“Well, well! And I have them here for you, all done up in paper and string. But I suppose you shall want to look at them?”
“If it is not too much trouble, yes.”
“Very well, very well,” the elderly man responded, with a rather fatherly indulgence. “Yes, yes—it is not quite the same till one sees it in print, is it? Always looks rather different.”
The parcel, rather small, thought Anne, was duly taken up and a knife applied to the string. All this took a good deal of time, as Mr. Carlysle was of a quite deliberate temperament and rarely rushed along. At last, however, the string was removed, the paper unwrapped, and there, before Anne’s astonished and delighted eyes, lay two slender volumes of red morocco.
“Looks pretty well, don’t it?” demanded Mr. Carlysle. “We did quite a good job on it, I think.”
“A lovely job!” murmured Anne, taking up a volume. It was some moments before she had recovered her breath enough to turn to the first page, and to see, after the title and the nominal legend, the first few lines transposed by the miracle of modern science into neat black type.
“A pity you won’t use your name, Miss Calder. It is getting rather fashionable to do so, even with ladies. You see what a change it made when Miss Austen revealed her identity. And, of course, Mrs. Radcliffe has not suffered from it.”
“Perhaps in time,” murmured Anne, turning over the pages and marveling afresh every moment at the improvement which the regularity of the lettering and the weight and quality of the paper had upon her simple language.
“How long shall it be before I know if it is well received?”
“Oh, not long at all!” exclaimed Mr. Carlysle. “Why, have not you seen the Courier? Mr. Nash has already given it high marks. Let me see, I had it here somewhere. We always let about two or three copies to the journalists, you know.”
Mr. Carlysle rummaged amongst his papers and retrieved a clipping from a news sheet.
Accepting it from his hands, Anne had the profound shock, amazement, and delight, of reading six paragraphs of glowing praise of her little work. It was termed variously “lively, truthful, and cleverly wrought: as neat a satire as Miss Austen ever gave us. As neat a piece of work, in fact, as any of our novelists has handed us upon the subject of life amongst the squirage.”
“Well, well—what do you think?” inquired the publisher, peering at her from beneath his great bushy brows.
“I—hardly know what to say!”
“But it is well-deserved, my dear, so you oughtn’t to feel too humble. I warrant you shall have your share of come-downs after all. One always does, you know. Pay heed neither to the praise nor to the criticism, save where you can profit from it. That is my credo. By the bye—another client of mine has expressed some pleasure with your little book. I shan’t mention his name, but you ought to know he is one of our most celebrated novelists.”
Anne could only nod, barely able to comprehend her good fortune.
“But, in the long shot, of course, the thing that’s important is not the praise of the journalists, but of the people. I’ve often seen works die upon the stand which were thought great by the critics. Tis the general public which must decide at last upon the merit of the book.”
“And—and how long shall it be before we know their verdict?” inquired Anne, afraid of pushing her luck too far.
“Why! Not long; not long at all. A few months, a year or two—by then one ought to know something. Don’t look so crestfallen, my dear Miss Calder. You must occupy your mind with another novel, so it shall be neither a disappointment nor a false triumph. The great thing is to get on with one’s work.”
Now Anne had cause to feel miserable. How dare she confess her own doubts just on that point? Only a few days before she had thrown the remnants of her latest work into the fire, and since then had hardly dared put pen to paper. She heard Mr. Carlysle’s next words with some dismay:
“A flash in the pan is no good, of course. You must prove yourself capable of repeating your success, else no one shall think twice about you. Especially with this sort of novel, which must draw a limited audience—since it can hardly appeal to our greatest reading public—it is necessary to write another as soon as possible. I suppose you have got something underway?”
“Only,” murmured Anne, “an idea. I had thought I might do a satire of city life.”
“Along the same lines?” demanded Mr. Carlysle quickly.
“Well, Sir—no, not exactly. I had thought it might be upon a broader scale, but indeed, I don’t know if I’m up to it.”
“Hm,” said the gentleman, scratching his chin. “Don’t know about that. Mustn’t jump from one thing into another quite so fast. Better to keep up with the same thing. Wouldn’t you like to do another country story? Something different, of course, but along the same lines—perhaps leaving the clergy out altogether. A merchant’s family might do nicely.”
“A merchant’s family!” breathed Anne. “But I know nothing about merchant’s families!”
“More than you do about life in London, I’ll warrant. You said you had only taken up residence in town a few weeks ago, did you not?”
“Yes, Sir.”
Mr. Carlysle regarded her with his keen, blinking eyes.
“Take my advice, Miss Calder. Go back to the country and give us another country satire. There are not many who can do them well, whereas there are a hundred novelists who can weave a yarn about the city with a flick of the pen. The key for that sort of thing is to have a solid understanding of the society. I believe you are better placed in a simpler environment. Trust me,” continued he upon seeing her crestfallen look. “It takes far more skill to make a simple subject interesting, than a complicated one. Stick to your own ground.”
Meekly, Anne nodded her head, feeling a great deal more defeated than she would let on. How glad she was that he had not glimpsed her unfruitful attempt at satirizing a baronet! And how right he must be, too. She ought to have seen it from the start.
But she had not much time to bemoan her situation, for in an instant Mr. Carlysle rose, as if in a sign of dismissal, and held out his hand.
“You have a fine hand, Miss Calder. I should hate to see you roughen it by attempting a subject too broad for you. Very well, then—good day. Do you speak to the clerk, and he shall make out a check for you.”
Nicole, dumbfounded by everything she had seen and heard (though who can say exactly how much she comprehended of it), held out her little hand and curtsied prettily. Mr. Carlysle granted her one brief, twinkling smile. In a moment, the two were out the door.
Having been tongue-tied during all of the foregoing interview, Nicole could scarcely suppress her curiosity. As soon as they were out in the street again, she demanded urgently to know what Mr. Carlysle had meant. What were the books he had given her? Was she really an authoress, like Lady Cardovan? And why had he said she ought to go “back to the country”?
Anne steered the child across the street, through a tangle of traffic and to the other side. Her own head was so full of ideas, impressions, and bewilderment, that she could hardly reply to Nicole’s inquiries. For the moment, she put her off by suggesting they go into a nearby coffee house and have a cup of chocolate, a suggestion which Nicole agreed to instantly.
Once ensconsed inside at a little table with a view of the bustling dining room, Nicole repeated her questions, now with a much graver look, for she had had time to decide in her own mind that she was about to lose her dear Miss Calder.
“Are you going to be a famous authoress, Miss Calder?”
“Hardly, my dear,” returned Anne, smiling. “I don’t think I am much in danger of that. I have only written a little story, which so far hardly anyone has read. And it must remain a great secret between you and me—you are capable of keeping a secret, aren’t you? Of course you are.”
“If you would like me to, I shall keep it. I shan’t tell anyone, not even Uncle Basil or Lady Diana. They are not to know either?”
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“No one save you and me.”
“And Mr. Carlysle,” added the child, who had been much affected by that gentleman’s manner.
“Yes, and Mr. Carlysle. But not another soul.”
“Why?” asked Nicole, after a moment’s hesitation, for she possessed a natural sense of delicacy which was a continual source of amazement and delight to her elders. “Why must we keep it so secret? If I had written a book, I should want everyone in the world to know about it at once!”
“Perhaps not, Nicole. You see, it is not so much the book which I wish to keep secret. Of course I wish everyone to read it, and to delight in it as much as I delighted in writing it. Nothing could give me more pleasure. But for the moment, I should rather that neither Sir Basil nor anyone else know about it. You see, it is not thought very proper sometimes for ladies to write novels.”
Nicole pondered this idea for several seconds.
“Why not? Lady Cardovan writes books, and she is a lady. And Mrs. Radcliffe, and that other lady Mr. Carlysle mentioned——”
“Jane Austen. Yes, but in the case of each of them, there is some reason why they may be accepted from the general rule. Lady Cardovan is—well—she is not the common run of ladies. And she is so exceptional a person that no one could find fault with her for doing anything. Besides, she does not write novels, but histories, and there is a great difference. Mrs. Radcliffe is a widow, and therefore must support herself by some means, just as I support myself by teaching you. In her case it is not thought very bad, for she is older than I am, and besides, does not care much what people think of her. And Miss Austen, of course, was a genius. A genius will always be excused from the general rule. And even she wrote most of her books anonymously. That means,” continued Anne, seeing the puzzled look upon her pupil’s face, “without using her own name, just as I have done. For a young unmarried woman, it is thought better to keep one’s identity a secret.”
“How queer!”
“Yes, it is, rather, isn’t it? Very queer. But I do not make the rules of society, but only live by them, just as we all must.”
Nicole was twiddling with her spoon, seemingly immersed in thought. After a moment, she looked up, and with a grave little face demanded what she most wished to know:
“What did he mean, Miss Calder, when he said you ought to go back to the country? You shan’t go away, shall you?”
“No, no, my dear,” responded Anne quickly, though this was the very question which was uppermost in her own mind and which was as yet unresolved. But there was no point in upsetting Nicole before she was even sure herself of what she ought to do.
“I shan’t go away. Not for a long while, at any rate. But—what difference can it make? In a month, you shall be in France, and have so much to occupy your thoughts that there shan’t be a moment left to think of me!”
“You are not coming to France, then.”
It was a declaration, rather than a question, and made with such a reproving little look that Anne felt instantly penitent.
“Why, does it make so much difference to you?” she inquired softly.
But Nicole would not reply, nor meet her gaze. She stared into her lap and shook her head with a stiff little motion which was an exact contradiction of her feelings.
“If you had rather go home, Miss Calder, than I shouldn’t want you to come with me.”
“My dear!” Anne reached out her hand and touched the child’s wrist. “Dear little Nicole! I do believe you like me a little bit, do you not?”
Neither of them spoke. Anne saw the child making a brave effort against her tears, and would not interfere with that courageous heart. Poor child! She had lost so much within so short a time! Another loss—slight as it must be—must frighten her sadly. Anne watched her pupil gather hold of herself again and smile up into her eyes.
“I never liked anyone so well in all my life! Except Papa, of course.”
“Well! I never liked anyone half so well as you, either. You shall be my dearest little friend so long as I live. But, what are we speaking of! I wish you had not made me say so much, Nicole, for I am really not at all settled in my own head. It is a rather complicated matter, and must require some time to consider.”
“Please come with us!”
“Well, well—we shall see. Have you finished your chocolate? Come along, then. We had better hurry back before Sir Basil gets home, or he shall ask no end of questions—and we have got a great secret, have we not?”
Nicole nodded, eager to be included in the scheme, though it had presented possibilities she had not foreseen nor liked even to think about. But for the moment she had made up her mind to be as brave as possible, and determined only to offer up several prayers a day that her governess might stay with them. She had in her head, as well, something a little better than a prayer, or so she hoped. But grown-ups were sometimes so very peculiar that one hardly knew what they might do next. All she could do was hope, and being of a very optimistic turn of mind, she possessed a good deal of that.
Chapter XIX
Sir Basil, having partaken of a pleasant luncheon in the soothing male environs of his club, having dispatched his little errand of charity, and feeling altogether satisfied with himself, returned to his house in Regent’s Terrace that afternoon in a very happy frame of mind. The unpleasant thoughts he had had in the morning about the idiosyncrasies of the female brain had vanished with the clouds. What had begun as a thoroughly miserable day had been transformed between his breast of partridge under glass and the braised pears in champagne, into a brilliant winter day. Drops of moisture sparkled upon the cobblestones still, as he walked (forsaking his carriage) up St. James’s Street and past the great stone steps of the Cathedral. But as he turned into Bond Street, for the short cut to the Terrace, he noticed that all signs of the morning precipitation had disappeared. He had neatly avoided being glimpsed by his sister-in-law and the awful Miss Newsome only a moment from his own door. Evidently immersed in their own gossip, they had vanished chattering into one of the shops before they had spotted him, darting behind a lamp post. The whole world seemed to be out in full swank. Even the dandies parading up and down in their absurd get-ups did not bring the usual snort of contempt to his lips. Somehow everyone and everything looked better than usual this afternoon. Perhaps it was the beneficial effects of knowing he had performed (or at least arranged to perform) a great service for a poor invalid. Perhaps he should do this kind of thing more often. In any case, he was in a splendid state of mind. He practically skipped up the steps to his door and rat-a-tat-tatted upon the knocker very gaily.
But the occupants of the house were evidently not in a mood to match his own. The butler responded to the knock with a very dour look, and when he was asked if anyone had called, only proferred the silver salver with three cards upon it.
“What has got you in such a gloom, Squibb?” inquired Sir Basil, glancing at the names upon the cards. Lord Duff had been, to inquire yet again, no doubt, into his position upon the Slavery Question, and his sister-in-law had called (thank heaven he had not been imposed upon by her) and there was also a card inscribed with the Princess Lieven’s name.
“The cook is indisposed, Your Excellency, and has determined to make our lives miserable.”
“Why, what did she do? Poison the soup?”
“No, Sir Basil. She has been ranting and raving about the pantries all morning.”
“Well, you had better speak to Miss Calder about it. Miss Calder will know how to deal with her.”
“Yes, Your Excellency. But Miss Calder is not at home.”
“No? Why, where has she gone?”
“I do not know, Sir. She and Miss Lessington went off together an hour or two ago. They did not say where they were going.”
“Ah, well—suppose they are off on some errand or other. Wonderful creature, Miss Calder. When they return, ask her to come in and see me, will you? I shall be in my library.”
“Very good, Sir.”
Sir Basil proceeded forthwith into the aforementioned room, dropping the cards onto the salver as he passed. There, comfortably established in an armchair, he stretched out his legs before the fire and recommenced the little novel he had borrowed from Lady Cardovan. Such moments of leisure were very rare in his life, and he took a secret pleasure in the knowledge that the House of Lords was at that moment reconvening without him. Blessed little good it did in any case, when he was there! The old dotards would have their say, eulogizing endlessly the merits of a proper stance against the French trade, and all the while happily pocketing the difference between the cost of free trade articles and the slave industry across the Channel. In the long run, in any case, the matter would not be in their hands, but in his own, the Regent’s, and of course the French Royal House’s. Those few intermediaries, like himself, who would have any real influence in the matter, never spoke before Parliament. It was an unwritten rule that those who did were silent; those who didn’t (or couldn’t) gabbled happily away, oblivious to the fact that no one paid them any mind.
Happy in the knowledge that he was escaping the droning voices of half the peerage, therefore, Sir Basil immersed himself again in his book, and found that upon the second perusal, it had not lost its power to amuse him. Half its merit, of course, lay in the fresh and easy style, a style so down-to-earth and unbeguiled by the sway of self-consciousness that he suspected yet again it had been written by a man. He said as much to Miss Calder, when she looked into the library, following his instructions.
“Ah! Miss Calder!”
“Sir?”
She stood tentatively in the doorway, obviously uncertain whether to come in or stay where she was. Sir Basil rose and gallantly drew forth a chair for her. With a grateful look, she settled down, and the Baronet, returning to his own armchair, could not but notice the glow in her cheek, no doubt a result of walking in the fresh air. The glow belied her rather humble mien, which was unusual. Miss Calder generally marched in like a young Diana, with her head held high and her shoulders back. It was one of the things he had first remarked about her. Today, her whole countenance was softened by something—sadness, perhaps? Ah, and well he knew what the cause of it might be!
The Determined Bachelor Page 19