Volume Ii Part 20 (1/2)
He was too honest a man to accept her thanks for more than he had done, and he puzzled her considerably by his allusion to the great appreciation of a gentleman from London.
”But you published my little poem,” she asked, not a little perplexed by his statements.
”Certainly, madam! In the first instance I did, but this gentleman, a literary gentleman, happened to call the very day I was reading your first poem, and he liked it, and he brought it out afterwards and took charge of the trifle I sent you for it; I hope that was all right and that you received it. I hold his receipt, and I imagined he was authorised by you.”
”Oh, thank you! Yes. I got the money all right,” said Margaret, much bewildered, and wondering who this could have been.
She found also that Mr. Skidd could not promise anything about her poem in an enlarged form till he had seen it, and had time to consult this mysterious friend, who by his account appreciated her short poems so much.
It was delightful to think she might have a larger audience and command a public who might be equally appreciative. Mr. Skidd began to discuss her poetry with her, and he gave her many useful hints.
”The fault of your poetry, madam, is that it wants variety. People get tired of perpetual sorrow and all that sort of thing. You write very prettily. Give us something cheerful, make the birds twitter and the sun s.h.i.+ne, cultivate brightness, people do not like always being in mourning.”
”But if I am not happy I cannot write what I do not feel,” objected Margaret.
”Oh, yes you can; you get the trick of the thing and you will easily do it.”
Margaret knew this to be impossible, but before she had time to repeat her negative a well-remembered face came before her, and Sir Albert Gerald, filled with happiness at meeting her so unexpectedly, came up with an outstretched hand. Mr. Skidd was immensely annoyed.
”And you make believe not to know who buys your poem,” he exclaimed; ”I call that humbug--and you,” he said sharply, turning to Sir Albert, ”why could you not be open about it?”
”But did _you_ buy my poems? Are you the literary man from whose appreciation I have received so much encouragement?” and Margaret, mortified and disappointed, turned to go away.
At any rate _she_ knew nothing, and Mr. Skidd was ashamed of the momentary suspicion that had filled him.
”No, this lady was acting on the square; as for the man....”
The little man felt as he looked at them that a whole drama was being played out before his eyes, the air was full of some secret thing in connection with these two.
Sir Albert, deferential and respectful, was evidently quite absorbed in the tall, graceful figure before him, who stood cold and apparently determined to show no satisfaction in his presence.
Mr. Skidd was a good judge of character.
”I'll be bound there is no harm in _her_,” he said, and so saying left them to themselves.
CHAPTER VIII.
”You believe, do you not, that my being here is an accident?” Sir Albert said courteously. ”I have been interested in your writing, and I am glad it has found appreciation.”
She raised her head and spoke to him hurriedly, ”You are kind--you mean to be kind--but you have no idea what a bitter, bitter blow this is to me--and what a terrible disappointment!”
”You misunderstand the whole thing,” he said, moved almost beyond his powers of control when he noted how her bloom had faded, and how terrible the traces of anxiety in her face showed what her life was.
”It is true that I have managed the publication for you, but I a.s.sure you that your poems have met with the highest praise, and that, though I did bring them out for you (it seems such a little thing to do for you), I have just now received a letter from the editor of one of the highest cla.s.s of magazines to show you. Your name is unknown to him--he merely treats your poems as coming from a stranger--you are a complete stranger to him. Will you read it?”
He held it towards her. While finding fault with one or two lines, objecting to a word here and there, he acknowledged in warm terms the beauty of imagery, the flow of thought, the purity of the lines sent him, and considered it indicated unusual power, and that the author should be encouraged to try a longer flight.
Poor Margaret! The present and all the trials of her life were forgotten; the sweetness of this praise coming at a moment when her heart was starved, and all her brilliant and glowing imagination was pent up within the dreary walls of her most unhappy home, was almost overpowering. She held both hands out to the man who had proved himself so real a friend--her colour flushed into her cheek, and tears of grat.i.tude sparkled in her eyes.
It was the sorest trial to poor Sir Albert not to be able to tell her that he could not bear grat.i.tude from her. He stood gazing at her, as one spell-bound, clasping her hands till she withdrew them, with a struggle going on in his heart that was almost beyond him.