It was a sultry morning in July. Ruth had risen early, for her cough
seemed more troublesome in a reclining posture. "I wonder what that
noise can be?" said she to herself; whir--whir--whir, it went, all day
long in the attic overhead. She knew that Mrs. Waters had one other
lodger beside herself, an elderly gentleman by the name of Bond, who
cooked his own food, and whom she often met on the stairs, coming up
with a pitcher of water, or a few eggs in a paper bag, or a pie that he
had bought of Mr. Flake, at the little black grocery-shop at the corner.
On these occasions he always stepped aside, and with a deferential bow
waited for Ruth to pass. He was a thin, spare man, slightly bent; his
hair and whiskers curiously striped like a zebra, one lock being jet
black, while the neighboring one was as distinct a white. His dress was
plain, but very neat and tidy. He never seemed to have any business
out-doors, as he stayed in his room all day, never leaving it at all
till dark, when he paced up and down, with his hands behind him, before
the house. "Whir--whir--whir." It was early sunrise; but Ruth had heard
that odd noise for two hours at least. What _could_ it mean? Just then a
carrier passed on the other side of the street with the morning papers,
and slipped one under the crack of the house door opposite.
A thought! why could not Ruth write for the papers? How very odd it had
never occurred to her before? Yes, write for the papers--why not? She
remembered that while at boarding-school, an editor of a paper in the
same town used often to come in and take down her compositions in
short-hand as she read them aloud, and transfer them to the columns of
his paper. She certainly _ought_ to write better now than she did when
an inexperienced girl. She would begin that very night; but where to
make a beginning? who would publish her articles? how much would they
pay her? to whom should she apply first? There was her brother Hyacinth,
now the prosperous editor of the Irving Magazine; oh, if he would only
employ her? Ruth was quite sure she could write as well as some of his
correspondents, whom he had praised with no niggardly pen. She would
prepare samples to send immediately, announcing her intention, and
offering them for his acceptance. This means of support would be so
congenial, so absorbing. At the needle one's mind could still be
brooding over sorrowful thoughts.
Ruth counted the days and hours impatiently, as she waited for an
answer. Hyacinth surely would not refuse _her_ when in almost every
number of his magazine he was announcing some new contributor; or, if
_he_ could not employ her _himself_, he surely would be brotherly enough
to point out to her some one of the many avenues so accessible to a man
of extensive newspaperial and literary acquaintance. She would so gladly
support herself, so cheerfully toil day and night, if need be, could she
only win an independence; and Ruth recalled with a sigh Katy's last
visit to her father, and then she rose and walked the floor in her
impatience; and then, her restless spirit urging her on to her fate, she
went again to the post office to see if there were no letter. How long
the clerk made her wait! Yes, there _was_ a letter for her, and in her
brother's hand-writing too. Oh, how long since she had seen it!
Ruth heeded neither the jostling of office-boys, porters, or draymen,
as she held out her eager hand for the letter. Thrusting it hastily in
her pocket, she hurried in breathless haste back to her lodgings. The
contents were as follows:
"I have looked over the pieces you sent me, Ruth. It is very
evident that writing never can be _your_ forte; you have no talent
that way. You may possibly be employed by some inferior newspapers,
but be assured your articles never will be heard of out of
your own little provincial city. For myself I have plenty of
contributors, nor do I know of any of my literary acquaintances
who would employ you. I would advise you, therefore, to seek some
_unobtrusive_ employment. Your brother,
"HYACINTH ELLET."
A bitter smile struggled with the hot tear that fell upon Ruth's cheek.
"I have tried the unobtrusive employment," said Ruth; "the wages are six
cents a day, Hyacinth;" and again the bitter smile disfigured her gentle
lip.
"No talent!"
"At another tribunal than his will I appeal."
"Never be heard of out of my own little provincial city!" The cold,
contemptuous tone stung her.
"But they shall be heard of;" and Ruth leaped to her feet. "Sooner than
he dreams of, too. I _can_ do it, I _feel_ it, I _will_ do it," and she
closed her lips firmly; "but there will be a desperate struggle first,"
and she clasped her hands over her heart as if it had already commenced;
"there will be scant meals, and sleepless nights, and weary days, and a
throbbing brow, and an aching heart; there will be the chilling tone,
the rude repulse; there will be ten backward steps to one forward.
_Pride_ must sleep! but--" and Ruth glanced at her children--"it shall
be _done_. They shall be proud of their mother. _Hyacinth shall yet be
proud to claim his sister._"
"What is it, mamma?" asked Katy, looking wonderingly at the strange
expression of her mother's face.
"What is it, my darling?" and Ruth caught up the child with convulsive
energy; "what is it? only that when you are a woman you shall remember
this day, my little pet;" and as she kissed Katy's upturned brow a
bright spot burned on her cheek, and her eye glowed like a star.