"WAS MY STORY TOO BOLD?"
"Well, Millie, your letter has come," said Mr. Wilton Fern, as he
entered the parlor of his pleasant residence, situated about twenty
miles from the limits of New York City. "Open it as quick as you can,
and learn your fate."
His daughter started nervously from her seat near the window, where she
had been spending the previous hour in speculations regarding the very
missive that was now placed in her hands. She was a handsome girl,
neither blonde nor brunette, with eyes of hazel gray and hair of that
color that moderns call Titian red. She took the envelope that her
father gave her, and though she wanted intensely to know the contents
she hesitated to open it.
"Read it, Millie," smiled Mr. Fern. "Let us learn whether we have an
authoress in our house who is destined to become famous."
But this remark made Miss Millicent less willing than before to open the
letter in her father's presence. She slowly left the room without
answering and did not break the seal of her communication till she was
in the seclusion of her chamber.
And it was quite a while, even then, before she summoned the necessary
courage. Some days previous she had sent a MSS. to the great publishing
house of Cutt & Slashem. The writing had taken up the best of her time
for a year. She had high hopes that it was destined to lay the
foundation of an artistic success. Her plot was novel, not to say
startling. It was entirely out of the conventional order. It would be
certain to arouse talk and provoke comment, if it got into print; and to
make sure that it _would_ get into print she had persuaded her father to
write a little note, which she enclosed with the MSS., saying that he
would pay a cash bonus, if the firm demanded it, to guarantee them
against possible loss.
With this note in her mind, Miss Millicent had felt little doubt that
her story would be accepted and printed. She only wondered how warmly
they would praise her work. It was not enough to have them print it; she
wanted something to justify her in saying to her father, "There, you see
I was not wrong after all in thinking I could have a literary career!"
At last the envelope was removed, and the girl's astonished eyes lit
upon this cold, dry statement:
"Messrs. Cutt & Slashem regret to be obliged to decline
with thanks the MSS. of Miss M. Fern, and request to be
informed what disposition she desires made of the same."
Millicent felt a ringing in her ears. Her hands grew clammy. A dull pain
pressed on her forehead. She felt a faintness, a sinking at the heart.
Was it possible she had read aright? Rejected, in this cruel way,
without even a reference to her father's offer! It was atrocious, and,
girl-like, she burst into a spasm of weeping.
How could she ever face her father? The sacrifices she had made came
back to her, sacrifices of which she had thought little at the time, but
which now seemed gigantic. There had been nights when she had not gone
to bed till three, other nights when she had been too full of her
subject to sleep and had risen in the small hours to finish some
particularly interesting chapter. Twelve hundred pages there were in
all, note size, in her large, round, almost masculine hand. And this
time was all lost! She had mistaken her vocation. The greatest
publishing house in the country had decided against her.
Gradually she dried her eyes. It would do no good to weep. She read the
curt answer that had come in the mail, a dozen times. Why could not the
firm have sent her a reason, an excuse that meant something? She wanted
to know wherein her fault lay. It might be possible to correct it.
Perhaps the state of business was to blame. The more she thought, the
more determined she grew to investigate this strange affair, and within
an hour she had donned her street clothes and started, without saying
anything to the rest of the household of her intention, for the office
of Cutt & Slashem in the city.
She knew that each large concern had one or more "readers," on whose
judgment they relied in such matters. She, therefore, paused only long
enough at the counting-room to get directed to Mr. Gouger. Her knock on
the critic's door brought forth a loud "Come in," and as she entered she
saw two men standing with hats in their hand, as if about to take their
departure.
"I beg your pardon," she said, "but I wish to see Mr. Gouger."
"That is my name," responded one of the men, stepping forward.
"I am Miss Fern."
Mr. Gouger did not seem very glad to hear it. The hour of one had just
struck, and he was about to go to his lunch. He recognized the girl's
name, as that of the author of the MSS. he had criticized so severely to
his friend, Weil, who was, by-the-way, the third person in the room at
this moment. Had she sent up her card, as is usual with women, he would
have avoided seeing her at any hazard.
Mr. Weil took a long survey of the young lady, and then retired to the
vicinity of the front windows. He pretended to interest himself in the
rush of traffic that was going on in the street below, but he missed
nothing of what was said, and stole from time to time a glance at his
two companions, particularly the younger one.
"A mighty pretty girl," was his mental comment. "I hope Lawrence isn't
going to be nasty with her."
Mr. Gouger motioned Miss Fern rather stiffly to a seat.
"I do not wish to detain you," she said, with feminine inconsistency, as
she accepted it. "I only want to know, if you will be so kind as to tell
me, what is the trouble with my story."
The critic was pleased at one thing. Miss Fern's voice was reasonably
clear. She had finished her weeping at home. There was to be no scene,
something he dreaded, and in the course of his connection with this
house he had experienced scores of them. He inspected his caller
critically in the few seconds that elapsed while she was asking this
question, and when she paused he decided to answer her with as much of
the truth as he dared use.
"The fact is," he began, "a firm like ours is unable to use more than
one novel out of fifty that is submitted to it. Of our friends who send
us manuscripts, the vast majority must, therefore, be disappointed. Now,
your story--shall I be frank?"
"By all means," answered Miss Fern.
"Your story, though written with spirit and power, needs a great deal of
revision from a--from a rhetorical standpoint. It is, in fact,
carelessly put together. That is a cardinal fault in a literary
production, and one for which no amount of talent, or even of genius,
can compensate."
The girl listened with deep interest. She tried to think where the
blemishes alluded to could be, for she had read the story twenty times.
To say nothing of several girl friends, who had listened with evident
wonder and delight, to various parts of the tale, as it progressed.
"If that is true," answered Miss Fern, slowly--, "could not the trouble
be remedied by sending the MSS. to some very competent person and having
the errors made right?"
Mr. Gouger smiled.
"Hardly," he said. "A novel is like a painting. The _ensemble_--do you
understand?--is the thing. Can you conceive a painting being 'done
over'? Your book would lose its quality if subjected to that process."
A look of discouragement crossed the features of the young woman.
"Of course, you know best," she stammered. "What would you advise
me--try again?"
Mr. Gouger raised both his hands.
"It is difficult to say, in such a case," he replied. "But--if you want
my best opinion--"
"That is just what I want," said the girl, with ill-concealed
impatience.
"You are not dependent upon your exertions, I suppose, for a living?"
Millicent shook her head, almost sorry at the moment that she could not
reply in the affirmative.
"Then--I should give up the idea of being an authoress."
This was very unpalatable medicine, and the critic realized it as he
looked at the sombre face before him.
"Is your rejection of my story based at all," asked Miss Fern, after a
pause, "on the--boldness of its subject?"
Mr. Gouger smiled again.
"We publish the works of Hall Caine and George Moore," he said. "I
should not consider your story overbold, if there was nothing else
against it. It is a wonder to me, and always will be, why such young
girls as you choose _risque_ themes, but if the work is well done the
public will pay for it."
There was a slight blush on Miss Fern's face, partly at the insinuation
and partly at the adverse criticism that had crept thoughtlessly into
the sentence.
"For my part," she explained, "I wanted to write something that would
attract attention--that would put my name prominently before the public
and keep it there. The girls I read it to thought the scenes just
lovely, though some said perhaps their mothers would not feel that way.
And I told them that the mothers of to-day were very old-fashioned, and
that the public taste was changing rapidly. If the story is too bold,
there are things I could cut out of it, but if you say that would make
no difference, I would rather let them stand. I intend to try some other
concern before I give up."
Mr. Archie Weil had abandoned all pretence of looking out the window. He
stood with his eyes fastened on the pretty girl, as she made these
statements in such a matter-of-fact way. He wondered what the dickens
the story was about, and made up his mind that he would try to get
possession of it.
"All the same," responded Mr. Gouger, who had apparently forgotten his
lunch in his growing interest in the conversation, "I don't see where
girls like you obtain such an intimate knowledge of things. You are not
over twenty--excuse me, I am old enough to tell you this without
offence. It is not you alone, but a hundred others who have made me ask
myself this question. As soon as the modern girl gets a bottle of ink
and a pen and begins to let her thoughts flow over paper, it transpires
that she knows everything--more than everything, almost. Why, I was
twenty-five before I was as wise as the heroine of sixteen, in this
story of yours!"
Miss Fern reddened again, all the more because she had glanced up and
encountered the bright eyes of Mr. Weil fixed upon her.
"Why, Archie," pursued the literary man--he turned toward Mr. Weil--"you
remember Lelia Dante, you have seen her here. Five or six years ago I
got a letter from that young girl's mother asking me to come to their
residence and hear a story she had written. It was her first one, and
the child was not a day over seventeen. I couldn't believe it when she
came into the room, with her hair tumbled about her shoulders, and began
to read to me the first chapter of 'Zaros.' 'Did _she_ write that?' I
asked her mother, incredulously. 'Certainly,' she replied. 'Without aid
from any one?' 'Absolutely alone.' My hair stood on end. I could not
keep it down for the next week with a brush. You know the story. We
printed it, and it sold well, and that is all that C. & S. cared about
it; but I never understood how that infant could conceive it. No more
than I can understand your ability to write this story of yours, Miss
Fern," he added, pointedly.
The young woman bridled a little.
"It does not matter much, if you are not going to print it," she said,
raising her eyes to his.
He bowed low to express whatever apology might be necessary.
"I would have accepted it if I could," he said. "My entire life is spent
in reading manuscripts in the hope of discovering one that will make a
hit with the public to whom we cater. When successful I am as pleased as
a South African who fishes a diamond of the first water out of the mine.
Your story, Miss Fern, shows decided talent. You have a greater
knowledge of some of the important things of life, I will wager, than
your grandmother had at eighty, if she lived so long. As I am obliged to
go now, let me add, without mincing matters, that you are very deficient
in English grammar, and that nothing you can write will be acceptable to
any first-class house until that fault is remedied. Are you ready,
Archie?"
Mr. Weil felt indignant. He could not have spoken to any girl as pretty
as this one in such language, and he thought it quite inexcusable on the
part of his friend to do so. Mr. Gouger, though feeling that it was best
to use little circumlocution, had not meant to wound his caller. But
her countenance showed that he _had_ wounded her, and the natural
gallantry of his younger companion came to the rescue.
"I am not ready yet," said Mr. Weil, telegraphing at the same time a
series of signals with his eyes. "I want a few minutes' talk with Miss
Fern, if you will introduce me. I think I can say something she will
like to hear."
Mr. Gouger, who now stood in such a position that Miss Fern could not
see him, shook his head to imply that he did not fancy this arrangement;
but he ended by saying, "Very well." He then abruptly made the
presentation, put on his hat, said good-by, and vanished.
Miss Millicent, who had risen, turned with an air of puzzled inquiry
toward Mr. Weil.
"Be seated again, for a moment," he said, politely. "I want your
permission to read your story."
"Why, I don't know," she answered. "Are you one of the employes of Cutt
& Slashem?"
He smilingly denied the imputation.
"I have not that felicity," he added, "but I am much interested in
things literary, and have a rather wide acquaintance in this line of
business. If I could be allowed to read your MSS. perhaps I should form
a milder opinion of its faults than my unbending friend. And in that
case a word from me, to another house, would certainly do you no harm."
A brighter light came into Miss Millicent's eyes.
"I shall be only too glad to have you read it," she answered. "It is
hard to believe that I have wasted almost a year in something entirely
worthless. You may take it with pleasure."
Mr. Weil went to Mr. Gouger's desk, from which he soon came with the
parcel in question. He untied the string and for a moment his gaze
rested on the handwriting.
"Do you live far from here?" he began; and then added, as he noticed the
address on an enclosed card, "Ah, I see! At Midlands."
She explained herself rather more to him, giving the full address of her
father, and some particulars about the manner in which she had been
drawn into attempting literary work. He listened intently, all the time
engaged in rapid thought.
"The best way for me to get a thoroughly correct impression of this
novel," he said, when she came to a pause, "is to hear you read it
aloud. In that manner," he added, as he saw that she was about to
interrupt, "a hundred meanings would come to the surface that a mere
inspection of the pages might fail to show. Beside, there would be an
opportunity for discussion. If convenient to you I would gladly come to
your residence for this purpose."
The eyes of the young girl brightened. She was greatly pleased at the
idea and said so without delay.
"Very well," said Mr. Weil, more than delighted with the success of his
experiment. "To-day is Tuesday; shall I come for the first time, say,
Thursday evening?"
"That would suit me perfectly; or to-morrow, if you wish. I shall put
aside everything and have my time free for you."
Mr. Weil nodded.
"Let it be Thursday then. And the hour--shall we call it eight?"
The time was promptly agreed to.
"In the meantime, I will take the MSS. and look it over, to form a
general idea of the plot. Here is my card. By-the-way, you will of
course arrange it so that we shall not be interrupted during our
conference. It disturbs anything of that kind to have people coming in
and out. We want to be entirely alone so as to give our full attention
to the work in hand."
Miss Fern smilingly acquiesced, saying that it was exactly what she
would wish.
"And do you think there may be hope for it yet--that poor little
manuscript?" she asked, as she stood by the door ready to take her
departure.
"That is a question I can hardly answer," he replied. "I shall be better
able to tell you in a week or two, I trust."
She lingered, with her hand on the door knob.
"My father is willing to take all the financial risks," she said. "That
ought to make a difference, don't you think so?"
"It would, with many houses," he admitted. "I am glad to know these
things. Thursday, then, Miss--Miss Fern."
He wanted to call her "Millicent," for he had read the name on the
package he still held in his hand; but on the whole he concluded that
this would be a little premature.