Daphne Bruno

CHAPTER XXIV

The papers now filled with pictures of Field-Marshal Lord Roberts, who was to proceed at once to the command in South Africa, and of Lord Kitchener, who was to be his Chief of Staff. Of Lord Roberts Daphne had never heard, but she thought his moustache and imperial rather sweet. Lord Kitchener, on the other hand, had been one of her schoolgirl heroes at the time of his return from the Sudan, and she was jealous for him that he should not be in supreme command. Lord Roberts, in comparison with Kitchener, was just a toy of an old man, such a one as she always called "a poor little soul." "Still, generals of that sort are often very pure little men," said Daphne comfortingly.

Owen returned from Sillborough for the Christmas holidays, and after the feast spent a mysterious night in town. The next evening he apologised to his father and sister and announced that he had joined the Imperial Yeomanry. He expected to leave for South Africa any day now.

Mr. Bruno muttered a mild oath, but was not displeased with his son.

"I can't say I believe in your war, colonel," said he, "but as my good friend Nietzsche puts it with some originality, 'It's the fighting halloweth every cause.'"

"Lor' bless you, I don't believe in it either," Owen disclaimed. "I only think it's jolly decent—like sin.... Don't you?"

As for Daphne, she succumbed to a really bourgeois pride and sentimentality about her brother. Ever since he had shot up six inches above her and could lift her out of a carriage lest her dancing shoes were soiled, she had promoted him to a worldly superiority over herself. It was extraordinary how boys, who were such miserable fowl at ten years old, developed into something much more competent and assured than yourself. She was as excited as he about sleeping-bags, bandoliers, revolvers, grey-coats, field-glasses, riding-boots and badges of rank. And it was a pleasure to write to Roger that her brother Owen was following him and was in the cavalry, so it was possible they would meet.

Roger had left for Cape Town very soon after his hawk-swoop on Daphne in the wood. He wrote regularly and more and more affectionately. It was plain that the loneliness and woman-hunger of soldiering had heightened his love, and that he was picturing her now as much more wonderful than she was. These letters, so courteous, reverent, and yet breathing in every line an impassioned love, raised in her a great tenderness towards Roger, an emotion very different from the humble worship which was her love for Henry.

This was always present: if not actually in her thoughts it was very close, behind a semi-transparent veil. If the veil thickened, making Henry for a space a well-nigh incredible memory, and herself ashamed that her love could quiet so, it needed but the appearance of his figure in a dream for her to awake and find the wound open, aching in sharp air. Or she would look out of her window at night and see the English clouds shaping themselves as mountain ranges, with two points, perhaps, like the points of the Mythen; and immediately any hardening ground would be painfully broken again, and wild sentences arise, "I can't live without you, Henry!" "I must have you, Henry!"

This pain swelled her tenderness to Roger; and when he wrote begging, "Please, please send me a photograph," she determined to comply; and determined that it should show her at her very best—or better than that. It might be the last picture he would ever see of her. She went to the most expensive photographer's in Brighton, and on the arrival of proofs, opened them eagerly. They were too wonderful—perfect! As she studied the picture, large and softened in the latest style, she was (as she said) "astonied, and there was no more bitterness in her." It was she—and yet it was the ideal of her; it was her own dream of herself that she had failed to realise. The longing was in her mind for Henry to see it. Still, there was happiness in sending it off to Roger, and thinking of his joy in its possession, and imagining it on his camp-table throughout the war.

On a May afternoon she rose from her writing-place with a glow of lonely triumph, such as that experienced by Gibbon when he had completed "The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire." She had written the last word of "Madame Rolland." Whatever happened to this manuscript, she had actually written a book—a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Whether it were good or bad, she could not decide. A few parts she felt sure were splendid, of a great many she feared the worst.

What to do with it now? She could not bring herself to show the manuscript to anybody before sending it to the publishers. Her father she had always meant to surprise by its publication; Miss Carrell was a nonentity, and Hollins, if she struggled through it, would certainly say it was beautiful. And having shut herself within herself of late she had no very intimate friends. Mrs. Montague Jevons was abroad. If only Henry could have criticised it! But her book, she knew, would have been quite different then. Desiring only to earn his commendation, and indifferent to the world, she would not have compromised.

Over what name should it be sent to the publishers? Her own she would have liked. "Daphne Bruno" sounded an author's name.

"But, no. If it's as rotten as I sometimes think it, I should let father down. Besides, it might go a bit on his name, and that I don't want."

"Helen Gilder" was her final concoction. "'Madame Rolland,' by Helen Gilder."

Now the manuscript had to be typed. There was a lady who did typing in Haywards Heath, where she had a little office over a shop in Boltro Road. It would be very pleasant walking the two miles there with the manuscript under her arm.

Half an hour later she was in the office of Miss Elsie Troon, typist, and saying with a mixture of self-consciousness and vanity:

"I want this typed, please; and what is the very soonest I could have it?"

Miss Troon, a stout blonde, was quite unmoved at having an author in her office. She looked at the manuscript, giving Daphne an uncomfortable moment as the title page passed beneath her eyes, estimated the number of words, and named a date.

"I should have liked it before that, as I have got to send it to the publisher's reader as soon as possible."

This sounded excellent, and was reasonably true.

Miss Troon, her blood still unwarmed, promised to have it completed by a day earlier, and Daphne departed, carrying down into the street an anxiety lest any disaster overtook the manuscript while it was out of her hands. Apart from this anxiety, her walk home was very happy, and her sense of work completed made it seem like the first evening of a holiday.

When the day came to fetch the typescript she was almost as excited as if she were going to see her book in print. But she showed no emotion to the phlegmatic Miss Troon, not even examining the work before it was packed up. And in the street, with some idea that Miss Troon might be leaning out of her window and watching, she refrained from undoing the parcel till she was round a corner. But thereafter she walked home along the town and the country road reading it page by page and occasionally walking into other pedestrians or the hedge. It was very well typed, and seemed to have shed some of its amateurishness with this change of dress. Certain corrections she made with her pencil, standing in the middle of the road or with a foot on the hedge.

Her scheme was to send it to the most important publishers first (avoiding her father's lest they recognised the owner's name) and work downward to the smaller people. It was rather thrilling, composing a letter to the firm; writing on the fly-leaf of the typescript: "Property of Miss Daphne Bruno, Old Hall House, Wivelsfield, Sussex," and then making up the parcel. The last knot tied she went out and posted it.

"I only expect to get it back. Of course, I must expect to get it back once or twice."

The first time it returned she took the parcel from the postman's hand with a steady face, and the hope that he would not observe her heightened colour and slight abstraction. She carried it into the playroom and redirected it, with a new letter, to the second publisher on the list. Every morning she watched the postman coming up the drive, and on a day three weeks later saw in his hand the parcel of unmistakable shape. The third time she was out when it came, and found it in the hall, on returning from a ride. It was a day in July, and the anniversary, so her diary told her, of one of the most intimate conversations with Henry, under the mountains of Brunnen. The fourth time she saw it again in the postman's hands; and lest he should begin to suspect what it was and know her for a humbled failure, she ran out and joked with him as she took it from his hands.

The fifth time it stayed away so long that she thought she might write for information, and did so in a very courteous letter.

"It'll reach them to-morrow morning, and I ought to get an answer the next day after breakfast."

That next day there was, surely enough, a letter for her with the publisher's imprint. This set one's heart going fast and awkwardly; no parcel, just a letter alone. With quivering fingers she opened and drew out the typed sheet.

"DEAR MADAM (it said),—We desire to thank you for giving us the opportunity of reading your novel, 'Madame Rolland,' but after carefully considering it we have regretfully decided that we cannot make you any offer for its publication. We are therefore returning it under separate cover...."

She tossed down the sheet with the words, "All right, I'll send it to the next, and you'll be sorry some day."

This much of comfort she tried to suck from the letter, that they had taken long to make up their minds. But the sceptic had another view; he hinted that they had not read it at all and, on receipt of her inquiry, had returned it by the next post.

That winter and spring she sent it to three or four more publishers, directing it each time in a soulless, automatic way, entirely without hope, but liking to tell herself that she hadn't given in. She wrote nothing else, and read little. Ambition had drawn into a shell and was hibernating there. Careless now to whom she submitted it, she tried a Mr. D. J. Stendal, whose advertisement she had seen in a corner of a weekly paper. Beneath its tabulated titles it had added, "Authors Invited to Submit Books."

His reply came a week later. It said that Mr. Stendal was interested in her work and would like to see her at some time suitable to herself, either at his office in Queen Victoria Street, or, since he would be in Brighton that week-end, at the Old Ship Hotel.

Now her heart beat to a tune of high hope again. Ambition leapt from its shell as if it had never been torpid at all. From Mr. D. J. Stendal's crested paper and offices in Queen Victoria Street she conjectured that his house must be in no small way. And Mr. D. J. Stendal was coming himself. Did this mean that her book was so good that the head of the firm was prepared to wait on her? Or was it—was it that Mr. D. J. Stendal, despite his note-paper, had less standing than—she hurried to look again at his advertisement. It was certainly a very small advertisement, giving the titles of some poetry books by writers with unfamiliar names.

Less excited, but still pleased that some one was prepared to publish her work, and fortifying herself with the words, "Beggars can't be choosers," she wrote that she would be happy to interview Mr. Stendal in Brighton.

Monday was the day assigned; and it was an April afternoon, warmer than any that had gone before so that the spirit of holiday was along the Brighton front, when Daphne pushed open the door of the Old Ship Hotel and asked at a counter for Mr. D. J. Stendal.

"He's expecting me," said she to the attendant, wondering if he knew Mr. D. J. Stendal was a publisher, and would guess her to be one of his authoresses.

While a boy in buttons went to look for her host, she watched the people as they came and went, and vaguely pitied them their flat occupations or commonplace holiday. Not one of them, probably, was at the verge of exciting things.

"Mr. Stendal's just here, miss," said the returning boy; and he led her to an ante-room where he pointed to a little, clean-shaven, sharp-featured man, in a blue serge suit, who was staring out of the window at the sea-front. On the table beside him was an empty cup of coffee, its saucer littered with cigar ash. A disappointingly insignificant little man—but then, what about Lord Roberts. "Let's hope D. J. is just such a pure little man," thought Daphne.

"That's 'im, miss."

Mr. Stendal turned from the window as she drew near and rose.

"Ah, Miss Bruno, I imagine, Miss Daphne Bruno. Yes. It's exceedingly kind of you to give me the opportunity of discussing things with you personally. Won't you sit down?" He smiled. "You're even younger than I thought."

With the quick sensitiveness of an author Daphne wondered what this meant.

"Am I?"

"Yes. Well, you don't mind my cigar, I suppose?—well, we've all read 'Madame Rolland' with interest, and on certain considerations have decided that we should like to publish it for you."

The "We've all" reassured her; evidently the firm was not small. But it was a shock to hear the title rendered in English as "Maddum Rollend."

"Yes," she said inquiringly.

"'Helen Gilder' I see you call yourself. I wonder why?"

"Oh, I made it up."

"But why, when—or p'raps you didn't want the name confused with the great Tenter Bruno?"

Daphne flushed.

"Not particularly."

Mr. Stendal now looked out of the window, which had the effect of bringing into the ante-room the sounds of horse-traffic and the footsteps of passers-by and the shrieks of children.

"You're not any relation to him by any chance, are you?"

"Well, yes," said Daphne, with an awkward smile.

"Oh, relly?" Mr. Stendal's eyes came away from the window and looked straight at his visitor, whimsically. "Relly? This is interesting. Not his daughter, by any chance? Of course, he lives this way, doesn't he? Not his daughter?"

Daphne nodded, very red. And Mr. Stendal's eyebrows were surprised and delighted.

"Well, relly. I am—I count this interview a great privilege. Yes, and now I come to look, you're not unlike some of his pictures. But why, Miss Bruno—why, with a name to conjure with like yours—don't you publish under it? Your book has a charm, an innocent charm, that pleased me, but"—his lips compressed, as his head shook doubtfully—"the difficulty always is to start an unknown author. You can't get the necessary publicity. And no book, however good, can do much without that. With your father's name we could at least get notice taken of it. We should—I might say, we should be honoured to publish 'Rollend' for your father's daughter."

"Yes, but that's just what I don't want."

The sensitive Daphne's heart was drooping at the thought that her work was not really good. Doubtless the great houses who only published work on its merits had rightly turned it down.... But no, she wouldn't think that. She would believe in it despite everything. It was not that she was a fool, but only that she preferred to be.

"Why don't you want it, Miss Bruno?"

"Because I want it to go on its own strength ... and father knows nothing at all about it."

Mr. Stendal smiled sympathetically—knowingly.

"I see—I quite see. I quite appreciate your position. It's to be a surprise, eh? ... And may I ask if—you'll forgive me, I'm sure, for no lady minds being considered younger than she is—may I ask if you're still a minor?"

"Does that mean, am I twenty-one?"

"Yes."

"I was twenty-one last February."

Mr. Stendal smiled benignantly.

"Dear me! What it is to look sixteen! You see, you need to be over twenty-one if you're going to sign an agreement. In your own interest I mentioned it."

"Agreement?" Her brows furrowed.

"Oh, yes, there's always an agreement between publisher and author."

"I didn't realise that."

"No? Well, it's quite a simple matter.... Now, as regards terms. You mustn't expect to make a great pile of money with your first book."

"Oh, I don't," assured Daphne.

"No. Especially when it's without any particular sting. The great houses find it difficult to sell seven hundred copies of an unknown writer's book.... Myself, I make quite a feature of publishing the work of young writers—why, I can't say—they appeal to me, perhaps. But, as I expect you know, it's generally poytry I publish. Now, in the case of poytry, which is even more difficult to sell, the author generally contributes towards the cost of production, and after a certain number have been sold, he begins to get a royalty on each copy." Mr. Stendal smiled benignly. "Now, I don't propose to ask you to contribute anything. Nor do I propose to buy your copyright for a sum down—I always think that's so unfair—if the book was to go, I might make hundreds, while you'd only get your small sum." He then told the stories of several famous novels which had made thousands for their publishers and nothing for their authors, and Daphne was astonished; many of them were books she had read. "Yes, it's pure roguery, isn't it?" nodded Mr. Stendal. "Well, what I suggest is that, after you've sold a thousand copies, you get a royalty on every copy of ten per cent. of the published price. I shall be losing money till I've sold something in the neighbourhood of a thousand copies."

"It sounds all right," smiled Daphne.

"I might even, if you sold, say, five thousand, raise the royalty to fifteen per cent."

"Oh, thanks."

"Yes, I desire to be perfectly fair. Well, now the question of name. I quite appreciate that you don't want your father to know anything about it. If it's a success, you want to be able to tell him that Helen Gilder is relly Miss Daphne Bruno. Whereas, if it isn't a success, you needn't say anything."

"Yes, that's it."

"Quite so. Still, may I suggest that you publish it anonymously? Anonymous books sometimes cause a good deal of talk and speculation—which helps them considerably. Now 'Rollend' is a slight book—very nice as far as it goes—but it can't afford to do without these adventitious aids. 'Helen Gilder' will do it no good at all. Anonymity might help a little—nothing much, but a little. 'Tennyrate, I strongly recommend it."

She agreed to this, and, a little later, the conversation terminated in amiable chaff from Mr. Stendal, and the assurance, at the door of the hotel, that he would forward the agreement at once.

Out in the sunshine of the Brighton front her thoughts were a mixture of disappointment and exultation, misgiving and hope: disappointment at the qualified praise of Mr. Stendal and the faint aura of doubts that hung around his person; exultation because her book would at least be printed and stand on her shelves, which was more than any of these people in the carriages or on the pavements had achieved; misgiving lest the critics laughed at her work, and hope that they might pronounce it very good.

"I wish I knew if it were good or bad. However, I won't let myself expect it's going to do anything big.... But, of course, it's quite possible it might be good and catch on. And then..."

She gave herself to the more pleasurable business of imagining the sensation in the papers and the surprise that would be sprung on her father and Owen and Roger. Roger, being an ambitious person, would hardly suspect that she also could do a noisy thing in the world. Probably, though not admitting it, he would be a little jealous. And if it were a success, and published in America, under its author's real name, and Henry saw it!

CHAPTER XXV

Owen and Roger wrote frequently. They had met at Krugersdorp, as both reported in their letters:

"I struck Roger Muirhead's crowd the other day," said Owen. "My dear, Roger's a great man. He's doing things properly. If you can conceive an amalgam of the Iron Duke, Frederick the Great, Cromwell and Halifax, that's Roger. He's the sort that says: 'My men may fear me, but I think you'll agree they'll follow me anywhere.' I really believe he imagines the British are in the right and the Boers in the wrong; though Heaven knows why. And did you know he was religious? But he is. He never fails to take his men to church if there's a parade. It seems the old boy, his pater, is a tremendous churchman; though, again, Heaven knows why. I blew into his tent, and on a box beside his bed was the same photograph of you as you sent me. Is he still smitten with you, or how did he get it? I'm sorry I don't like him if you do. I'll try to; but, honestly, I think him at present rather pompous and superior. He must always disagree with you lest, by agreeing, he should appear to be less than you. I can look into his head and see his motives hopping and popping about, just as if his skull were made of glass, which makes me think I must inherit some of your dear father's insight. But he may grow out of these things. He's very young. And I must say he never misses a chance of being wounded or killed. He's either unco brave, or so ambitious that he's ready to be killed if only he can do some enormously brave deed and have it trumpeted all over the world.

"Love to father, and tell him I met a British officer the other day who had read one of his books. Love to Miss Carrell and dear old Herbert Hollins.—Your hero brother,

"OWEN BRUNO."

Daphne, reading this letter, was more annoyed with Owen than critical of Roger. It was irritating that her brother should sit in judgment, and contemptuously, on a man who had asked her to marry him.

"After all, Owen, just as much as Roger, has created a character that he tries to live up to—the humorous, cynical young man.... When he's been through some pain"—this she thought with a little pride—"he'll be more generous."

Roger's letter had come by the same mail:

"I met your young brother the other day. He's a curious kid. He always seems to want to laugh at everything. I think I've got as much humour as most men, but I like to believe there are some ideals worth holding. If he doesn't believe we're doing a decent job out here, what on earth has he come for? I am afraid I was rather rude, but I can't stick it when people try to make out that every country and every class and every school is right except their own, and I am afraid I'm apt to speak my mind sometimes. It's not as though I was a Tory without an idea beyond my own interests. Like father, who's one of the few capitalists who have ever stood for Liberalism, I'm a Liberal, but I believe in this war and came out to it, though many of my political friends cried shame on me for doing it...."

Now she was annoyed with Roger. "Owen's right: Roger's egotism leaks out everywhere." And even as she said it she remembered that all her thoughts for the last year and more, while men were dying daily on the veldt and the British armies, after an echoing humiliation, were only recovering in a long-drawn tussle, had been concentrated on herself and her desire to do something big.

"I doubt if there's much to choose between any of us; every one I've had anything to do with has lived in a self-created role; Miss Durgon, old Miss Vidella, Miss Sims, Daddy, Roger, Owen and myself. Henry, I believe, did it least of all. Or his role was a better one; of itself it destroyed the play-actor.... Roger must think me rather a fool, if he imagines I don't see all these things. But 'Madame Rolland' 'll make him open his eyes."

And then, one morning as she was casually opening the paper, she found herself looking straight at a portrait of Roger. Quick self-reproach hampered her heart; she feared he was dead. It beat again with relief and excitement when she saw beneath the picture: "The Hero of Wittfontein. Lieut. Roger Muirhead, whose heroism is reported on page 5."

Eagerly turning to page five she read under sensational headlines a column in honour of Roger. It was usual enough in those days to see the exploits of English officers illuminated and stressed till they seemed Homeric; but few had given the journalistic imagination a better opening than Roger. It rushed in a torrent over his deed and lapped worshippingly about his feet. He had been in command of a small post at a place called Wittfontein, which lay across the line of Hertzog's raid into Cape Colony. He and his "handful" of men had been attacked by a large force of Boers who had expected to sweep them up in a morning's work before proceeding to the main column advancing on Britstown. But Lieutenant Muirhead thought differently. Nothing else would satisfy him but to remain undefeated behind their raid, or to delay them by resisting to the last man, while his commanding officer got wind of the position. So all day, though wounded in shoulder and knee and faint with loss of blood, he had crawled among his men, revolver in hand, stiffening the resistance of this "tiny Ladysmith" and refusing to give up the place of command. The enemy had actually abandoned all attempt at capture, although when the British relieving force arrived at the Wittfontein post, not one of its defenders was found to be without a wound. Mr. Muirhead was by this time unconscious. The men, now that the Boers had cleared off and left them victors, were in high spirits and full of praises for their officer. Some of their remarks were quoted. "Doubt if we could have done it without him." "He's severe enough, but he don't tell no one to do what he wouldn't do himself." (What music to Roger's ears must this sentence have been!) "He was bound to do something big if the war went on long enough, and he didn't get himself killed."

A thought so unworthy had stirred in Daphne's mind that, in order to drive it back and refuse it foot-room again, she jumped up and rushed into her father's study to find more papers and more accounts of the Hero of Wittfontein; she took them for proud showing to Miss Carrell and Hollins, and she hurried to her table and wrote to Roger. "Oh, Roger, I'm thrilled. It's wonderful to be your friend." This was expiation, because for a moment she had felt jealousy and disappointment that Roger had achieved his fame before her.

The papers during several days gave space to Lieut. Muirhead. They reported his improvement in hospital, gave a summary of his life, and spoke of his desire after the war to enter politics.

Daphne wondered if his head would be turned, and could not expel the thought that, now he was so big a man, with the world at his feet, he might see fit to drop her as he had done once before. Perhaps the interval between his letters would increase till they stopped altogether. He was in no wise pledged to her. But his next letter, under a base hospital address, began: "My dearest Duffy," which was a phrase he had never employed hitherto. What emotion, in the glow of his triumph, had impelled its use?

The early part of the letter was studiously occupied with ordinary details of his life; but they were only like a creeper on its real structure, which said:

"You will, I suppose, have heard of the scrap at Wittfontein. I can't think what they are making all this fuss about. It was, of course, a nasty day, but we had to fight whether we liked it or not. The only alternative was to give ourselves up, and that isn't done. I had no use for handing over my weapons and the weapons of my men to the Boers. Hundreds of others would have done what we did and been mopped up. We were saved, and therefore everybody hears about it. And as for all that talk about my keeping command when I was wounded in the leg and shoulder (they might have added the thigh and wrist as well), what could I do? We were surrounded, and I had nowhere to go and get into bed. And I didn't fancy seeing my sergeant take over command as long as I was in my senses. The men were distinctly cock-a-hoop when the Boers melted, and most of the puff in the papers is due to their generous enthusiasm.

"However, I dare say all this praise will please the pater and mater, so I am glad of it for their sakes. But I am still happier if it pleases you at all, because you are more to me even than them. Duffy, I have wanted all the war to do something big, simply to seem worthy of you. And dearest (forgive me for writing that word, but I feel I must, and it can't hurt you), when I first got into hospital feeling frightfully low (emotionally exhausted, I suppose) I made sure I was going to die; and all the time I thought of you as I found you in that wood or left you on Victoria Station, and I didn't want to die, for I wanted, at any rate, to be in the same world as you..."

Daphne's eyes moistened; these were words she had used in her thoughts of Henry.

"... When I picked up that divine photograph from the table beside me I simply longed for you. I would try to imagine you coming through the door into the ward. And when I thought I might be sent home, I was lifted to the seventh heaven at the thought of seeing you within a measurable distance of time.

"I only tell you this because it is proof of how much I love you. If I have achieved any sort of fame, I am happy because I have got something to offer at your feet. I want to say this, Duffy: if you have yet learned to love me, and feel you could marry me, I should love to consider myself engaged to you, and should be only too happy if you cared to tell everybody that we were engaged. But, if not, well, I shall understand, and I expect I shall be home soon enough to plead my cause better."

"Poor, dear Roger," said Daphne, moved. "You thought I'd like to proclaim my engagement to you just now when your name is on everybody's lips. I think it was sweet of you to offer me the chance."

She laid down the letter and walked to the window. Who could say?—had Switzerland never happened she might have learned to love him. He was a little egotistical and pompous, but so was she and every one else. It would have been nice to say she was his fiancée, and to have all the papers seizing on to it. And now she mustn't hurt him by too final a refusal.

She spent a long time phrasing her reply:

"MY DEAR ROGER,—Honestly, I am awfully proud of your last letter, and think everything in it was splendid of you. I certainly like you better than I have ever done, but not enough to say I'll marry you. You see, I haven't seen very much of you. But it's ripping to hear you are coming back soon...."

Like a moving staircase time carried her towards the date of "Madame Rolland's" publication. Excitement fought with timidity, now uppermost, now under, but generally winning. Often she scanned her father's literary papers, hoping to find a preliminary notice. She saw none, but, though disappointed, was not angry. If the story were a success there would be plenty of notices of her next book. The night before publication she took her secret to bed with her, where it kept her pillow hot and her body restless.

With the day she rose and hastily dressed, in a desire to be down before the others that she might separate for herself a few minutes with the newspapers. An advertisement might be there, and possibly one or two reviews. Of course she would not expect big advertisements like her father's—just her book in a column of other titles.

It was a mid-week day, bringing several papers and journals. One by one, having found nothing, she laid them by. When the last was abandoned empty her shoulders shrugged and her hand dropped to her side.

"All right," she said resignedly, hardly knowing what she meant by the words, and added: "I think he might have put in a small advertisement."

Restless throughout the day, she decided to go where there were bookshops that she might see if "Madame Rolland" were in the windows. Brighton, of course. She escaped from the house and took the train. And in Brighton she wandered from book-shop window to book-shop window, seeking in vain the cover or the back of her book. At last, thinking desperately that she must have some encouragement to go on with, she entered a shop to ask for "Madame Rolland" over the counter.

It was a nervous business when the young man enquired her needs, and she had to utter the title of her own book.

"Have you a copy"—she coughed, and cleared her throat—"of 'Madame Rolland'?"

The young man shook his head.

"No, miss. Not in stock. Is it an old book?"

"No, no. I think it's published to-day."

"Is it? We haven't heard of it. Who is it by?"

"Oh, I think it's anonymous."

"Indeed, miss? Who publishes it?"

"Stendal. Mr. D. J. Stendal."

The young man bowed, and said nothing. Obviously he did not like to admit that the name was unfamiliar. Daphne, by now, though sanity told her it was nonsense, was apprehensive lest he thought her the authoress, and had no desire beyond getting out of the shop. But not too quickly, or she would confirm his suspicions.

"Yes, D. J. Stendal," she said again.

"Well, we can get it for you, miss, in a couple of days."

"Oh, don't trouble. I'll try to get it elsewhere. Thank you so much."

This inquiry she repeated at every bookshop, and always with the same result. One man, indeed, did find the book mentioned in a list sent out by Mr. Stendal, and she had the satisfaction of seeing "Madame Rolland" in print on a slip of paper.

"Perhaps you'd like to keep that list, miss," said the man—innocently, it was to be hoped.

"Oh, thanks. Well—yes—I will."

She passed out into the crowded Western Road, carrying Mr. Stendal's list. After a few hundred paces her thoughts were disturbed by a strong smell of coffee that seemed to rise from the pavement, and she found herself opposite an Oriental café. It was tempting. A cup would remove the parched taste from her mouth, and the gathering tiredness in her head and eyes. She climbed the stairs to the first floor, and sat at a table by the window. Here she sipped her coffee, or rested her face in her palm, as she watched the carts and buses and pedestrians below.

"It looms so important to me," thought she, "that I can't imagine how microscopically small it is to all these people and everybody else."

Hope sprang afresh next morning when six presentation copies arrived; and in the next weeks she trusted to see some advertisement or review in this paper or that. But nothing could she track till one day, as she was walking on Ditchling Common, a carriage passed her, and Mrs. Montague Jevons immediately stopped her coachman, and hailed Daphne in a sentence that gave her a leap of delight.

"Hallo! Hallo, hallo! Like father like daughter. I see you've written a book."

Daphne blushed agreement. "Yes, I'm afraid so," and for the sake of something to add, asked: "But how did you know?"

"Oh, I've just read an announcement of it!"

"Have you?" said Daphne—languidly, to conceal her eagerness. "Where?"

"In the Daily Telegraph. Just a small notice."

"Oh, I haven't seen that one. To-day's?"

"Yes, this morning's."

"I must look at it. Father's got it.... Was it kind?"

"Very...."

As quickly as suited with her mantle of dispassion, she got away from Mrs. Monty and hurried home to see what the paper had said. The Telegraph. This was excellent, for the Telegraph was an important journal. Only when she was half-way back did she think: "But how did Mrs. Monty know that I wrote it, seeing it's anonymous?" The question stopped her dead on the road. Had it then leaked out that she was the authoress? This might be good news, showing that discussion had played around the book. Or had Mr. Stendal—now her indignation began to rise—carefully divulged her name, in order to stir up talk and stimulate sales?

When she had the paper in her hand, it was a long time before she could light upon the notice. She was looking for a small head-line, and perhaps half a column of criticism. There was no such thing, though one swept the paper three, four, and five times. At length, in a few inches devoted to announcements, she found the lines:

"We understand that a novel published recently, 'Madame Rolland,' is really the work of Miss Daphne Bruno, the daughter of Mr. T. Tenter Bruno. The book has been selling well, the publisher, Mr. D. J. Stendal, informs us, but this interesting news has stimulated the demand."

On the whole she was pleased. The statement that the book had been selling before the revelation of its authorship counter-balanced her anger with Mr. Stendal. But she was glad that the paragraph was small, and not likely to be seen by her father, or too many friends. Not yet had it been declared good, and only if it were good did she want people to know of it. So she began to get incensed when she saw in the chatty column of that evening's paper an extraordinarily flippant paragraph headed, "Following in Father's Footsteps"; and another, though this was dignified, in the Evening Advertiser.

The constant repetition of her father's name reminded her of something she had quite forgotten: all of these paragraphs would be sent to him by his press-cutting agent, and would probably be on his breakfast plate the day after to-morrow. If they were, she would not be able to face him. She would run. Pray that he didn't leave his study to-day, and meet any one who would enlighten him!

The well-known envelope of the press-cutting agent did not appear, however, till three days later. When Daphne saw it, she went out of the house without stopping for any breakfast.

She walked along the roads towards Haywards Heath. The impulse strengthened to go up to town and demand an explanation from Mr. Stendal. She was spoiling to be rude. The slippery little beast! Yes, and now that she was fairly successful, she stood in a new relation to him. She could tell him what she thought; and she would. All the way in the train she was framing her insults. They held allusions to solicitors, and "steps" and adequate apologies.

In Queen Victoria Street she had difficulty in finding the offices of Mr. Stendal. Mr. Stendal's number seemed to be occupied by the headquarters of a patent knife-cleaner. Then, at the side of what she had supposed to be a private door, she saw several brass plates; and one of them, under the heading "Third Floor," read, "Mr. D. J. Stendal, Publisher." Walking nervously but resolutely up the dark, iron-bound stairs, she vowed that if the clerks, as seemed possible, brought a message that Mr. Stendal was engaged, she would push past them into his private room.

Arrived, rather breathless, at the third floor, she walked along a dark passage till she saw a door on which was painted, "Mr. D. J. Stendal." Being called to come in, she turned the handle more timidly than pleased her, and entered a bare, littered room, long enough to hold three tables, at one of which sat a youthful girl-typist, at another a shock-headed man with a stoop, and at the third little Mr. Stendal himself. On deal shelves round about the walls were files, iron boxes, and stray copies of books published by the firm.

Mr. Stendal, recognising his visitor at once, rose and said pleasantly:

"Ah, Miss Bruno. Mr. Bates, this is Miss Bruno, you know, who wrote 'Rolland.'" He did not introduce her to the typist. "Please sit down."

And he removed some papers off a chair and courteously placed it for her.

Daphne was disconcerted by the presence of other people, and stuttered:

"I rather wanted to see you in private a minute."

Mr. Stendal smiled gaily.

"Well, we haven't another room. But you needn't mind Mr. Bates. He and I really are Stendal's, so I couldn't have a secret from him, if I wanted to. That's so, Bates, isn't it? Do sit down."

She sat down.

"You want to know how your book's going on. Miss Dale, look up 'Rolland,' and see what the figures are, will you? Thank you."

Daphne interrupted.

"I didn't come about that. I wanted to know how it leaked out that I had written it. I especially stipulated that it should be published anonymously."

"I know you did. Or rather, you wanted it published under an assumed name. And you will remember that I recommended anonymity as more likely to stimulate interest. Well, it turns out that I served you well by that bit of advice. You see—to tell the truth—we sold nothing—practically speaking, nothing at first. I don't think we had any orders, did we, Miss Dale? And I thought that, as you had entrusted its publication to me, I had best do all I could for you. So Mr. Bates, who sees to the publicity department, sent round a paragraph—didn't you, Bates?—and we were delighted the ways the papers took it up. Not many, but one or two important ones. I grant I did it on my own authority, but you will appreciate I had your interests at heart. I think you will forgive me when you hear that our manœuvre has created quite a demand; small, of course, but good—distinctly good for a first novel. The shops and the libraries have both bought. What are our sales now, Miss Dale?"

"Twelve hundred."

"Excellent. Twelve hundred copies, Miss Bruno, sold right out. That means we've topped the first thousand, and are now in the second when you get the ten per cent. royalty."

Daphne started to speak, but Mr. Stendal hurried on:

"And what's more, it's really getting noticed and reviewed. Did you see the little notice in the Times this morning? And those cuttings that came this morning, Miss Dale; pass them to Miss Bruno to see." He took them from the typist's hand, and gave them to Daphne, who accepted them limply. "There. You can keep those. We've made a selection of quotable phrases—haven't we, Bates? We're advertising the book next week. I hope we may see at least two thousand copies for you."

Daphne could scarcely say anything, being driven by the desire to get away. The news that the book had sold nothing until the mention of her father's name had been the final blow after a week of buffeting. The sting was taken from her studied insults. She was near to crying, and it must not be done before these people. But something—something that would hurt must be said.

"I told you I had not come to hear about the sales. I am not interested in them. What I am interested in is the explanation why a definite promise to me was not honoured. I see you have no explanation. I must speak to my father about it. He understands these things better than I do, and will instruct me what steps to take."

"Precisely! Exactly!" said Mr. Stendal enthusiastically, though there was a peep of a forked tongue in his enthusiasm. "He will appreciate exactly what we have managed to do for you, considering the—er—the slight nature of your book. He knows the conditions of publishing, and the necessity of all reasonable publicity. And he will see how we've kept strictly within the terms of our agreement."

Daphne moved towards the door, but turned on him and said:

"I think he will appreciate very little of all that, not being a perfect fool. He will appreciate that you have considered nobody's interests but your own. He will certainly appreciate that you have kept within the terms of the agreement, for that is what one would expect from people like you. I imagine it's not too safe for you to venture out of cover...."

Mr. Stendal smiled, as one does when managing a restive pony, and seeing that Daphne was fumbling for the handle of the door, hastened to reach it first. He opened the door courteously.

"There now. We won't lose our tempers. I think you're a little ignorant about the difficulties of putting a book across—the competition, and all that. Especially one that is really nothing out of the ordinary. Believe me, we are doing the best we can for you, and shall continue to do so. Certainly it is in our interests, and in yours too. Good day, Miss Bruno."

In Queen Victoria Street Daphne walked along, purposing to mount an omnibus that would take her to her station, but letting them one after another pass by, as she accompanied her angrily running thoughts. Still in her fingers were the press-cuttings Mr. Stendal had given her, but, dreading the lash, she determined not to look at them till seated in her train. A gloomy journey that would be, carrying her to the interview with her father. And when she was in her corner seat she waited till the train had actually started before lifting the first and reading it.

"The work of a famous writer's daughter must always be interesting," it said; "one seeks to learn how far the talent of the parent has been transmitted to his children. We cannot say that we are impressed with the work of Miss Daphne Bruno. It is quite undistinguished, and there is no precocious genius here. Her ignorance of life is naïve in the extreme; that, of course, is very pardonable in a young writer, but what is stranger in her father's daughter is her absence of literary palate."

Daphne, who had been setting her lips as she read, was pierced with a fear that this sentence told the truth. Henry was right. Not having read one-hundredth part of the books which the ages had pronounced to be good, perhaps she did not know what was true loveliness and what was bad.

The next review echoed the thought:

"A first effort, especially from the hand of a distinguished writer's daughter, invites indulgence, and we shall hope one day to congratulate Miss Daphne Bruno on a better work than 'Madame Rolland' (Stendal). Let it be said at the start: this is the work of a completely immature writer. We wish we could have added that it was full of promise. But Miss Daphne Bruno has certainly not revealed her promise yet. Were the word not too hard, we should describe the treatment as illiterate, not in the sense that it is grammatically wrong, but that it is the work of one only slightly familiar with great literature, and whose values are therefore false. But let this not deter Miss Bruno from trying again after a long intercourse with those writers whose genius is no longer on trial. We imagine that she will then be the severest critic of her first book. One remembers the early work of Shelley, and will be slow to deny promise to any young writer."

"Oh, please don't be kind," said Daphne, as she put this cutting away.

The other reviews agreed; that was the worst—they agreed. They called the work "commonplace," "innocent," "shallow," "superficial." Having read the last she sat looking out of the window, her trouble increased by the sudden memory that since nearly all these cuttings mentioned her father, they would have been in his hands since the morning's post. There was nothing to do but to go straight to her execution. In her mind hovered the old lines, their pronoun changed to meet her case:

She nothing common did nor mean
Upon that memorable scene ...
    But bowed her comely head
    Down, as upon a bed.

Mr. Bruno met her in the hall, having seen her come up the drive. His irritability, obliged to simmer all day, was anxious to boil over.

"Where on earth have you been since before breakfast?"

"I've been up to London."

"London? Do you mean to say that you run up to London when and how you like?" Knowing a pang of self-reproach that she should be so unshepherded, and finding the thought ill-timed, he submerged it in anger. "Well, I might have known. It's on a par with everything else. Just come in here a minute."

He led her into his study where the press-cuttings were on the table. Lifting them up and tossing them back again, he demanded:

"What's all this about a book you've written? Why on earth didn't you tell me something about it and get my advice?"

"I wanted to surprise you."

Mr. Bruno again smothered the pity, and made a gesture of impatience.

"Stendal? Who the dickens is Stendal? Why, I know most of the publishers by name, but I've never heard of Mr. D. J. Stendal. Some Vanity Publisher. Nice to have any of my name linked with a firm like that! I suppose he made you pay for the privilege of being published?"

"No, he didn't. I'm getting a ten per cent. royalty."

It was annoying that, while she stood there looking up at him with eyes that were rather frightened, compassion should gain ground from anger. He wanted anger to hold its own.

"Well, are you such a little fool that—can't you see that for your work to be published by a house of no standing is itself enough to damn it.... These Stendals and their like only bind up stuff that no one else'll print, for conceited amateurs to circulate among their friends. He only took yours for nothing because he thought that ... Couldn't I have advised you about publishers and agreements? ... But I suppose you have no faith in my advice."

"I wanted to do it by myself."

"And you've ended by doing a ridiculous thing, and, incidentally, though it's a small matter, making me appear ridiculous."

"Oh, I didn't want to do that. I said all along I didn't want to let you down. That's why I published it anonymously."

"Anonymously? Then what's all this about?"

He lifted up the cuttings.

"Mr. Stendal deliberately let it out to make the book sell. I've just been up to tell him what I thought about him."

At this point anger capitulated. He sat down in his chair, and, after tossing the cuttings to the back of the desk, turned round towards his daughter.

"Poor child! Doesn't it show how you ought not to have attempted anything without advice?" One of her hands he picked up. "And did you really think you could assault the world with the few arrows that have so far arrived in your quiver? I fancy you must learn much more about books and men. Don't you see that, if you want to compel the world to listen to you, you must convince them that in some respects you know more than they do?"

"What about the Brontës?"

"H'm.... Well, Charlotte only came off when she was writing about what she knew—which wasn't often. And the sheer genius of Emily—

"Well, I'm your daughter, so perhaps I'm a genius like you."

"No, I am not a genius, Daphne dear—only a brain trained and tempered for its work.... Besides, this is a more sophisticated age than the Brontës' age.... Stands Fiction where the Brontës stood? ... I wonder some humorous editor hasn't sent me your book to review."

"I don't want any more reviews. I hope nobody writes another word about it. I wish I'd never published it. I wish I could wipe it all out."

He pressed the hand he was holding.

"Poor Duffy! They have hit it rather hard, haven't they? But they're an ill-conditioned race, critics."

"Daddy"—it was evident an idea had struck Daphne—"would you read it? You're the only critic whose verdict I should consider final."

"Would I read it! Why, to tell the truth, I've been aching to ever since I heard about it. I'll read it now. Where is it?"

"I hid them upstairs.... But you'll promise to tell me exactly what you think, and not try to let me down lightly. An awful lot will result from what you say."

Releasing her hand he told her to run and fetch it.

When she returned, he rose up to meet her and took the thin volume. After studying its shape and print, he went to the book-shelves and, pushing a squad of books towards the right, made a place for this newcomer next to the last of his own works. For a few seconds he studied it in this position, and then took it out again and came back smiling to his daughter, whom he drew against him and kissed.

"I am proud you've started writing too, my dear—which is a remark I might, without loss of dignity, have made earlier. Come now, it's not a small thing to have a book published at twenty-one."

The tears were in Daphne's eyes.

"Oh, but they didn't do it because it was good, but only because I was your daughter. I know it. I know it. And I know I've made both you and me look foolish."

"No, dear. Only to fools. Besides, let me read it. Your court of appeal may reverse the verdict."

Daphne sat upstairs till dinner time, unable to read, for she was trying to imagine whereabouts her father was now in "Madame Rolland." After the first bell she went down—why softly she did not know—and quietly turned the handle of his door. He was no longer reading.

"Have you finished it?"

"Yes, dear."

"Well?"

"You want exactly what I think, as though you were nothing to me?"

"Yes."

"Duffy, young writers always think they can write about people or places or emotions of which they know nothing. It can't be done. Once in your story you strike a vein of truth, and though you have over-written it, the truth can still be seen, and is not a little appealing"—he turned his eyes back to the book. "It's in your love-scenes. And there's a glimpse of vision, promising much despite all these critics, in the episode at the grave-side. But the rest, I'm afraid, is machine-made, which is what they mean by calling it 'insincere.' The result is, you get sentimental, forcing emotions where they would not have been. And there's too much gratuitous ornament, whereas in a perfect work of art ornament and structure are one and the same."

Daphne nodded.

"All that's a long way of saying it's mostly bad."

"It's the work of your prentice hand, dear...."

"Oh, don't let me down lightly. I understand." She turned towards the door. "Come on, let's go to dinner."