THAT PUBLISHER!!
THE SAME.
June 16. Tuesday.
MAGGIE'S story has been returned, as any one might have foretold. She
has wondered much over the delay, devising all sorts of extraordinary
reasons for the same, and she has written repeatedly to remonstrate
with the publisher. Poor man! No doubt he has cartloads of such rubbish
tilted upon his devoted head. I feel a certain sense of satisfaction in
having never contributed my quota to the load,—though perhaps I could
achieve a passable second-rate story, if I chose.
Maggie's remonstrances having brought no result, she persuaded her
father to write. I believe Mr. Romilly accomplished some six pages, to
be fired by post at the same luckless publisher, after a morning of
dire effort and mighty consultation. And the six pages, whether read or
unread, took effect. For within forty-eight hours a tied up manuscript
arrived; and—this being the "most unkindest cut of all,"—no letter of
explanation accompanied it; not even one half-page.
The publisher's ears ought to have burned that morning, with the things
said of him at our breakfast-table. Everybody, trying in affectionate
family conclave to comfort the crest-fallen Maggie, vied one with
another in hot indignation at his decision. Never was there living man
so lacking in taste, so utterly unappreciative. Such a sweet pretty
story,—and he not to want to bring it out! Well, then he didn't deserve
to have it! Maggie would soon find a more sensible publisher. Of course
it was well-known that all the greatest authors always have the most
difficulty at the beginning, and all the best books are always refused
by a dozen publishers before one enlightened man consents to bring them
out! So being refused meant nothing at all: only he might just have had
the politeness to write and explain exactly why he didn't want it, and
what he disliked in the tale. And of course he would have done so, if
there were anything really to dislike. But never mind, Maggie must just
try somebody else, and she would be sure to succeed, and very likely
would get twenty pounds after all, instead of only fifteen.
I could not help remembering, as I listened in silent amusement to all
this, how Gladys had remarked, a day or two before, "What kind pleasant
people editors and publishers seemed to be!" But it was not for me to
remark on the contrast. Maggie must, find her own level, through the
stern realities of failure.
June 17. Wednesday.—At last I have seen again my travelling companion,
Sir Keith Denham!
He and his mother, Lady Denham, have been absent from The Park almost
entirely since my arrival in Glynde. At one time they were coming home,
then suddenly changed their plans and went abroad. Sir Keith has paid
one or two flying visits, I believe, lately, but he and I have not met.
[Illustration: I stood still to break off a small spray of may.]
Now they will be at The Park for some weeks, and the girls are quite
excited,—Thyrza excepted, and Maggie especially. But I fancy the chief
source of their excitement is the prospect of tennis there.
Thyrza and I had a walk alone together this afternoon, the twins going
by invitation to the Hepburns. I always enjoy a ramble with Thyrza:
for if no one else is present, she opens out, shakes off the shackles
of reserve, and allows me some glimpses of her true self. It is an
interesting "self" to me, crude and unformed indeed, but thoughtful,
earnest, full of vague longings and high aims. If only Mrs. Romilly
could see her thus!
Coming homeward after a long round, we passed through a pretty lane,
arched over by trees. I stood still to break off a small spray of
may from the hedge, and Thyrza knelt down on the bank for the better
securing of a few violets. She loves flowers almost as much as I do.
Footsteps drew near, and I looked up. Somebody following in our rear
had just overtaken us; and for a moment I was under a puzzled sense of
familiarity with the face and form, though I could not recall who it
might be. Apparently he had not yet become aware of our presence. He
was walking swiftly, and gazing steadfastly downward.
"Miss Con, just smell these! How sweet they are!" cried Thyrza.
Then two large brown eyes were lifted in a curious slow fashion to meet
mine, as if their owner had been very far-away in thought; and at once
I knew. I should not have expected him to recognise me. The instant
pause and the raised hat were a surprise.
"Thyrza!" I said, for her back was turned.
She glanced round, and sprang up, freezing into her usual
unapproachable stiffness.
"How do you do?" Sir Keith said, giving her his ungloved hand, or
rather taking the rigid member which she poked half-way towards him. "I
hope you are all well at home. Pleasant day, is it not?"
He looked towards me again, and Thyrza ungraciously mumbled something
about—"Miss Con—at least, Miss Conway!"—which was doubtless intended
for an introduction.
Sir Keith's hat was lifted afresh, with his air of marked and simple
courtesy,—simple, because so absolutely natural. I have never seen a
more thoroughly high-bred manner.
"I must supply Thyrza's omission," he said, smiling. "My name is
Denham, and we are near neighbours. We have met before: and the name of
Miss Conway is by no means unknown to me, as Mrs. Romilly's friend."
"And governess," I said. I could not help noticing the flash of his
eyes, curiously soft and gentle eyes for a man. It meant approval,
certainly, and something else beyond approval which I could not fathom.
One never loses in the end by claiming no more than one's rightful
position. It is rather absurd of me to care what Sir Keith does or does
not think about the matter. But I should say that he is a man whose
good opinion one could hardly help valuing.
"I hope you caught your train that day?" he said, after a few remarks
had passed between us.
"Thanks to you, I did," was my answer.
"Are you going home now? My way is identical with yours, so far as the
end of the next lane," he said, and we walked side by side, Thyrza
marching solemnly, a yard off, declining to take any share in the talk.
Sir Keith had been ill in Bournemouth, I found, from the effects of a
chill, caught on the day of our first encounter, "A touch of rheumatic
fever," he said carelessly. Since then he and his mother had been
abroad, and he "would have liked to go on to Italy, for a peep at Mrs.
Romilly, had that been practicable."
He seemed interested to find that I had never been out of England; and
soon the subject of Beckdale came up, whereupon he spoke with warmth of
Yorkshire scenery.
"That part of the West Riding is quite unique in style," he said; "I
have never seen anything resembling it anywhere else."
"Not in Scotland?" I asked.
"I am not comparing degrees of beauty," he said. "That is another
question. Mountains two thousand feet high cannot vie with mountains
four thousand feet high: and there are views in Scotland which I don't
think can be rivalled anywhere. No, not even in Switzerland. The two
are so unlike in kind, one can't compare them. But the Yorkshire
dales are peculiar to Yorkshire. English people don't half know the
loveliness of their own country. I could envy you the first sight of
such surroundings."
He went on to describe briefly the lone heights and passes, the long
parallel valleys or "dales," the brawling "tea-coloured" torrents,
the extraordinary deep caves and underground waterfalls, the heather
colouring, the frank kind simplicity and honesty of the "northeners."
Thyrza drew near, looking interested, and I was quite sorry when we had
to part.
"How is my particular pet, the Elf?" he asked, with a smile, as we
shook hands.
"Elfie is all right," Thyrza's brusque tone answered.
Sir Keith vanished, and I said, "He looks delicate."
"I don't think he ever is very strong," said Thyrza, at once natural
again. "He never makes any fuss about his health; but Lady Denham
fusses for him."
"Is Lady Denham like Sir Keith?"
"No. She is a little plain sort of person, and rather odd, and she
thinks nobody in the world is equal to him."
"He seems to be a general favourite," I said.
"Oh yes, of course he is. Everybody sings his praises. And I hate
general favourites," cried Thyrza, with sudden heat. "I should like him
fifty times as much, if—"
"If everybody else disliked him," I suggested, as she came to a stop.
"Yes."
"Is that perversity, my dear?" I asked.
"I don't know. I hate running with the crowd."
"If the crowd is going in a wrong direction—yes. I would never have you
follow a path merely because others follow it."
"If everybody thinks a thing, I am not bound to think the same, I
suppose," she said, hotly still.
"Certainly not. Never think a thing merely because others think it. But
always to disagree with the majority is quite as illogical as never
to disagree with the majority. And to refuse a particular conclusion,
only because many others have reached that same conclusion, savours of
weakness."
She blushed, but did not look annoyed. When alone with Thyrza, I can
say what I like to her.
"You must learn to take everything upon its own merits, and to weigh it
with an independent judgment," I said. "A certain animal which always
goes to the right if its tail be pulled to the left is no more really
independent than—"
She interrupted me with a laughing protest.
"But I can't make myself like Sir Keith," she added. "Perhaps I ought
because he is Eustace's great friend, and Keith was so fond of him. If
only one didn't get so tired of hearing about his virtues. And Maggie
puts me out of all patience."
I suppose I looked the inquiry which I would not ask.
"Oh, I can't tell you exactly what I mean, it is nothing particular,
only she is so silly. I hate to see a girl make a sort of idol of
a man . . . and not an atom of reason . . . Of course he is very
kind and polite; . . . but he looks upon us as a set of schoolgirls.
It is so ridiculous of Maggie. I don't mean that she does or says
anything—particular—only she is so absurd! I should like to give her a
good shaking. I do wish, girls had a little more common self-respect!"
Thyrza concluded fiercely, with burning cheeks.
I listened in silence to this rather enigmatical explanation.
"Sir Keith spoke of Elfie as his 'pet,'" I said, after a break.
"Yes, don't you see what I mean? He just looks on us as hardly more
than children. I suppose he will find out in time that we are getting
older: but he hasn't yet. And he is just like our elder brother—in
some things. Why, when Maggie and I were five and six years old, he
was a great boy of fifteen, and he used to carry us about, one on each
shoulder. That was when father bought Glynde House, and we came to live
here, on purpose to be near the Denhams. And Elfie was always like a
sort of pet kitten to him from the first. But it's only lately that
Maggie has taken to setting him up as her hero. Somebody put it into
her head, I suppose. I do wish she wouldn't be so ridiculously silly."
I thought it best not to pursue the subject. Thyrza is at all times too
ready to pass judgment on those older than herself.