The day that we felt to be big with fate for us dawned with an unsmiling April sky, and the nipping New England east wind, that is not elevating to the spirits.
As for me, I had no misgivings about my sage cheese—its reputation was already made—or my preserves, or my butter. Only sausages weighed upon my mind. They were as yet unproven. I could only boast of what Groundnut Hill Farm could do in that line, and bespeak a trial of its new commodities. And I meant to be very shrewd and business-like, and get the very best prices for all my wares. But it was “Evelyn Marchmont” that made the day seem momentous, and gave me the sickening, apprehensive feeling that made breakfast an impossibility.
Octavia wore the gentle dignity that made her quite impressive on the days of her kindergarten exhibition, as she walked toward the inner sanctum pointed out to us as the editorial office of the great publishing house. She approached an elderly man, who sat at a desk, and looked up with shrewd but kindly eyes from under a pair of very ferocious gray eyebrows. She began to explain her errand with gentle deliberation, extending toward him at the same time her precious package. He waved her, courteously but insistently, toward another desk, from which a younger man arose, thrusting his pen behind his ear with a preoccupied air and a patient expression which was not encouraging.
He broke in upon Octavia’s slow and carefully modulated speech—Octavia is very slow, things are done so deliberately in Palmyra.
“I am sorry to say that our list is full, quite full for this year, and we are not now considering anything,” he said, with perfect politeness, but with an air of absolute finality that made it impossible to say another word.
Octavia’s lips were set firmly together, as we walked out. There was really nothing to complain of; a publisher is under no obligation to “consider” a story if he knows that he doesn’t wish to publish it. But in Palmyra we were treated as if we were of some consequence; here we were only units in the crowd; more than that, countrified young women stealing busy men’s time to offer a probably worthless manuscript!
“How does a new writer get a hearing?” Octavia questioned drearily, when, at length, she opened her lips.
She repeated the question at the next publisher’s, where we were invited to sit down, and a little more time was spent upon us, but with the same decision that it would be useless to have “Evelyn Marchmont” read.
“By means of short stories in the magazines often,” said the publisher’s editor, who did not look the stern destroyer of hope that he was.
“Couldn’t—wouldn’t it be possible that one who could not write short stories might be successful with a long one?” stammered Octavia, breathlessly and with blazing cheeks.