Chapter Seven.
A Private Reading.
Theo was pressed into the service to write the words of the song for Miss Caldecott, and composed a graceful little ditty which was sufficiently touching even to the spinster mind, and might safely be trusted to melt the hearts of parents “in the front rows.” The task kept her happy and occupied while waiting for the answer to her letter, and Mr Hammond was both prompt and kind in his reply.
“I shall be happy to give what help I can to your father’s daughter,” he wrote. “He always appeared to me to have a very special gift, and I regretted that he did not cultivate it to the full. I hope that you have inherited his powers, but at the same time I feel it my duty to beg you to earnestly consider the matter before deciding on your life’s work. Many young people seem to imagine that they can ‘take up literature’ as they would typewriting or clerical work, which is a vast mistake, and it would be cruel to encourage you unless you possess the inherent qualifications. Would it not be better for the aiding of my judgment if, before coming to see me, you forwarded some short MS for my perusal? The time at my disposal is limited, but I will contrive to read anything you send before, say, Monday next, when I shall be pleased to see you at any time that may be convenient between eleven and one.”
The letter was read aloud at the breakfast-table, and the audience commented on it with the candour which distinguishes family conclaves.
“Very sensible! Short and to the point. How can he tell what sort of rubbish you write!” said Steve.
“Hope you notice the dash under the ‘short’! No chance for your novel, my dear. He doesn’t see himself sitting down to read hundreds of pages of your appalling fist. Grows more like lattice-work every day!” Philippa cried severely.
“I can just imagine what he is like! A proper little person, with a shiny bald head. Fancy writing love-scenes for his inspection! My hat!” and Madge lengthened her chin in an expressive grimace.
“The worst of it is, I don’t know what to send. I have nothing short that’s good enough. It ought to be striking, arresting, original. I—I want an idea,” cried poor Theo, staring frantically at the coffee-cups, and wrinkling her brow until she looked ten years older on the spot. “It’s finding a subject that is the hardest part. I love the writing when I’m once well started. I can’t possibly send anything before next week.”
“Don’t try. Take your time, and do your very best. Send a letter to say you will forward a MS in the course of the next few weeks. It’s important that you should send your best work, and you can’t write happily with a feeling of hurry. It must be a story, of course, not an article.”
“Mind you have a nice hero: six feet high—broad shoulders—big moustache—”
“No, no; clean shaven—clean shaven, with a firm, determined chin; big feet and hands, quick-tempered, but too sweet for anything to the girl he loves.”
“Make her slim and willowy, with grey eyes; rather wistful-looking, not exactly pretty, but with ‘a way with her’ that simply mows ’em down!”
“Give her some spirit, mind!” cried Madge once more. “I hate your mawkish heroines—sort of creature you would call ‘The Maiden.’ Don’t call her ‘The Maiden,’ Theo, if you wish me to buy a copy; and whatever you do, I pray and beseech you, don’t write in the present tense: ‘I am leaning against a stile; the roses are falling in heavy clusters by my side; the rays of the sun are pouring on my uncovered head and turning to gold the wayward curls which refuse to lie straight despite all my efforts.’ Don’t you know the kind of thing! I feel inclined to throw a book in the fire when it begins like that. Don’t let your heroine have ‘wayward curls,’ Theo. Don’t let her have ‘little tendrils wandering over her brow.’ Don’t say in every chapter that ‘she had never looked more lovely;’ and for goodness’ sake don’t let the husband and wife behave like idiots, and quarrel all the time, though they are really expiring of love!”
“Well, really! Any more instructions? It’s a pity you don’t write the whole thing while you are about it,” said Theo testily as she pushed her choir from the table.
The family had grown to dread the times when Theo was settling on a plot for a new story. She was so restless; she wandered about in such an aimless manner; she looked so thoroughly worried and unhappy. Sometimes the girls would try to help her with suggestions, and then she would listen with a forbearing smile, and say, “Oh, thank you! Yes, it’s very good. I should think a capital story might be made out of it, but somehow it doesn’t appeal to me.”
At other times, when they were never thinking of helping, and were engaged in what seemed the most ordinary conversation, Theo would suddenly clap her hands and cry, “Oh, that will do! Good! Now I’ve got it!” and rush excitedly from the room, leaving her sisters to discuss what in the world they had said that could possibly suggest a romance. Verily, an author in the household was a difficult person with whom to deal!
For the next few days Theo sat alone in her room making futile efforts at a beginning, going out for long walks along the crowded streets, or sitting shivering on the seats in the Park. In deference to her condition, Hope kept away from the piano while she was at home; but no sooner was the door closed behind her than she flew to try the effect of the new song, and to alter and re-alter the more troublesome bars. She must practise, too, for with the hope of public work before her it would never do to lose execution and flexibility of finger. Already she was making arrangements for lessons in harmony, and her time seemed filling up.
In the energy which distinguishes all beginnings, Hope practised scales and exercises for a good three hours one Saturday afternoon, and towards the end of the time was much exercised to account for the meaning of a thumping noise that seemed to rise from the ground beneath her feet. She stopped playing; the noise stopped also. She began again; the noise was repeated. Philippa, summoned to decide whether or no they were the proud possessors of a unique sort of echo, immediately arrived at a more prosaic explanation.
“It’s some one knocking from underneath. It must be the Hermit, that bachelor creature who lives just below. He wants you to stop.”
“What cheek!” cried Hope. She was, as a rule, discreet and punctilious in her language, but there are points upon which the meekest among us are keenly sensitive, and when it came to interference with her practising, propriety flew to the winds. “What hateful cheek! What right has he to interfere! Has he hired the whole building? Does he think we are going to consult him about what we do? What next, indeed? I’ll try chromatics now, and see how he will like them. Cheek! Abominable cheek?”
She went to work more vigorously than ever, and Philippa thought it prudent to refrain from interference, but contented herself with hurrying preparations for tea; and for the time being there was no more knocking. Presumably the chromatics had reduced the listener to a condition of helpless despair.
On the third evening Theo made her appearance wearing her best fichu, and with a face wreathed in smiles. “I’ve got it!” she announced; and there was no need to ask to what she referred. The tension was over for the time being, and the young author worked up her subject with the usual enjoyment. When the story was finished the girls begged for a private reading; a request against which, as a rule, the author steadily set her face, so that, as usual, the first response was a refusal.
“I can’t. It is too cold-blooded. The members of one’s own family are too painfully critical. I’d rather face a dozen editors than you three girls.”
“Very unkind of you, then; that’s all I have to say,” said Philippa severely. “You know how interested we are; and if we are critical, surely it’s better to discuss faults with us than to let them go uncorrected. This is a special story, and in consideration of our anxiety—”
“Oh, well!” said Theo unwillingly, “I’ll read it if you like. Get your sewing, and don’t stare at me all the time. It’s quite short. You won’t like it, I expect. Let me sit near the lamp.”
She was evidently nervous, and her voice was decidedly shaky for the first few pages; but after that she forgot herself, and read with expression and power. If one of the girls moved, she looked up with a frown; and when Madge groaned and clasped her hands over her heart at a particularly touching part of the love-story, she stopped short and fixed her with a basilisk glare. It was a story of a truly modern type, which, so to speak, began at the end and worked slowly but surely back to the beginning. It was by no means certain, too, what the heroine did, or why she did it; and if one had been sceptically minded, one would have doubted whether the author knew herself. Hope was puzzled, Madge engrossed and curious; Philippa was frankly bored. Her own nature was straightforward and outspoken, and she had no patience with what seemed to be wilful obtuseness. Her attention waned as a Martha-like anxiety seized her in its grip; her eyes wandered to the clock, and her brow grew furrowed. Alas for the trials of the author in the household! At the very moment when Theo was preparing to deliver the crucial sentence on which hung the whole construction of the plot—in that thrilling moment wherein she paused and drew breath, the better to deliver it with due emphasis and dramatic effect—an anxious voice claimed precedence and cried loudly:
“Hope! It’s after five. Did you remember to order the fish?”
It was too much for flesh and blood to endure. Up bounced Theo; down dashed the MS on the table; bang went the door after her departing figure as she fled to her bedroom for refuge, while the two younger sisters stared across the room with eyes large with reproach.
“Phil, how could you? How cruel! At the most exciting point! How could you do it?”
“I’m sorry,” said Philippa; and she really looked it. “I didn’t mean to vex her; but Steve will be home in less than an hour, and there is only cold meat. I was so anxious about the fish. Was there much more to read? You might finish it, and then we can tell her what we think of it. I don’t like it; do you?”
“It’s clever,” said Madge decidedly. “It’s atrociously clever. I’m dying to know how it ends.”
But when the MS was finished Madge’s curiosity remained unsatisfied, for what happened to the heroine was as uncertain as everything else in her career.
Theo did not make her appearance again until dinner was on the table, when she came into the room with her head in the air and her lip curled in disdain. “I have to live with these poor, grovelling worms, but at least I need not associate with them!” So said her expression as plainly as words could speak. She had, however, reckoned without her sense of humour, which, fortunately for her readers, was particularly acute; and no sooner was the cover removed from the belated fish than her lips began to twitch and her eyes to twinkle. Her cheeks grew red, her shoulders heaved, and finally out came a great burst of laughter; and there she sat, rocking to and fro in her chair, gasping out short, strangled sentences, with her hands gripped convulsively over her heart.
“Oh-h! Oh! Have you ordered the fish? The fish! Oh, a prophet—is not a prophet—Fish! Oh!”
“Might make a joke somehow about fish and Jonah, mightn’t you?” said Madge, laughing, scarcely less heartily, in the relief of seeing Theo’s descent from her high horse. “I can’t quite see how it is to be done, but it has possibilities. I finished reading your story, my dear, and I feel inclined to shake you. Why couldn’t you make a happy ending while you were about it?”
“Too commonplace!” said the author scornfully. “You didn’t expect me to make them ‘live happily ever after,’ did you? I haven’t quite descended to that, I hope. Well, what do you think of it?”
“I don’t like it nearly so well as some of your others. I was sorry that I interrupted you, dear; but I am afraid it was because I didn’t like it,” confessed Philippa honestly. “I loved that pretty little story about the poor governess and the rich lover who came home from Australia. Do send that to Mr Hammond; it is really very much nicer.”
“Nicer!” repeated Theo. “Pretty!” Her voice rang with an incredulous disdain. “I want something strong and powerful. Hope, what do you think? Don’t you like it either?”
Hope wrinkled her brows, and looked puzzled and distressed.
“I can’t decide. It’s so queer! Does it really mean that she marries him in the end, or that she refuses him because she loves him? I keep thinking and thinking, and it is so confusing.”
“It is the most maddening story I ever read,” chimed in Madge decisively, “for it tells you nothing that you want to know, and it makes you want to know so much that you can hardly live for suspense. You ought to hate that exasperating girl, and yet you feel that life is not worth living without her. I will say for you, my dear, that you have achieved the most worrying, unsatisfactory muddle I can possibly imagine. I believe I shall dream of it to-night.”
“Hurrah!” cried Theo—“hurrah!” and she tossed her bread in the air, and caught it again with a wave of triumph. “I am pleased! I won’t alter a single word, but will send it off to-night. If Hope keeps worrying about it while she is awake, and Madge dreams of it while she is asleep, I don’t want any higher praise. Never mind if the impression is painful; it is an impression, and that’s the great object of story-telling. Thank you both. I’m so relieved.”
“Humph!” muttered Philippa shortly, and added something under her breath about “executions making a painful impression, if you come to that;” which the others judiciously affected not to hear. Phil had her own grievance by this time, for it is not pleasant to have one’s criticisms overlooked as beneath consideration, and to be calmly ignored by artistic striplings as a good, commonplace creature who cannot be expected to rise to the intellectual level of her companions. Like all housekeepers, Philippa experienced moments of weariness and revolt against the everlasting “trivial round”—moments of longing for a more interesting life-work—and at such times the attitude of her younger sisters made her lot doubly hard. She struggled against the temptation to say something sharp and cutting, and Stephen, watching her face from the other end of the table, divined the hidden thoughts. He was not a brilliant nor, to outsiders, a particularly interesting young fellow, but just one of those kindly, single-hearted men who are born to make some woman’s life safe and happy; and as, so far, Philippa was his lady-love, he could not rest while that shadow was on her brow. Before they went to bed he made an excuse to call her into the dining-room, and to lead the conversation in such a direction as would invite her to give him her confidence.
“It is a little hard, isn’t it?” she said wistfully. “You saw how Theo ignored my criticism, and the others never even seemed to notice. I work for them all day long, keeping the house comfortable and mending their things, to set them free for their own work, and I am only despised for it. It makes me mad, Steve; and, worse still, it makes me sad.”
“Poor old girl!” said Stephen softly. He leant his elbows on the mantelpiece and ruffled his hair nervously. If Philippa had been his wife he would have taken her in his arms and spoken all that was in his heart, but a man feels an embarrassment in “letting himself go” before a sister not known in the nearer and dearer relationship. He wanted to say that the woman who makes a home has achieved a greater and nobler work than the one who produces a mere book or picture, and that in his eyes at least she is first and best. But he had a horror of appearing sentimental, and what he really said was: “Horribly bad form! Upsetting young cubs! They will get a little of the starch knocked out of them when they find what a poor place they take among the rest.”
“Oh, I don’t want that! I want them to succeed,” cried Philippa quickly; and then she began to laugh and to look herself once more. “We are like a nice, prosaic old father and mother, Steve, whose children are so alarmingly clever that we are half-afraid of them. I am glad you are ordinary like myself. You wouldn’t be half such a strength to me if you were a genius too.”
“Poor old girl!” said Stephen again, and let his hand drop on her shoulder with a helpful grip. He did not say that she could trust him to stand by her always, and to uphold her in every difficulty, but she understood the unspoken promise, and went to bed soothed and comforted.
Theo’s MS was posted to Mr Hammond, and in due course an answer was received containing no reference to the story, but simply naming an hour for the proposed interview. The young author tried to read signs of increased deference and respect for her attainments between the lines, but even her optimism failed in the attempt. She grew nervous as the time approached, and looked decidedly pale as she partook of a strengthening cup of cocoa before dressing for the important expedition.
“What are you going to wear?” Madge inquired, and the author curled her lip in disdain.
“My dear, how ridiculous! As if it mattered! Do you suppose for one moment that it will make any difference to Mr Hammond whether I look charming or a perfect fright! Are you so innocent as to believe that he would accept a story that he didn’t like from the greatest beauty on earth?”
“Humph!” said Madge reflectively. “The heart of man is desperately wicked! Not that story, perhaps, but he would be much more willing to look at another. Take my advice and put on your toque. A girl never loses anything by making herself attractive when dealing with a man. I have never met any editors, but I have reason to suppose that they are not different from the rest of mankind.”
“Nineteen, and country-bred! Where did your worldly wisdom come from, my dear?” cried Theo, holding up her hands in astonishment. But she wore her toque all the same, and took off her veil three times over because one little curl refused to lie exactly in the right place. She desired, above all things, to arouse Mr Hammond’s interest and sympathy.
The first visit to a publisher’s office! It was a nervous occasion, and Theo walked once, twice, thrice past the dreaded door before summoning courage to enter. A board on the wall informed her that she must mount to the third story, so she raised her skirts, ascended a narrow and not too clean staircase, and stood outside a door labelled “Office,” wondering what to do next. Neither knocker nor bell was to be seen; what, then, was she to do? If she tapped on the pane and waited for the door to be opened, she would appear humble and amateurish; if she entered unannounced, it would seem bold and presumptuous. She determined to err rather on the side of overrating her own importance, hoping thereby to prove the truth of the old adage; so, turning the handle with a firm hand, she walked into the office, and found herself confronted by—a small and shabby boy, perched on a high stool!
All this fuss about a child! Theo’s indignation lent an added haughtiness to her manner as she demanded to see the editor of the Casket, and Jack-in-office stared at her curiously, up and down, down and up, before he replied. His expression seemed to imply that he had seen her like before, and that he more than suspected a MS tied with blue ribbon was hidden skilfully beneath her coat.
“Have you an appointment?” he asked severely; and though Theo affected a smile of superiority, she felt an inward conviction that without that same appointment she would have been compelled to make her way to Mr Hammond’s presence over the dead body of his vassal. As it was, he carried away her card, and came back almost immediately to escort her to the editor’s room, where he pointed to a chair, and remarked encouragingly that Mr Hammond would be disengaged in a few minutes’ time.
Theo threw a glance at her reflection in a dusty mirror, and seated herself with much the same tremulous sinking of heart as that with which she was accustomed to settle herself in the dentist’s chair. On the desk before her lay a litter of papers and proofs; her eye fell absently on the slip nearest to herself, and lightened into eager interest. Here was a treat indeed, for what she saw was the next month’s instalment of a powerful serial as to the termination of which the sisters had frequently and hotly debated. A sentence here, a sentence there, gave the needed clues, and she smiled with mischievous delight at the advantage she had gained. That evening she would lead the conversation to the Count and his lady, and would give graphic prophecies of the next stage in their adventures. Even the conversations she would foretell, so that when the new number arrived her character of wizard would be fully established. The interesting prospect dispelled her nervousness, and she was smiling to herself in bright, natural fashion when the door opened and Mr Hammond appeared.
The editor was short and dark, middle-aged, and carelessly dressed; an undignified little figure, on whom the literary aspirant looked with instant lightening of heart. “I’m not afraid of him,” she told herself; but the thought was no sooner formed than revoked; for Mr Hammond spoke, and at the first sound of his voice he became aloof, formidable—a personage! He greeted the girl kindly enough, but Theo felt strangely humbled as she faced him, and realised with painful clearness that she was a girl, a tyro, and that this man was accustomed to associate with the master-minds of his day. Her complacency about the “worrying” story fell from her like a cloak, and she awaited his verdict with sickening suspense.
“It is kind of you to see me; I know you are very busy. I sent you a MS, as you asked for one. I suppose you—received it?”
“Yes.” Mr Hammond’s face gave no clue as to his opinion of the masterpiece in question. “I am pleased to see you, and to give you any help in my power. As I said in my note, I had a great admiration for your father. And so you have determined to settle in town and enter the great arena?”
“Yes. We are very poor, and must work for ourselves. I have been writing for my own amusement ever since I was a child, and if it were possible to make a livelihood in that way I should like it better than anything else. I would rather live on half the money and do the work I love.”
She looked appealingly at the impassive face, but no approval of her prospective renunciation was forthcoming. Mr Hammond merely bent his head in grave assent and remarked:
“Literature is a good crutch, but a very inefficient staff. If you have no private means, and are seeking for a profession which is to be your entire support, you would be wiser to go in for millinery. Brain-work is uncertain, trying, and badly paid. Even at the best an author’s spell of popularity is short-lived in these degenerate days. A new writer comes along with a fresh trick, and the old friend is promptly forgotten and despised. For the sake of L.S.D. he is compelled to write twice as much as he ought to do, and so dooms himself even more completely. In millinery, I should suppose, experience adds to capacity, and the demand for bonnets is a happy certainty.”
This time it was the editor who smiled and Theo who was unresponsive. She was deeply offended, and hope had sunk to the lowest ebb. Surely if Mr Hammond had found any merit in her story he would not have humiliated her by such a suggestion. She lowered her eyes, and trifled nervously with her furs.
“Then you think—after reading my story—you think I have no chance?”
“No; I don’t say that. That depends entirely upon—”
“Yes?”
Mr Hammond looked at her with a kindly pity. “Upon how much heart-breaking you can stand!” he said solemnly. “The apprenticeship which you will have to serve is weeks, months—it may be even years—of steady, persistent, unsuccessful work; weary disappointment after weary disappointment; nothing to show for your labour but a drawer full of dog-eared papers which nobody will accept. Realise what it means, and ask yourself if you have strength to bear it; if you have sufficient courage and self-confidence to work on undaunted, and find fresh inspiration in the midst of defeat.”
He looked at her gravely, and Theo lifted her head and returned the look with flashing eyes.
“If I had the prospect of success in the end—yes! a hundred times, yes! I am not a child. I don’t expect to make a name in a day. You can judge better than I. Is there a chance for me if I work hard? Have I a gift which is worth cultivating? You promised to tell me the truth, and I ask it of you now.”
Then for the first time Mr Hammond gave a hint of encouragement. He smiled whimsically, as at an amusing recollection, and studied the girl’s face with a new interest.
“Oh yes; you have the faculty. It is there; there is no doubt it is there. I read your story, and with all its faults it escapes the two unpardonable crimes—it is neither dull nor commonplace. I don’t pretend to say that you will be a great writer, but when you have learned your trade you will probably be able to place your stories with little difficulty. Study style; study the best masters; don’t think any time wasted that is given to cultivating pure, forcible English. Study the people around you, and write of what you know, not of what you imagine. It is difficult to describe an emotion which one has never felt, or a life in which one has no part. Study the magazines also, and note what style is adopted by each, the length of story taken, and so on. These things are but the technicalities of the profession, but the mastery of them will save you needless disappointments. When a MS is returned for the sixth time, put it away for a month, then read it over in a critical spirit, and try to discover wherein the fault lies. A little altering and rewriting may make it a marketable article.”
“Y-es,” said Theo faintly. That “sixth time” fell sadly on her ear, for it was one thing to assert that she did not expect to win in a day, and quite another to hear repeated failure predicted in that cool, unemotional fashion. She wondered if Mr Hammond would refer to her story in any more definite fashion, and seeing that he began to play with the papers on his desk, as if to intimate that the “five minutes” were drawing to a close, she summoned courage to put a direct question.
“And the MS that I sent you, Mr Hammond—was it pretty good? Do you think it suitable for—er—for—”
Her courage failed as he looked up in grave inquiry, and she dared not say “the Casket,” as she had intended; but Mr Hammond finished her sentence, as if he had not divined the unspoken word.
“Publication! There would be no harm in trying. I have read many less interesting stories, though it bears the mark of inexperience. Try some of the smaller papers, like the Companion; and, if necessary, cut it down to their length. I have it here in this drawer, I think. Yes—thank you. Pleased to have seen you.”
Theo rose to her feet a-smart with mortification. To be recommended to the Companion, and advised to cut down her masterpiece for the approval of its twopenny-halfpenny editor, was humiliation indeed for the would-be contributor to the Casket. She followed Mr Hammond to the door, and held out her hand in silence, her only desire being to end the painful interview at once. But the smitten look on the young face, the sudden collapse of the former audacious complacency, were too marked to pass unnoticed. The editor looked at her, and recalled his own youth, when a kind word was as a magic wand, and a harsh one shut the door so hopelessly against a cherished dream. He gave her hand an encouraging pressure.
“You have the stuff in you; you have the stuff! Work hard, and when you have served your apprenticeship come back to me, and I’ll help you all I can. Send me one MS in three months—one, remember. If you send more I sha’n’t read them. When one is accepted you will have reached the first rung of the ladder. No, don’t thank me! I will accept nothing from you, nor from any one else, that does not deserve a place on its own merits. Good-morning.”
His eyes fell on the roll of paper in her hand, and he pointed to it with an outstretched finger.
“Don’t—er—don’t overdo it,” he said meaningly. “Don’t try to be too clever.”
Then the door shut, and Theo groped her way down the stairs. Her cheeks were crimson; she beat the banisters savagely with the paper roll. Jack-in-office looked out of his open door and grinned to himself in amused understanding. He had seen “them” look like that before.