Rest and Be Thankful by Helen MacInnes Read Free Book Online

group of unknown writers to spend a few weeks here, where they could look at hills and mountains and sky, where they could relax and talk and work. The sense of peace is so wonderful. Out here, in this quiet valley, they could think and imagine. It is all so different, and yet so real.”
    Mrs. Peel agreed so vehemently that the white curls on top of her head slightly lost their symmetry. “You would be a real benefactor to writers if you let us have this house, Mr. Brent.”
    “Me?” He was dumbfounded for a moment. “Now this is all your idea, Mrs. Peel. I’ve nothing to do with it.” He looked at them gravely, feeling suddenly sorry for them. Just two women who had inherited a lot of money, who had too much time on their hands.
    Mrs. Peel said, “Writers are really such nice people, and the unknown ones have such a difficult time.”
    “I always figured writers had a pretty soft life. Any of the boys here would think so.”
    “Oh, no! Not today. Once—well you wrote a terrific success, and the money rolled in from every country, and the taxes were low. So a successful writer could invest his earnings and live very comfortably on them. Some, with good business sense—investments, you know—became really quite wealthy. Actually—” Mrs. Peel hesitated. She blushed. Then she went on—“I was one of those.”
    Sarah Bly stared at her friend in amazement: Margaret must be really determined to persuade Mr. Brent to let them have the house, or she would never have given away that secret. No one, except her publisher, her literary agent, and Sarah Bly knew about Margaret Peel. By Margaret Peel’s own very definite request.
    “Of course,” Mrs. Peel was saying, “this is between us, Mr. Brent. Did you ever hear of Elizabeth Whiffleton?”
    Mr. Brent hadn’t.
    Mrs. Peel seemed relieved. “Well, I was she.”
    “Was?” asked Jim Brent.
    “Definitely,” Mrs. Peel answered with considerable force. “Never, never again. Elizabeth Whiffleton spent two years of my life in writing a book. Just one book. And it made money. Well, that was very nice because I needed money. My husband had died; he was really a darling, but the world’s worst businessman. So Elizabeth Whiffleton sat down and wrote a story to keep me alive. It was published in 1925. And do you know what happened? It sold and sold, and I found I was quite well off. Then, because my husband had never been able to manage our finances when he was alive, I was fascinated by the stock market. I began to buy when the market was low and sell when it was high. It is so simple, really. I doubled and then trebled my capital, and by 1928 I was too rich to feel honest. So I stopped then. Fortunately, as it turned out. Now you see how I feel every sympathy for young writers, and try to help if I can.”
    “Try to teach them to play the stock market?”
    Mrs. Peel laughed. “No. I mean—if they have to write for money, often they can’t write what they want to write. I know. You see, I always wanted to write a book, but not the Elizabeth Whiffleton kind. I wanted to write a book, a very serious one, that the very best critics would acclaim.”
    “And which few people would read, probably,” Sarah said, with a smile. “And you certainly wouldn’t have had the fun you’ve had out of life, Margaret.”
    “But at least I could have told my friends I was an author,” Mrs. Peel said, with unexpected spirit. “Now I have to sit quietly, as I’ve done for twenty-three years, while they discuss their books. It would be very frustrating if it weren’t so funny.”
    Brent said, “I would think you’d tell them about the book you wrote.”
    “About The Lady in White Gloves?” She was too shocked to answer.
    “Was it banned?” he asked, looking curiously at the earnest, kindly brown eyes. He couldn’t imagine this white-haired, serene-faced woman writing dirt. He didn’t like the idea, either.
    Sarah Bly sensed his thoughts. She said quickly, “No. It