FullReads

Presently she seemed to feel my gaze, for she stirred, then opened her eyes. “I have been asleep,” she said, rising hurriedly.

“No harm in that, Aaronna.”

But she was deeply embarrassed and troubled, much more so than the occasion required; so much so, indeed, that I turned the conversation back upon the manuscripts as a diversion. “I cannot stand that doctor of yours,” I said, indicating the prose story; “no one would. You must cut him out.”

Her self-possession returned as if by magic. “Certainly not,” she answered haughtily.

“Oh, if you do not care–I had labored under the impression that you were anxious these things should find a purchaser.”

“I am, I am,” she said, her manner changing to deep humility with wonderful rapidity. With such alternations of feeling as this sweeping over her like great waves, no wonder she was old before her time.

“Then you must take out that doctor.”

“I am willing, but do not know how,” she answered, pressing her hands together helplessly. “In my mind he belongs to the story so closely that he cannot be separated from it.”

Here Simpson entered, bringing a note for me: it was a line from Mrs. Abercrombie inviting me for that evening–an unexpected gathering, and therefore likely to be all the more agreeable. My heart bounded in spite of me; I forgot Miss Grief and her manuscripts for the moment as completely as though they had never existed. But, bodily, being still in the same room with her, her speech brought me back to the present.

“You have had good news?” she said.

“Oh no, nothing especial–merely an invitation.”

“But good news also,” she repeated. “And now, as for me, I must go.”

Not supposing that she would stay much later in any case, I had that morning ordered a carriage to come for her at about that hour. I told her this. She made no reply beyond putting on her bonnet and shawl.

“You will hear from me soon,” I said; “I shall do all I can for you.”

She had reached the door, but before opening it she stopped, turned and extended her hand. “You are good,” she said: “I give you thanks. Do not think me ungrateful or envious. It is only that you are young, and I am so–so old.” Then she opened the door and passed through the anteroom without pause, her maid accompanying her and Simpson with gladness lighting the way. They were gone. I dressed hastily and went out–to continue my studies in psychology.

Time passed; I was busy, amused and perhaps a little excited (sometimes psychology is exciting). But, though much occupied with my own affairs, I did not altogether neglect my self-imposed task regarding Miss Grief. I began by sending her prose story to a friend, the editor of a monthly magazine, with a letter making a strong plea for its admittance. It should have a chance first on its own merits. Then I forwarded the drama to a publisher, also an acquaintance, a man with a taste for phantasms and a soul above mere common popularity, as his own coffers knew to their cost. This done, I waited with conscience clear.

Four weeks passed. During this waiting period I heard nothing from Miss Grief. At last one morning came a letter from my editor. “The story has force, but I cannot stand that doctor,” he wrote. “Let her cut him out, and I might print it.” Just what I myself had said. The package lay there on my table, travel-worn and grimed; a returned manuscript is, I think, the most melancholy object on earth. I decided to wait, before writing to Aaronna, until the second letter was received. A week later it came. “Armor” was declined. The publisher had been “impressed” by the power displayed in certain passages, but the “impossibilities of the plot” rendered it “unavailable for publication”–in fact, would “bury it in ridicule” if brought before the public, a public “lamentably” fond of amusement, “seeking it, undaunted, even in the cannon’s mouth.” I doubt if he knew himself what he meant. But one thing, at any rate, was clear: “Armor” was declined.