Chapter XV: 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.

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.