hallo! Hallo, hallo! Like father like daughter. I see you've

written a book."

Daphne blushed agreement. "Yes, I'm afraid so," and for the sake of

something to add, asked: "But how did you know?"

"Oh, I've just read an announcement of it!"

"Have you?" said Daphne--languidly, to conceal her eagerness.

"Where?"

"In the _Daily Telegraph_. Just a small notice."

"Oh, I haven't seen that one. To-day's?"

"Yes, this morning's."

"I must look at it. Father's got it.... Was it kind?"

"Very...."

As quickly as suited with her mantle of dispassion, she got away from

Mrs. Monty and hurried home to see what the paper had said. The

_Telegraph_. This was excellent, for the _Telegraph_ was an

important journal. Only when she was half-way back did she think:

"But how did Mrs. Monty know that I wrote it, seeing it's anonymous?"

The question stopped her dead on the road. Had it then leaked out

that she was the authoress? This might be good news, showing that

discussion had played around the book. Or had Mr. Stendal--now her

indignation began to rise--carefully divulged her name, in order to

stir up talk and stimulate sales?

When she had the paper in her hand, it was a long time before she

could light upon the notice. She was looking for a small head-line,

and perhaps half a column of criticism. There was no such thing,

though one swept the paper three, four, and five times. At length,

in a few inches devoted to announcements, she found the lines:

"We understand that a novel published recently, 'Madame Rolland,' is

really the work of Miss Daphne Bruno, the daughter of Mr. T. Tenter

Bruno. The book has been selling well, the publisher, Mr. D. J.

Stendal, informs us, but this interesting news has stimulated the

demand."

On the whole she was pleased. The statement that the book had been

selling before the revelation of its authorship counter-balanced her

anger with Mr. Stendal. But she was glad that the paragraph was

small, and not likely to be seen by her father, or too many friends.

Not yet had it been declared good, and only if it were good did she

want people to know of it. So she began to get incensed when she saw

in the chatty column of that evening's paper an extraordinarily

flippant paragraph headed, "Following in Father's Footsteps"; and

another, though this was dignified, in the _Evening Advertiser_.

The constant repetition of her father's name reminded her of

something she had quite forgotten: all of these paragraphs would be

sent to him by his press-cutting agent, and would probably be on his

breakfast plate the day after to-morrow. If they were, she would not

be able to face him. She would run. Pray that he didn't leave his

study to-day, and meet any one who would enlighten him!

The well-known envelope of the press-cutting agent did not appear,

however, till three days later. When Daphne saw it, she went out of

the house without stopping for any breakfast.

She walked along the roads towards Haywards Heath. The impulse

strengthened to go up to town and demand an explanation from Mr.

Stendal. She was spoiling to be rude. The slippery little beast!

Yes, and now that she was fairly successful, she stood in a new

relation to him. She could tell him what she thought; and she would.

All the way in the train she was framing her insults. They held

allusions to solicitors, and "steps" and adequate apologies.

In Queen Victoria Street she had difficulty in finding the offices of

Mr. Stendal. Mr. Stendal's number seemed to be occupied by the

headquarters of a patent knife-cleaner. Then, at the side of what

she had supposed to be a private door, she saw several brass plates;

and one of them, under the heading "Third Floor," read, "Mr. D. J.

Stendal, Publisher." Walking nervously but resolutely up the dark,

iron-bound stairs, she vowed that if the clerks, as seemed possible,

brought a message that Mr. Stendal was engaged, she would push past

them into his private room.

Arrived, rather breathless, at the third floor, she walked along a

dark passage till she saw a door on which was painted, "Mr. D. J.

Stendal." Being called to come in, she turned the handle more

timidly than pleased her, and entered a bare, littered room, long

enough to hold three tables, at one of which sat a youthful

girl-typist, at another a shock-headed man with a stoop, and at the

third little Mr. Stendal himself. On deal shelves round about the

walls were files, iron boxes, and stray copies of books published by

the firm.

Mr. Stendal, recognising his visitor at once, rose and said

pleasantly:

"Ah, Miss Bruno. Mr. Bates, this is Miss Bruno, you know, who wrote

'Rolland.'" He did not introduce her to the typist. "Please sit

down."

And he removed some papers off a chair and courteously placed it for

her.

Daphne was disconcerted by the presence of other people, and

stuttered:

"I rather wanted to see you in private a minute."

Mr. Stendal smiled gaily.

"Well, we haven't another room. But you needn't mind Mr. Bates. He

and I really are Stendal's, so I couldn't have a secret from him, if

I wanted to. That's so, Bates, isn't it? Do sit down."

She sat down.

"You want to know how your book's going on. Miss Dale, look up

'Rolland,' and see what the figures are, will you? Thank you."

Daphne interrupted.

"I didn't come about that. I wanted to know how it leaked out that I

had written it. I especially stipulated that it should be published

anonymously."

"I know you did. Or rather, you wanted it published under an assumed

name. And you will remember that I recommended anonymity as more

likely to stimulate interest. Well, it turns out that I served you

well by that bit of advice. You see--to tell the truth--we sold

nothing--practically speaking, nothing at first. I don't think we

had any orders, did we, Miss Dale? And I thought that, as you had

entrusted its publication to me, I had best do all I could for you.

So Mr. Bates, who sees to the publicity department, sent round a

paragraph--didn't you, Bates?--and we were delighted the ways the

papers took it up. Not many, but one or two important ones. I grant

I did it on my own authority, but you will appreciate I had your

interests at heart. I think you will forgive me when you hear that

our manœuvre has created quite a demand; small, of course, but

good--distinctly good for a first novel. The shops and the libraries

have both bought. What are our sales now, Miss Dale?"

"Twelve hundred."

"Excellent. Twelve hundred copies, Miss Bruno, sold right out. That

means we've topped the first thousand, and are now in the second when

you get the ten per cent. royalty."

Daphne started to speak, but Mr. Stendal hurried on:

"And what's more, it's really getting noticed and reviewed. Did you

see the little notice in the _Times_ this morning? And those

cuttings that came this morning, Miss Dale; pass them to Miss Bruno

to see." He took them from the typist's hand, and gave them to

Daphne, who accepted them limply. "There. You can keep those.

We've made a selection of quotable phrases--haven't we, Bates? We're

advertising the book next week. I hope we may see at least two

thousand copies for you."

Daphne could scarcely say anything, being driven by the desire to get

away. The news that the book had sold nothing until the mention of

her father's name had been the final blow after a week of buffeting.

The sting was taken from her studied insults. She was near to

crying, and it must not be done before these people. But

something--something that would hurt must be said.

"I told you I had not come to hear about the sales. I am not

interested in them. What I am interested in is the explanation why a

definite promise to me was not honoured. I see you have no

explanation. I must speak to my father about it. He understands

these things better than I do, and will instruct me what steps to

take."

"Precisely! Exactly!" said Mr. Stendal enthusiastically, though

there was a peep of a forked tongue in his enthusiasm. "He will

appreciate exactly what we have managed to do for you, considering

the--er--the slight nature of your book. He knows the conditions of

publishing, and the necessity of all reasonable publicity. And he

will see how we've kept strictly within the terms of our agreement."

Daphne moved towards the door, but turned on him and said:

"I think he will appreciate very little of all that, not being a

perfect fool. He will appreciate that you have considered nobody's

interests but your own. He will certainly appreciate that you have

kept within the terms of the agreement, for that is what one would

expect from people like you. I imagine it's not too safe for you to

venture out of cover...."

Mr. Stendal smiled, as one does when managing a restive pony, and

seeing that Daphne was fumbling for the handle of the door, hastened

to reach it first. He opened the door courteously.

"There now. We won't lose our tempers. I think you're a little

ignorant about the difficulties of putting a book across--the

competition, and all that. Especially one that is really nothing out

of the ordinary. Believe me, we are doing the best we can for you,

and shall continue to do so. Certainly it is in our interests, and

in yours too. Good day, Miss Bruno."

In Queen Victoria Street Daphne walked along, purposing to mount an

omnibus that would take her to her station, but letting them one

after another pass by, as she accompanied her angrily running

thoughts. Still in her fingers were the press-cuttings Mr. Stendal

had given her, but, dreading the lash, she determined not to look at

them till seated in her train. A gloomy journey that would be,

carrying her to the interview with her father. And when she was in

her corner seat she waited till the train had actually started before

lifting the first and reading it.

"The work of a famous writer's daughter must always be interesting,"

it said; "one seeks to learn how far the talent of the parent has

been transmitted to his children. We cannot say that we are

impressed with the work of Miss Daphne Bruno. It is quite

undistinguished, and there is no precocious genius here. Her

ignorance of life is naïve in the extreme; that, of course, is very

pardonable in a young writer, but what is stranger in her father's

daughter is her absence of literary palate."

Daphne, who had been setting her lips as she read, was pierced with a

fear that this sentence told the truth. Henry was right. Not having

read one-hundredth part of the books which the ages had pronounced to

be good, perhaps she did not know what was true loveliness and what

was bad.

The next review echoed the thought:

"A first effort, especially from the hand of a distinguished writer's

daughter, invites indulgence, and we shall hope one day to

congratulate Miss Daphne Bruno on a better work than 'Madame Rolland'

(Stendal). Let it be said at the start: this is the work of a

completely immature writer. We wish we could have added that it was

full of promise. But Miss Daphne Bruno has certainly not revealed

her promise yet. Were the word not too hard, we should describe the

treatment as illiterate, not in the sense that it is grammatically

wrong, but that it is the work of one only slightly familiar with

great literature, and whose values are therefore false. But let this

not deter Miss Bruno from trying again after a long intercourse with

those writers whose genius is no longer on trial. We imagine that

she will then be the severest critic of her first book. One

remembers the early work of Shelley, and will be slow to deny promise

to any young writer."

"Oh, please don't be kind," said Daphne, as she put this cutting away.

The other reviews agreed; that was the worst--they agreed. They

called the work "commonplace," "innocent," "shallow," "superficial."

Having read the last she sat looking out of the window, her trouble

increased by the sudden memory that since nearly all these cuttings

mentioned her father, they would have been in his hands since the

morning's post. There was nothing to do but to go straight to her

execution. In her mind hovered the old lines, their pronoun changed

to meet her case:

She nothing common did nor mean

Upon that memorable scene ...

But bowed her comely head

Down, as upon a bed.

Mr. Bruno met her in the hall, having seen her come up the drive.

His irritability, obliged to simmer all day, was anxious to boil over.

"Where on earth have you been since before breakfast?"

"I've been up to London."

"London? Do you mean to say that you run up to London when and how

you like?" Knowing a pang of self-reproach that she should be so

unshepherded, and finding the thought ill-timed, he submerged it in

anger. "Well, I might have known. It's on a par with everything

else. Just come in here a minute."

He led her into his study where the press-cuttings were on the table.

Lifting them up and tossing them back again, he demanded:

"What's all this about a book you've written? Why on earth didn't

you tell me something about it and get my advice?"

"I wanted to surprise you."

Mr. Bruno again smothered the pity, and made a gesture of impatience.

"Stendal? Who the dickens is Stendal? Why, I know most of the

publishers by name, but I've never heard of Mr. D. J. Stendal. Some

Vanity Publisher. Nice to have any of my name linked with a firm

like that! I suppose he made you pay for the privilege of being

published?"

"No, he didn't. I'm getting a ten per cent. royalty."

It was annoying that, while she stood there looking up at him with

eyes that were rather frightened, compassion should gain ground from

anger. He wanted anger to hold its own.

"Well, are you such a little fool that--can't you see that for your

work to be published by a house of no standing is itself enough to

damn it.... These Stendals and their like only bind up stuff that no

one else'll print, for conceited amateurs to circulate among their

friends. He only took yours for nothing because he thought that ...

Couldn't I have advised you about publishers and agreements? ... But

I suppose you have no faith in my advice."

"I wanted to do it by myself."

"And you've ended by doing a ridiculous thing, and, incidentally,

though it's a small matter, making me appear ridiculous."

"Oh, I didn't want to do that. I said all along I didn't want to let

you down. That's why I published it anonymously."

"Anonymously? Then what's all this about?"

He lifted up the cuttings.

"Mr. Stendal deliberately let it out to make the book sell. I've

just been up to tell him what I thought about him."

At this point anger capitulated. He sat down in his chair, and,

after tossing the cuttings to the back of the desk, turned round

towards his daughter.