“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.