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CHAPTER LXXXVII
“Good morning, Mr. Ellet!” said Mr. Jones, making an attempt at a bow, which the stiffness of his shirt-collar rendered entirely abortive; “how d’ye do?”
“Oh, how are you, Mr. Jones? I was just looking over the Household Messenger here, reading my daughter ‘Floy’s’ pieces, and thinking what a great thing it is for a child to have a good father. ‘Floy’ was carefully brought up and instructed, and this, you see, is the result. I have been reading several of her pieces to a clergyman, who was in here just now, I keep them on hand in my pocket-book, to exhibit as a proof of what early parental education and guidance may do in developing latent talent, and giving the mind a right direction.”
“I was not aware ‘Floy’ was your daughter,” replied Mr. Jones; “do you know what time she commenced writing? what was the title of her first article and what was her remuneration?”
“Sir?” said Mr. Ellet, wishing to gain a little time, and looking very confused.
“Perhaps I should not ask such questions,” said the innocent Mr. Jones, mistaking the cause of Mr. Ellet’s hesitation; “but I felt a little curiosity to know something of her early progress. What a strong desire you must have felt for her ultimate success; and how much your influence and sympathy must have assisted her. Do you know whether her remuneration at the commencement of her career as a writer, was above the ordinary average of pay?”
“Yes – no – really, Mr. Jones, I will not venture to say, lest I should make a mistake; my memory is apt to be so treacherous.”
“She wrote merely for amusement, I suppose; there could be no necessity in your daughter’s case,” said the blundering Mr. Jones.
“Certainly not,” replied Mr. Ellet.
“It is astonishing how she can write so feelingly about the poor,” said Mr. Jones; “it is so seldom that an author succeeds in depicting truthfully those scenes for which he draws solely upon the imagination.”
“My daughter, ‘Floy,’ has a very vivid imagination,” replied Mr. Ellet, nervously. “Women generally have, I believe; they are said to excel our sex in word-painting.”
“I don’t know but it may be so,” said Jones. “‘Floy’ certainly possesses it in an uncommon degree. It is difficult else to imagine, as I said before, how a person, who has always been surrounded with comfort and luxury, could describe so feelingly the other side of the picture. It is remarkable. Do you know how much she has realized by her writings?”
“There, again,” said the disturbed Mr. Ellet, “my memory is at fault; I am not good at statistics.”
“Some thousands, I suppose,” replied Mr. Jones. “Well, how true it is, that ‘to him who hath shall be given!’ Now, here is your literary daughter, who has no need of money, realizes a fortune by her books, while many a destitute and talented writer starves on a crust.”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Ellet, “the ways of Providence are inscrutable.”
CHAPTER LXXXVIII
“Female literature seems to be all the rage now,” remarked a gentleman, who was turning over the volumes in Mr. Develin’s book store, No. 6 Literary Row. “Who are your most successful lady authors?”
“Miss Pyne,” said Mr. Develin, “authoress of ‘Shadows,’ Miss Taft, authoress of ‘Sunbeams,’ and Miss Bitman, authoress of ‘Fairyland.’”
“I have been told,” said the gentleman, “that ‘Life Sketches,’ by ‘Floy,’ has had an immense sale – a larger one, in fact, than any of the others; is that so?”
“It has had a tolerable sale,” answered Mr. Develin, coldly. “I might have published it, I suppose, had I applied; but I had a very indifferent opinion of the literary talent of the authoress. The little popularity it has had, is undoubtedly owing to the writer being a sister of Hyacinth Ellet, the Editor of ‘The Irving Magazine.’”
“But is she his sister,” said the gentleman; “there are many rumors afloat; one hardly knows what to believe.”
“No doubt of it,” said Mr. Develin; “in fact, I, myself, know it to be true. ‘Floy’ is his sister; and it is altogether owing to the transferring of her articles, by him, to the columns of his paper, and his liberal endorsement of them, that she has had any success.”
“Indeed,” said the gentleman; “why I was a subscriber both for ‘The Standard,’ when her first article appeared in it, and also for ‘The Irving Magazine,’ and I am very sure that nothing of hers was copied in the latter until she had acquired an enviable popularity all over the Union. No, sir,” said Mr. Walter, (for it was he,) “I know a great deal more about ‘Floy’ and her writings than you can tell me, and some little about yourself. I have often heard of the version you give of this matter, and I came in to satisfy myself if it had been correctly reported to me. Now, allow me to set you right, sir,” said he, with a stern look. “The Editor of ‘The Irving Magazine’ never recognized ‘Floy’ as his sister, till the universal popular voice had pronounced its verdict in her favor. Then, when the steam was up, and the locomotive whizzing past, he jumps on, and says, ‘how fast we go!’”
“I think you are mistaken, sir,” replied Mr. Develin, with a faint attempt to retain his position.
“I am not mistaken, sir; I know, personally, that in the commencement of her literary career, when one or two articles of hers were copied into his paper by an assistant in the office, he positively forbade her nom de plume being again mentioned, or another of her articles copied into the Irving Magazine. He is a miserable time-server, sir. Fashion is his God; he recognizes only the drawing-room side of human nature. Sorrow in satin he can sympathize with, but sorrow in rags is too plebeian for his exquisite organization.
“Good morning, Mr. Develin; good morning, sir. The next time I hear of your giving a version of this matter, I trust it will be a correct one,” added he with a stern look.
“Well,” exclaimed Mr. Walter, as he walked down street, “of all mean meanness of which a man can be guilty, the meanest, in my estimation, is to rob a woman of her justly-earned literary fame, and I wish, for the credit of human nature, it were confined to persons of as limited mental endowments and influence as the one I have just left.”
CHAPTER LXXXIX
“Oh, how frightened I was!” exclaimed Nettie, as her mother applied some healing salve to a slight burn on her arm; “how frightened I was, at that fire!”
“You mean, how frightened you were after the fire,” replied her mother, smiling; “you were so bewildered, waking up out of that sound sleep, that I fancy you did not understand much about the danger till after good Johnny Galt saved you.”
“If I did not love Neddy so much, I should certainly give Johnny Galt my picture,” said Nettie, with a sudden outburst of enthusiasm.
“I will see that Johnny Galt is rewarded,” replied Ruth. “But this is the day Mr. Walter was to have come. I hope Johnny Galt will meet him at the Dépôt as he promised, else he will be so alarmed about our safety when he learns of the fire. Dear me! how the rain comes down, it looks as though it meant to persevere.”
“Yes, and pour-severe too,” said Nettie, with an arch look at her mother.
Katy and Ruth had not finished laughing at this sally, when Mr. Walter was announced.
His greeting was grave, for he trembled to think of the danger they had escaped. After mutual congratulations had been exchanged, a detailed account of their escape given, and Johnny Galt’s heroism duly extolled, Mr. Walter said:
“Well, I am glad to find you so comfortably housed after the fire; but the sooner I take all of you under my charge, the better, I think. What do you say to starting for – to-morrow? Are you sufficiently recovered from your fright and fatigue?”
“Oh, yes,” replied Ruth, laughing; “do we not look as good as new? Our wardrobe, to be sure, is in rather a slender condition; but that is much easier remedied than a slender purse, as I have good reason to know.”
“Very well, then,” said Mr. Walter; “it is understood that we go to-morrow. I have some business to look after in the morning; shall you object to waiting till after dinner?”
“Not at all,” replied Ruth. “In my opinion nothing can equal the forlornness of forsaking a warm bed, to start breakfastless on a journey, with one’s eyes half open.”
“‘Floy,’” said Mr. Walter, taking a package from his pocket, “I have obeyed your directions, and here is something which you may well be proud of;” and he handed Ruth a paper. It ran thus:
“There,” said Mr. Walter, laughing, “imagine yourself, if you can, in that dismal attic one year ago, a bank-stock holder! Now confess that you are proud of yourself.”
“We are proud of her,” said the talkative Nettie; “if she is not proud of herself. Don’t you think it is too bad, Mr. Walter, that mamma won’t let Katy and me tell that ‘Floy’ is our mother? A little girl who lived at the hotel that was burnt up, said to Katy, that her uncle had just given her Life Sketches for a birth-day present, and told her that she must try and write as well as ‘Floy’ one of these days; and Katy looked at me, and I looked at Katy; and oh, isn’t it too bad, Mr. Walter, that mamma won’t let us tell, when we want to so much?”
“Well,” said Mr. Walter, laughing, “I have only one little remark to make about that, namely, I have no doubt you two young ladies discovered some time before I did, that when your mamma says No, there is an end to all argument.”
CHAPTER XC
The morning of the next day was bright and fair. After dinner our travelling party entered the carriage in waiting, and proceeded on their way; the children chattering as usual, like little magpies, and Ruth and Mr. Walter occupied with their own solitary reflections.
One of the greatest luxuries of true friendship is the perfect freedom one feels, irrespective of the presence of another, to indulge in the mood of the moment – whether that mood be grave or gay, taciturn or loquacious, the unspeakable deliciousness of being reprieved from talking at a mark, hampered by no fear of incivility or discourtesy. Ruth had found this a great charm in the society of Mr. Walter, who seemed perfectly to understand and sympathize with her varied moods. On the present occasion she particularly felt its value – oppressed as she was by the rush of thoughts, retrospective and anticipatory – standing as it were on the threshold of a new epoch in her changing existence.
“Where are we going, mother?” asked Katy, as the carriage passed through a stone-gateway, and down a dim avenue of ancient trees.
“To dear papa’s grave,” replied Ruth, “before we leave this part of the country.”
“Yes!” murmured Katy, in a low whisper.
It was very beautiful, that old avenue of pine trees, through which the setting sun was struggling faintly, now resting like a halo on some moss-grown grave-stone, now gilding some more ambitious monument of Mammon’s raising. The winding cemetery paths, thronged by day with careless feet, were silent now. No lightsome laughter echoed through those leafy dells, grating upon the ear which almost listened for the loved voice. No strange eye, with curious gaze, followed the thoughtful group, speculating upon their heart’s hidden history; but, now and then, a little loitering bird, tempted beyond its mate to lengthen its evening flight, flitted, with a brief gush of song, across their pathway. Hushed, holy, and unprofaned, was this Sabbath of the dead! Aching hearts here throbbed with pain no longer; weary feet were still; busy hands lay idly crossed over tired breasts; babes, who had poised one tiny foot on life’s turbid ocean brink, then shrank back affrighted at its surging waves, here slept their peaceful sleep.
The moon had silvered the old chapel turrets, and the little nodding flowers glistened with dew-drops, but still Ruth lingered. Old memories were thronging, thick and fast, upon her; – past joys – past sorrows – past sufferings; – and yet the heart, which felt them all so keenly, would soon lie pulseless amid these mouldering thousands. There was a vacant place left by the side of Harry. Ruth’s eye rested on it – then on her children – then on Mr. Walter.
“So help me God,” reverently murmured the latter, interpreting the mute appeal.
As the carriage rolled from under the old stone gateway, a little bird, startled from out its leafy nest, trilled forth a song as sweet and clear as the lark’s at heaven’s own blessed gate.
“Accept the omen, dear Ruth,” said Mr. Walter. “Life has much of harmony yet in store for you.”
