Ruth Hall Part 34

"But I don't admire it," said the old lady, growing every moment more confused; "there are several things in it, now I think of them, which I consider highly immoral. I think I mentioned them to you, Mrs. Spear,"

said she, (trusting to that lady's defective memory,) "at the time I lent it to you."

"Oh no, you didn't," replied Mrs. Spear; "you said it was one of the best and most interesting books you ever read, else I should not have borrowed it. I am very particular what I put in my children's way."

"Well, I couldn't have been thinking of what I was saying," said the old lady; "the book is very silly, a great part of it, beside being very bold, for a woman, and as I said before, really immoral."

"It is highly recommended by the religious press," said Mr. Dana, infinitely amused at the old lady's sudden change of opinion.

"You can't tell," said the old lady; "I have no doubt she wrote those notices herself."

"She has made an ample fortune, at any rate," said the young man; "more than I ever expect to make, if I should scribble till dooms-day."

"Don't believe it," said the old lady, fidgeting in her chair; "or, if she has, it won't last long."

"In that case she has only to write another book," said the persistent Mr. Dana; "her books will always find a ready market."

"We shall see," said the old lady bridling; "it is my opinion she'll go out like the wick of a candle. People won't read a second edition of such trash. Ruth Hall 'Floy'? Humph! that accounts,--humph! Well, anyhow, if she _has_ made money, she had her nose held to the grindstone pretty well first; that's one comfort. _She_ 'Floy'? Humph! That accounts. Well, sometimes money is given for a curse; I've heern tell of such things.

"--Yes, yes; I've heern tell of such things," muttered the old lady, patting her foot, as her two visitors left. "Dreadful grand, Ruth--'Floy' feels now, I suppose. A sight of money she's made, has she? A great deal she knows how to invest it. Invest it! What's the use of talking about that? It will be invested on her back, in silk gowns, laces, frumpery, and such things. I haven't a silk gown in the world.

The least she could do, would be to send me one, for the care of that child.

"--Yes, laces and feathers, feathers and laces. The children, too, all tricked but like little monkeys, with long ostrich legs, and short, bob-tailed skirts standing out like opery girls, and whole yards of ribbin streaming from their hair, I'll warrant. The Catechize clean driven out of Katy's head. Shouldn't be at all astonished if they went to dancing school, or any other immoral place.

"--Wonder where they'll live? In some grand hotel, of course; dinner at six o'clock, black servants, gold salt-cellars and finger-gla.s.ses; nothing short of that'll suit now; humph. Shouldn't be astonished any day to hear Ruth kept a carriage and servants in livery, or had been to Victory's Court in lappets and diamonds. She's just impudent enough to do it. She isn't afraid of anybody nor anything. Dare say she will marry some Count or Duke; she has no more principle.

"--Humph! I suppose she is crowing well over me. V-e-r-y w-e-l-l; the wheel may turn round again, who knows? In fact, I am sure of it. How glad I _should_ be! Well, I must say, I didn't think she had so much perseverance. I expected she'd just sit down, after awhile, and fret herself to death, and be well out of the way.

"--'Floy'! humph. I suppose I shan't take up a newspaper now without getting a dose about her. I dare say that spiteful young Dana will call here again just to rile me up by praising her. What a fool I was to get taken in so about that book. But how should I know it was hers? I should as soon have thought of her turning out Mrs. Bonaparte, as an auth.o.r.ess.

Auth.o.r.ess! Humph! Wonder how the heels of her stockings look? S'pose she wears silk ones now, and French shoes; she was always as proud as Lucifer of her foot.

"--Well, I must say, (as long as there's n.o.body here to hear me,) that she _beats all_. Humph! She'll collapse, though; there's no doubt of _that_. I've heard of balloons that alighted in mud-puddles."

CHAPTER Lx.x.xVII.

"Good morning, Mr. Ellet!" said Mr. Jones, making an attempt at a bow, which the stiffness of his s.h.i.+rt-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 t.i.tle of her first article and what was her remuneration?"

"Sir?" said Mr. Ellet, wis.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sisted 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 amus.e.m.e.nt, I suppose; there could be no _necessity_ in _your_ daughter's case," said the blundering Mr. Jones.

"Certainly not," replied Mr. Ellet.

"It is astonis.h.i.+ng 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 s.e.x 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 dest.i.tute and talented writer starves on a crust."

"Yes," replied Mr. Ellet, "the ways of Providence are inscrutable."

CHAPTER Lx.x.xVIII.

"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, "auth.o.r.ess of 'Shadows,' Miss Taft, auth.o.r.ess of 'Sunbeams,' and Miss Bitman, auth.o.r.ess 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 auth.o.r.ess. 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 endors.e.m.e.nt 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 a.s.sistant 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. Fas.h.i.+on is his G.o.d; 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."