"Well, have those publishers of yours made you an offer yet?"
"No, sir; I haven't heard from them."
"You should drop them a line," said Walford irritably. "Damn nonsense!
How long have they had the thing now?"
"About three weeks."
"Drop 'em a line! They may keep you waiting a month if you don't wake
them up. Don't you think so, Cynthia? He ought to write."
"Oh, I expect we shall have a letter in a day or two, papa. We were
afraid you weren't coming round this evening; you're late. How d'ye do,
mamma? How d'ye do, Aunt Emily?"
"And how are you?" asked Mrs. Walford. "Have you made up your mind
about Bournemouth yet? She is quite fit to go now, Humphrey. You ought
to pack her off at once; there's nothing to wait for now you've got
your nurse. How does she suit you?"
"She seems all right," said Cynthia, rather doubtfully. "A little
consequential, perhaps--that's all."
"Oh, you mustn't stand any airs and graces; put her in her place at the
start. What has she done?"
"She hasn't done anything, only----"
"She's our first," explained Kent, "and we're rather in awe of her.
She was surprised to find that there weren't two nurseries--she is
frequently 'surprised,' and then we apologise to her."
"Don't be so absurd!" murmured his wife; "he does exaggerate so, mamma!
No; but, of course, she has always been in better situations, with
people richer than us.... 'Us'?" she repeated questioningly, looking at
Kent with a smile.
He laughed and shook his head.
"Than _we_, then! And she's the least bit in the world too
self-important."
"Than 'we'?" echoed Mrs. Walford. "Than 'we'? Nonsense! 'Than _us_'!"
Kent pulled his moustache silently, and there was a moment's pause.
"Than _us!_" said the lady again defiantly. "Unquestionably it is 'than
_us!_"
"Very well," he replied; "I'm not arguing about it, mater."
"_I_ always say 'than us,'" said Sam Walford good-humouredly. "Ain't it
right?"
"No," said Miss Wix; "of course it isn't, Sam!"
"Ridiculous!" declared Mrs. Walford, with asperity. "'Than we' is quite
wrong--quite ungrammatical. I don't care who says it isn't--I say it
_is_."
"A literary man might have been supposed to know," said Miss Wix
ironically. "But Humphrey is mistaken too, then?"
"What's the difference--what does it matter?" put in Cynthia. "There's
nothing to get excited about, mamma."
"I'm not in the least excited," said her mother, with a white face;
"but I don't accept anybody's contradiction on such a point. I'm not to
be convinced to the contrary when I'm sure I'm correct."
"Well, let's return to our muttons," said Kent. "Once upon a time there
was a nurse, and----"
"Oh, you are very funny!" Mrs. Walford exclaimed. "Let me tell you, you
don't know anything about it. And as to Emily, I don't take any notice
of her at all. She may say what she likes."
"What I like is decent English," said Miss Wix, "since you don't mind.
This lively conversation must be very good for Cynthia. Humphrey,
you're quite a member of the family; you see we're rude to one another
in front of you. Isn't it nice?"
"I shouldn't come to you to learn politeness, either," retorted Mrs.
Walford hotly. "I shouldn't come to you to learn grammar, or politeness
either. You're most rude yourself--most ill-bred!"
"That'll do--that'll do," said the stock-jobber; "we don't want a row.
Damn it! let everybody say what they choose; it ain't a hanging matter,
I suppose, if they're wrong!"
"I'm _not_ wrong, Sam. Humphrey, just tell me this: Do you say 'than
who' or 'than whom'? Now, then!"
"You say 'than whom,' but that's the one instance where the comparative
does govern the objective in English. And Angus, or Morell, or somebody
august, denies that it ought to govern it there."
Momentarily she looked disconcerted. Then she said:
"All I maintain is that 'than we' is very pedantic in ordinary
conversation--very pedantic indeed; and I shall stick to my opinion
if you argue for ever. 'Than us' is much more usual, and much more
euphonious. I consider it's much more euphonious than the other. I
prefer it altogether."
Miss Wix gave a sharp little laugh.
"You may consider it more euphonious to say 'heggs' and 'happles,'
too, but that doesn't make it right."
Her sister turned to her wrathfully, and the ensuing passage at arms
was terminated by the spinster putting her handkerchief to her eyes and
beginning to cry.
"I won't be spoken to so," she faltered--"I won't! Oh, I quite
understand--I know what it means; but this is the last time I'll be
trampled on and insulted--the last time, Sam!"
"Don't be a fool, Emily; nobody wants to 'trample' on you. You can give
as good as you get, too. What an infernal rumpus about nothing! 'Pon my
soul! I think you have both gone crazy."
"I'm in the way--yes! And I'm shown every hour that I'm in the way!"
she sobbed, in crescendo. "Humphrey is a witness how I am treated. I
won't stop where I'm not wanted. This is the end of it. I'll go--I'll
take a situation!"
Everybody excepting the offender endeavoured to pacify her. Cynthia put
an arm round her waist and spoke consolingly, while Walford patted her
on the back. Humphrey brought her whisky-and-water, but she waved it
violently aside.
"I'll take a situation; I've made up my mind. Thank Heaven! I'm not
quite dependent on a sister and a brother-in-law yet. Thank Heaven!
I've the health to work for my living. I'd rather live in one room on a
pound a week than remain with you. I shall leave your house the moment
I can get something to do. I'll be a paid companion--I'll go into a
shop!" And she went into hysterics.
When she recovered, she drank the whisky-and-water tearfully, and
begged Kent to take her back to The Hawthorns. He complied amiably,
and tried on the way to dissuade her from her determination. It was
his first experience of this phase of Miss Wix, and he was a good deal
surprised by the valour that she displayed. Her weakness had passed,
and the light of resolution shone in the little woman's eyes. Her
nostrils were dilated, her carriage was firm and erect. He felt that
it was no empty boast when she asserted stoutly that she would go to a
registry-office on the morrow--nor was it; as much as that she would
probably do. But the prospect of employment was as the martyr's stake
or an arena of lions, to her mind; and, after the office had been
visited, the decision of her manner would decrease, and the heroism in
her eyes subside, until at last she trembled in a cold perspiration
lest her relatives should take her at her word.
"It'll be a small household if you go," he said; "I suppose Cæsar won't
live at home after he comes out, and they will be left by themselves."
Miss Wix sniffed.
"_When_ he comes out!"
"Yes; he seems to have been rather a long while doing it. But there
can't be any doubt about it this time; the agreement for the spring is
signed, I hear."
They were passing a lamp-post. Miss Wix's mouth was the size of a
sixpence, and her eyebrows had entirely disappeared under her bonnet.
"It always is," she said. "The agreements are always signed--and
written in invisible ink. I don't seem to remember the time when that
young man _wasn't_ coming out 'next spring,' and I knew him in his
cradle. He was an affected horror then."
Kent laughed to himself in walking home; he had suspected the
accuracy of the proud parents' statements already, just as he had
suspected, when he had been invited to meet an operatic celebrity
at The Hawthorns, who it was that sent the telegram of regrets and
apologies that bore the star's name. He wondered how much the Walfords'
foolishness and his pupil's vanity had been worth to the Italian
singing-master, who gesticulated about the drawing-room and foretold
such triumphs.
When he re-entered No. 64, he was relieved to find the company cheerful
again; they seemed even to be in high spirits, and the cause was
promptly evident. Cynthia pointed radiantly to a letter lying on the
table.
"For you," she cried, "from Cousins! Be quick; we're all dying of
impatience. How did you leave Aunt Emily?"
"She's going to bed," he said, tearing the envelope open.
His heart had leapt, and he trusted only that he wasn't destined to be
damped by the suggested price. The others sat regarding him eagerly,
waiting for him to speak. Cynthia tried to guess the amount by his
expression.
"Well?" said Mrs. Walford at last--"Well? What do they say?"
Kent put the note down; all the colour had gone from his face. His lips
twitched, and his voice was not under control as he answered.
"They haven't accepted it," he said; "they're returning it to me. They
don't think it good."
"What?" she ejaculated.
"Oh, Humphrey!" he heard Cynthia gasp; and then there were seconds in
which he was conscious that everyone was staring at him, seconds in
which he would have paid heavily to be in the room alone. That the book
might be refused, after such reviews as had been written of his last,
was a calamity that he had never contemplated, and he was overwhelmed.
When he had been despondent he had imagined the publishers proposing to
pay a couple of hundred pounds for it; when he had been gloomier still,
he had fancied that the sum would be a hundred and fifty; in moments of
profound depression he had even groaned, "I shan't get a shilling more
for it than I did for the other one!" But to be rejected, "declined
with thanks," was a shock for which he was wholly unprepared. It almost
dazed him.
"What do you mean?" demanded Sam Walford, breaking the silence angrily.
"Not accepting it? But--but--this is a fine sort of thing! It takes you
a year to write, and then they don't accept it. A damn good business
_you_'re in, upon my word!"
"Hush, Sam!" said Mrs. Walford. "What do they say? what reason do they
give? Let me look!"
Kent handed the letter to her mutely, his wife watching him with
startled, pitying eyes, and she read it aloud:
"'DEAR SIR,
"'We are obliged by the kind offer of your MS., to which our
most careful consideration has been given.'"
"Been better if they'd considered it a little less!" grunted Walford.
"'We regret to say, however, that, in view of our reader's
report, we are reluctantly forced to decide that the
construction of the story precludes any hope of its succeeding.
The faults seem inherent to the story, and irremediable, and
we are therefore returning the MS. to you to-day, with our
compliments and thanks.'"
"Ha, ha!" said Kent wildly; "they return it with their compliments!"
"I don't see anything to laugh at!" said his mother-in-law with temper;
"I call it dreadful. Anything but funny, I'm sure!"
"Do you think so?" he said. "I call it very funny. There's a touch of
humour about their 'compliments' that'd be hard to beat."
"Ah," said Walford, "your mother-in-law's sense of humour isn't so keen
and 'literary' as yours. She only sees that your year's work's not
worth a tinker's curse!"
"Papa!" murmured Cynthia, wincing.
Kent's mouth closed viciously.
"Against _your_ judgment on such a matter, sir," he said, "of course
there can be no appeal."
"It ain't my judgment," answered Walford; "it's your own publishers'.
It's no good putting on the sarcastic, my boy. Here"--he caught up the
letter and slapped it--"here you've got the opinion of a practical man,
and he tells you the thing's valueless. There's no getting away from
facts."
"And _I_ say the thing's strong, sound work," exclaimed Kent, "and the
reader's an ass! Oh, what's the use of arguing with you? You see it
rejected, and so to you it's rubbish; and when you see it paid for, to
you it will be very good! I want some whisky--has 'Aunt Emily' drunk
it all?" He helped himself liberally, and invited his father-in-law to
follow his example. Walford shook his head with a grunt. "You won't
have a drink? I will! I want to return thanks for Messrs. Cousins'
compliments. It's very flattering to receive compliments from one's
publishers. I'm afraid you none of you appreciate it so much as you
ought. We're having a ripping evening, aren't we, with hysterics and
rejections? And whisky's good for both. Well, sir, what have you got to
say next?"
"I think we'll say 'good-night,'" said Mrs. Walford coldly; "I'll be
round in the morning, Cynthia. Come, Sam, it's past ten!"
She rose, and put on her things, Kent assisting her. The stock-jobber
took leave of him with a scowl; and when the last "good-night" had
been exchanged, Cynthia and the unfortunate author stood on the hearth
vis-à-vis. The girl was relieved that her parents were gone. The
atmosphere had been electric and made her nervous of what might happen
next. She had been looking forward, besides, to consoling him when
the door closed--to his lying in her arms under her kisses, while she
smoothed away his mortification. She could enter into his mood to-night
better than she had entered into any of his moods yet, and she ached
with sorrow for him. To turn to his wife on any matters connected
with his work, however, never entered his head any more; so when she
murmured deprecatingly, "Papa didn't mean anything by what he said,
darling; you mustn't be vexed with him," all he replied was, "Oh, he
hasn't made an enemy for life, my dear! If you're going up to your room
now, I think I'll take a stroll."
She said, "Do, and--and cheer up!" But her heart sank miserably. He
dropped a kiss on her cheek with a response as feeble as her own, and
went out. A woman may have little comprehension of her husband's work,
and yet feel the tenderest sympathies for the disappointments that
it brings him, but of this platitude the novelist had shown himself
ignorant.
Cynthia did not go up to her room at once. She sat down by the dying
fire and wondered. She wondered--in the hour in which she had come
mentally nearest to him--if, after all, Humphrey and she were united so
closely as she had supposed.