Chapter XI: Juvenile Authorship

DIARY OF GLADYS HEPBURN.

July 1 (preceding).

MY eighteenth birthday. Mother gave me a beautiful edition of Shakespeare. She really ought not to spend so much on me, though I do dearly like to have this. Then I have a gold pencil-case from Uncle Tom; and Ramsay's present is a painting of his own, framed. I like the frame better than the painting, but I shall hang it up in my room. I am so glad I was not cross with him yesterday evening.

I do wonder whether I shall have a book out before my next birthday. It seems dreadfully conceited to think of such a thing.

Just two years and three months since we came to Glynde. I am so glad we came. To be sure it was nice being near London, and living alone with Mother and Uncle. But, after all, the children keep us bright, dear little things; and Ramsay can be pleasant sometimes, if he is provoking. Then I have Nellie here. Two years ago I did not dream what friends the Romillys and we would become; though, to be sure, Nellie and I took an immense fancy to each other at first sight. And the more I see of her, the more I love her.

I used not to care at all for Mr. Romilly. He has such a way of going on talk, talk, talk, and expecting everybody to listen meekly without a word in answer. Well, I am afraid I don't care for him much even now, for the matter of that; though of course I ought, because he is so good. I wonder if people ever are loved only for their goodness, and for nothing else.

Mother says she never knew a more truly good and generous man than Mr. Romilly. If only he had not such funny little ways, and were not so desperately careful of himself! I like a dashing soldierly man, who will dare anybody and face any danger, and who can bear any sort of discomfort without grumbling—a man who will do just whatever lies before him to be done, without thinking for a moment whether he may find it a trouble or suffer for it after. And Mr. Romilly is not dashing at all. He is afraid of everything, and the very least uncomfortableness makes him doleful. It always seems to me that he ought to be tied up in cotton-wool, and put away in a drawer for safety.

Besides, I do like clever people, and I can't look up to a man who hasn't mind. And nobody could call Mr. Romilly clever. I don't believe he ever reads a book through by any chance. The most he does is to peck a little at the cover.

Oh no, Mr. Romilly is good and kind, but not the smallest atom clever, or dashing, or soldierly, or self-forgetful. I suppose he can't help it, poor man; but he would be very much nicer if he were different.

Then Mrs. Romilly, how shy she always makes me feel, even to this day. I never know what to say, when she is present. She is so tall, and she dresses so beautifully, and she seems so certain that everybody must admire her. And when she walks, she has a sort of undulating movement, exactly like the waves that go over a corn-field or the squirms that run down a snake's back.

What would Nellie say to all this? But it is only my dear private journal, and I may write what I like. One can say things to one's private journal that one could not say to anybody else—not even Mother or Nellie.

Altogether Mrs. Romilly doesn't suit me, though of course she is a most delightful person, and the most beautiful woman in Glynde—so uncle Tom says. Uncle Tom prefers Mrs. Romilly to Mr. Romilly, and Ramsay can't endure either. Ramsay declares that Mrs. Romilly worships her husband, and expects to be worshipped herself by all the rest of the world. But then Ramsay says hard things all round about almost everybody. He prides himself on liking very few people, which always seems to me so shallow.

Mrs. Romilly doesn't make many friends, I fancy. People talk of her looks, and call her "interesting" and "charming;" but they do not speak as if they loved her. She has one friend, quite a girl, living in Bath, hardly older than Nellie. So odd!

Nellie and I are great friends. She is three years older than I am, and the dearest girl I ever knew. Mother often says that Nellie's place as eldest daughter in that house must be very difficult to fill; but Nellie manages wonderfully. I suppose she is not so pretty as Maggie—at least some would say not. I like Maggie very well; only she has such a droll blundering way of doing things. I never can imagine why Mrs. Romilly is so much more fond of Maggie than of Nellie; but everybody sees it, though one could not say a word to Nellie.

The three eldest girls have spent the evening here, and we have had games and plenty of fun. To be sure I would rather have had Nellie alone, but Mother says that won't do always. Only I did wish that darling little Elfie might have come instead of Thyrza. Elfie is a perfect little witch; and I never can get on with Thyrza. She is so tall and stiff and cold; she freezes me quite up. And she never seems to think it worth her while to talk to me. Perhaps if I were not proud too, Thyrza's proud manner wouldn't make any difference, but I don't like her, certainly. Maggie is the nicest after Nellie,—if not Elfie. And Nona is a kind good-natured girl too; only there never seems to be anything in her. Mother once said that all Nona's growth had gone into her body, and all Elfie's into her mind.

Mrs. Romilly thinks Maggie most wonderfully clever. But somehow Mother and I don't. Nobody calls Nellie clever; only she is always good and unselfish and helpful, doing everything for everybody, and never thinking about her own wants.

July 20.—It is so seldom that I write in my journal, I really ought to put very long entries.

Some months ago Mother made me very happy by saying one day that she almost thought I might, before long, write a little book for children, and try to get it published. She had been reading my last tale, and seemed pleased with it. And she went on to say, "Why not try now?"

Of course I have been writing for years past; so this was not a new idea to me; and I have had some practice. Mother has always seen my stories when she liked, and sometimes she has thought one good enough to read to uncle Tom.

When Mother spoke, I was just going out for a walk; and directly I came back, I started the fresh story. It took me about three months; for I wanted to do my very best; and I wrote the whole out three times, once in pencil and twice in ink. Uncle Tom advised me to try one of the Religious Societies which publish little books, and he sent it up for me to the Secretary. Of course we did not talk about this to anybody out of the house. I never could make up my mind to tell even Nellie.

After waiting more than a month such a kind letter came from the Secretary, giving me real praise and encouragement. We quite thought it meant that the story would be taken, and I did feel happy all day. But next morning the MS. came back, for it was found "not quite up to the mark."

I can see that well enough even now, when I look at it, such blunders, in spite of all my care. But at the time, I was dreadfully disappointed, and Mother even more so. Only we had the comfort of that nice letter, telling me I should most likely succeed by-and-by.

I did not send the MS. anywhere else. It seemed so much better to begin at once upon a fresh tale, and try to make that more "up to the mark." For another three months I have been very busy. The book will only be a small one, if it ever comes out; but then I have copied and corrected a great deal. And last Tuesday we sent it off to a fresh Society; for it is wise perhaps not to go so soon again to where I have been refused.

Now I have to wait for an answer; and I do think waiting patiently is almost the hardest thing one ever has to do.

Some ideas for a fresh tale are coming up; and I am going to set to work soon; but Mother wants me to make a short break.

August 30.—No news yet of my MS., except just a printed acknowledgment that it arrived. I am trying very hard to feel that it will be for the best either way, whatever answer comes. But I do pray and long for success, very very much.

I have said nothing to Nellie yet. Somehow I can't, till I have a scrap of success to tell. Is that pride?

Another short tale is going on pretty steadily. Mother likes me to keep up my practising directly after breakfast every morning; and then I help her for an hour with the children. After that, I can generally get one or two hours for writing; and also there are the evenings. The children go to bed early, and then Mother works, and Uncle Tom and Ramsay read. The Romillys always have to work and talk and play in the evening. It sounds cheerful; but our plan is better for my stories. We do talk, off and on; only not a very great deal; and I get on with writing between whiles.