The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (15 page)

“
My
mind doesn’t come into it,” said Lucy.

“I wonder what it can be about,” said Cyril. “You have lived such a sheltered life—yet after all no one could have led a more sequestered existence than Jane Austen, and she became famous, and who could have been more sheltered than Miss Mitford, yet
Cranford
is a classic.”

“This is not in the least like
Cranford
,” said Lucy.

“I don’t suppose it is,” said Cyril, leaning back comfortably in the armchair, “for, after all, that is the work of a genius, and if you had real genius surely you would have felt the urge to write before this, though some geniuses mature later than others. Look at Shaw.”

“I don’t want to look at anyone,” said Lucy, “and I do wish you’d go back to bed and go to sleep.”

“I told you I don’t feel sleepy,” said Cyril. “I’ve sometimes thought of writing a book myself. Perhaps we might collaborate, mother, I could supply the masculine element for your story.”

“There’s quite enough masculine element in it as it is,” said Lucy, “thank you.”

“I believe you’re writing for
Peg’s Own Paper
,” said Cyril. “Confess, mother, it’s something like that—this is a very comfortable chair, do you use it much?”

“No,” said Lucy.

“Then in that case could I have it in my room?” said Cyril. “It just fits my back—can I have it, mother?”

“No,” roared Captain Gregg, unable to keep silent any longer.

“Be quiet,” said Lucy, “don’t you dare say another word.”

“It was only a suggestion,” said Cyril reproachfully, “I’m sorry. I didn’t know that you set such store by the chair, and I did ask you if you ever used it and you said no—I don’t think I quite deserve to be shouted at like that; but if you don’t want me here, I’ll go of course.” He rose to his feet as he spoke and put a forgiving hand on Lucy’s shoulder. “Don’t overdo it,” he said, “it’s not worth it—and if you get sick who will look after me?”

“I won’t get sick,” said Lucy mechanically. “Good night, dear.”

“Good night, mother,” said Cyril, stooping to kiss her on the cheek.

“Good night, dear,” said Lucy once more as he went out, the tassel of his dressing-gown cord tapping after him as it had used to do when he was a little boy.

“Tie up your cord, dear,” she called after him like an echo of past days.

“He didn’t hear you—Cyril didn’t hear you,” she whispered when he had gone.

“No,” said the captain, “and I’m sorry I broke my word. But he’s not a child any longer and he aggravated me, dammit. Take my chair indeed!”

“He didn’t hear you, and he’s going to be a clergyman, looking after other people’s souls,” said Lucy.

“At the moment his thoughts are more on his own body,” said the captain, “seeing it in purple and fine linen and a bishop’s mitre. He is young and very ignorant.”

“Ignorant!” said Lucy. “But look at the scholarships that he has won.”

“Knowledge and book learning are not wisdom,” said the captain.

“Is this book wisdom?” asked Lucy, putting the manuscript back on the table.

“It has some elements of wisdom in it, me dear,” replied the captain. “I did not lead a very wise life myself but it was a full one and a grown-up one. You come to age very often through shipwreck and disaster, and at the heart of the whirlpool some men find God.”

Some six months later Lucy crept up the steps of a London publisher’s office. The retyped manuscript of
Blood and Swash
felt like a parcel of lead under her arm.

“Tacket and Sproule” were the names on a brass plate over a door that looked more as if it led into a private house than a business office.

“I’ve looked them up and they publish unusual books,” the captain had told her. “It’s not a big firm, but it has quite a reputation. Ask for Sproule, he’s mad about the sea—has a small yacht at Bosham and spends all the time he can in her, nice little craft, too—you take the book to Sproule.”

“Couldn’t I send it by post?” asked Lucy.

“I thought you wanted to keep your name out of it,” said the captain. “It will be easier for you to explain that to Sproule than put it in writing—he’s a decent fellow and won’t let you down—and I always believe a personal interview helps.”

“But shouldn’t I write for an interview?” asked Lucy.

“No, you just walk in,” said the captain. “A surprise attack is often best—I’ll get the office boy out of the way and you walk right in.”

“The things you make me do,” Lucy sighed.

“Well, it’s all for your own good, me dear—I shan’t be able to use the money.”

And now Lucy was walking up to the door, wishing herself a thousand miles away. There was an old-fashioned bell pull at the side which she pulled with a trembling hand, but no answering ring came.

“The door’s open—walk in,” the captain whispered.

“Go away,” said Lucy, “I absolutely refuse to go and see this man if you’re going to interfere as you did at that pawnbroker’s—I shall throw the book in the Thames if you say one word.”

“Pipe down, me dear, pipe down,” said the captain soothingly. “I won’t say a word, but you’d be waiting here till eight bells if you expect an answer to that bell—haul in the slack and go to it, me dear, and don’t take a penny less than ten per cent for royalties.”

With this encouragement Lucy timidly turned the handle of the door and walked in. There was a dark hall with a staircase going up to the left and a door on the right. This door was ajar, and through it she could see a pale-faced boy seated at a desk, apparently absorbed in a large ledger. Pushing the door farther open, she walked in.

“Is Mr. Sproule in?” she asked.

“Yep,” said the boy, not pausing to look up.

“Can I see him?” she enquired.

“Take a seat,” said the boy.

A bench ran along the wall below some shelves on which stood a row of books in gaily coloured wrappers, all published by Tacket and Sproule.
Chaos
, she read,
Pilgrims in Picardy, My Seven Lives
, and
Whither?

There was an oil stove alight in the fireplace, and the little room was hot and stuffy; but Lucy felt chilled to the marrow, and her hands, in their clean white gloves, felt clammy
with cold. She put the manuscript on her knee, as if it were a child waiting to see the doctor, and stared at the boy opposite so intently that at last he shifted uneasily and, finally rising to his feet, went through a glass-topped door with “Mr. Branley” on it in partly worn black lettering.

He tapped, a voice called, “Come in,” and he disappeared.

Returning after a few moments, he reseated himself at the desk and, still without looking at Lucy, asked her in a hoarse voice if she had an appointment.

“No,” said Lucy.

“Then he can’t see you,” said the boy.

“I wanted to see Mr. Sproule,” said Lucy.

“I know,” said the boy, “but Mr. Sproule don’t want to see you, not without an appointment.”

“But that door is marked Branley,” persisted Lucy.

“Firm used to be Tacket and Branley, now it’s Tacket and Sproule—and Sproule’s busy.” A bell sounded on the desk at his elbow and he lifted the receiver of the telephone.

“Yep,” he snapped, “yep.”

There was evidently no reply and, slamming down the receiver, he returned to his writing.

Again the bell rang with no result, and a third time, and the boy, muttering curses under his breath, went out of the room and clattered away up the stairs.

“Now, Lucia, me dear,” whispered the captain, “quick, before that brat gets back.”

With wildly beating heart, Lucy rose and crossed to the door marked Branley. She tapped on it as the office boy had done, and the voice calling, “Come in,” she entered a small room that seemed almost entirely filled by an enormous desk with a large red-faced man seated behind it. There were more shelves filled with Tacket and Sproule’s books around the walls, and in any vacant space hung framed pictures from Tacket and
Sproule’s publications. The desk itself was covered with black tin trays, from which papers frothed like very heady beer.

“Well,” said the red-faced Mr. Sproule, half rising and pulling out a chair beside the desk as if he were expecting her, “do sit down, Miss Gorton. Our readers quite like
Silver Threads
but——”

“I am not Miss Gorton,” said Lucy, seating herself.

“Not Miss Gorton,” said Mr. Sproule, staring at her from under penthouse eyebrows. “But Miss Gorton had an appointment with me at this time, and I told the boy to let no one else in.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lucy nervously, “but I am not Miss Gorton,” and she began to unwrap the manuscript of
Blood and Swash
with shaking hands.

“Well, if you’re not Miss Gorton,” said Mr. Sproule, “who the—who are you?”

“I’ve brought a manuscript,” said Lucy, ignoring this question.

“So many people bring me manuscripts,” said Mr. Sproule, looking with distaste at the bulky typescript in Lucy’s hands. “How did you get in anyway?”

“I just walked in,” said Lucy.

“That boy——”

“He had nothing to do with it,” said Lucy. “He told me you wouldn’t see me, and then—then he was called away, so I walked in.”

“Do you always walk in when you are asked to walk out?” asked Mr. Sproule, eying her with a certain favour.

“No,” said Lucy, “but as you obviously were in, I didn’t see why you shouldn’t look at my manuscript.”

“Your first book, and you simply had to write it.” Mr. Sproule groaned.

“Yes,” said Lucy shyly.

“All about love, I suppose,” said Mr. Sproule.

“No,” said Lucy, and remembering some of the language and incidents, she suddenly blushed scarlet and sprang to her feet. How could she let this man think she knew about such things as were written in that manuscript, let alone publish them?

“I’ve made a mistake—I must go—I should never have come,” she stammered incoherently, trying to rewrap the manuscript with shaking hands.

“My dear lady!” said Mr. Sproule, rising in alarm, “are you ill?”

“No,” said Lucy, “but I didn’t tell you the truth—I mean it was a friend——”

“A friend wrote the book?” asked the publisher.

Lucy nodded, gazing beseechingly up at him.

“Sit down, dear lady, sit down,” said Mr. Sproule tenderly, “there’s nothing to be frightened of, nothing at all,” and, gently pushing Lucy back onto the chair, he took the manuscript from her and reseated himself. Idly he flicked over the pages. His amused expression gradually changed to incredulity and then to absorbed interest as his attention became fixed on the words before him.

At eleven forty-five the office boy appeared and announced the arrival of Miss Gorton and was told to go away, couldn’t he see that Mr. Sproule was engaged? At twelve-fifteen the boy came back and said Miss Gorton was still there, and was waved away with a fierce growl. At a quarter to one he reappeared to say that Miss Gorton was leaving, and at half-past one he returned to say that he was going out to lunch.

“Lunch!” echoed Mr. Sproule. “What’s the time?”

“Arps one,” said the boy.

“Send me in a tray from opposite,” said Mr. Sproule without raising his eyes, “and I don’t want to be disturbed.”

“The usual twice?” asked the boy, glancing for the first time at Lucy, sitting pale and stiff on the hard wooden chair.

“Anything, anything,” muttered Mr. Sproule from a great distance.

Presently a silent waiter appeared with a large tray laden with pewter-covered dishes and two tankards, which he put down on top of the paper-filled tins, and withdrew as quietly as he had come.

“Aren’t you going to eat your lunch while it’s hot?” asked Lucy, who was almost famished since she had had a light and very early breakfast.

“Eh?” murmured Mr. Sproule.

“Your lunch,” shouted Lucy, exasperated by hunger past shyness.

“What’s that?” said Mr. Sproule, raising his eyes and looking at her with as much surprise as if she were some new species of human on a desert island. “Oh,” he went on coming back from far places, “so you’re still here.”

“Of course,” said Lucy.

“Of course,” said Mr. Sproule, “and good heavens, it’s two o’clock and some one has brought us something to eat. Will you join me in some lunch?”

He lifted the covers off the dishes and handed Lucy a plate weighed down with beef-steak and kidney pudding, mashed potatoes and cauliflower, and pushed a tankard full of ale across to her. He put the other plate before him and took a deep draught of the ale.

“Remarkable!” he said, putting down his tankard. “A most remarkable book. At first I thought you were being temperamental and that you really had written it yourself, but of course you couldn’t have—it’s a man’s book, and, gad, what a man! Where is he now?”

“Oh—I’m not sure,” stammered Lucy, and, raising the
tankard of ale, she took a long drink. “Oh,” she said, gasping, “that was very bitter.”

“Of course, it is fine old bitter,” said Mr. Sproule, “but you would have preferred wine of course. I’m so sorry, I was really absorbed in that book—which doesn’t mean we are going to publish it,” he added, caution suddenly returning, “but I would like to meet the author. Where could I get hold of him?”

“He doesn’t want to be got hold of,” Lucy said, her cheeks burning. “He wishes to remain anonymous.”

“Oh, nonsense, dear lady,” said Mr. Sproule, “I must meet him—a man after my own heart.”

“I’m sorry,” said Lucy desperately, “but you can’t meet him, he’s not there to be met, he’s——”

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Sproule with a significant look at the black coat and skirt that Lucy always wore when she journeyed to London, “I see—I’m afraid I’ve been tactless—you have my deepest sympathy, I quite understand.”

“You don’t understand,” said Lucy, exasperated by so much uncalled for solicitude and made reckless by the ale to which she was not accustomed, “and I’m afraid I can’t explain.”

“Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Sproule slowly, and an interested expression came into his eyes. “Then, of course, I mustn’t ask any more questions about this mysterious author.”

“No more questions at all,” said Lucy. “This is a very good steak and kidney pudding.”