“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.