"A letter for 'Floy!'" said Mr. Lescom, smiling. "Another lover, I
suppose. Ah! when you get to be my age," continued the old man, stroking
his silver hair, "you will treat their communications with more
attention." As he finished his remark, he held the letter up playfully
for a moment, and then tossed it into Ruth's lap.
Ruth thrust it unread into her apron pocket. She was thinking of her
book, and many other things of far more interest to her than lovers, if
lover the writer were. After correcting the proof of her articles for
the next week's paper, and looking over a few exchanges, she asked for
and received the wages due her for the last articles published, and went
home.
Ruth was wearied out; her walk home tired her more than usual. Climbing
to her room, she sat down without removing her bonnet, and leaning her
head upon her hand, tried to look hopefully into the future. She was
soon disturbed by Nettie, who exploring her mother's pockets, and
finding the letter, exclaimed, pointing to the three cent stamp, "May
I have this pretty picture, mamma?"
Ruth drew forth the letter, opened the envelope, cut out the stamp for
Nettie, who soon suspended it around her doll's neck for a medal, and
then read the epistle, which ran as follows:
"TO 'FLOY':
"Madam,--I have long wished to communicate with you, long wished to
know who you are. Since the appearance of your first article, I
have watched your course with deep interest, and have witnessed
your success with the most unfeigned pleasure. My reasons for
wishing to make your acquaintance at this particular juncture, are
partly business and partly friendly reasons. As you will see by a
copy of the Household Messenger, which I herewith send you, I am
its Editor. I know something about the prices paid contributors for
the periodical press, and have often wondered whether you were
receiving anything like such a remuneration as your genius and
practical newspaperial talent entitle you to. I have also often
wished to write you on the subject, and tell you what I think is
your market-value--to speak in business phrase--as a writer; so
that in case you are _not_ receiving a just compensation, as
things go, you might know it, and act accordingly. In meditating
upon the subject, it has occurred to me that I might benefit you
and myself at the same time, and in a perfectly legitimate manner,
by engaging you to write solely for my paper. I have made a
calculation as to what I can afford to give you, or rather what I
_will_ give you, for writing one article a week for me, the article
to be on any subject, and of any length you please. Such an
arrangement would of course give you time to take more pains with
your writing, and also afford you such leisure for relaxation, as
every writer needs.
"Now what I wish you to do is this: I want you first to inform me
what you get for writing for The Standard, and The Pilgrim, and
if I find that I can afford to give you more, I will make you an
offer. If I cannot give you more, I will not trouble you further on
that subject; as I seek your benefit more than my own. In case you
should accept any offer which I should find it proper to make, it
would be necessary for you to tell me your _real_ name; as I should
wish for a written contract, in order to prevent any possibility of
a misunderstanding.
"In conclusion, I beg that you will permit me to say, that whether
or not arrangements are made for you to write for me, I shall
be most happy to serve you in any way in my power. I have some
experience in literary matters, which I will gladly place at your
disposal. In short, madam, I feel a warm, brotherly interest in
your welfare, as well as a high admiration for your genius, and it
will afford me much pleasure to aid you, whenever my services can
be made profitable.
"Very truly yours, JOHN WALTER."
Ruth sat with the letter in her hand. The time _had_ been when not a
doubt would have arisen in her mind as to the sincerity of the writer;
but, alas! adversity is so rough a teacher! ever laying the cold finger
of caution on the warm heart of trust! Ruth sighed, and tossed the
letter on the table, half ashamed of herself for her cowardice, and
wishing that she _could_ have faith in the writer. Then she picked up
the letter again. She examined the hand-writing; it was bold and manly.
She thought it would be treating it too shabbily to throw it aside among
the love-sick trash she was in the habit of receiving. She would read it
again. The tone was respectful; _that won her_. The "Household
Messenger"--"John Walter?"--she certainly had heard those names before.
The letter stated that a copy of the paper had been sent her, but she
had not yet received it. She recollected now that she had seen the
"Household Messenger" among the exchanges at "The Standard" office,
and remembered that she always liked its appearance, and admired its
editorials; they were fearless and honest, and always on the side
of the weak, and on the side of truth. Ruth also had an indistinct
remembrance of having heard Mr. Walter spoken of by somebody, at some
time, as a most energetic young man, who had wrung success from an
unwilling world, and fought his way, single-handed, from obscurity to an
honorable position in society, against, what would have been to many,
overwhelming odds. "Hence the reason," thought Ruth, "his heart so
readily vibrates to the chord of sorrow which I have struck. His
experienced heart has detected in my writings the flutterings and
desolation of his own." Ruth wanted to believe in Mr. Walter. She
glanced at his letter again with increased interest and attention. It
seemed so frank and kind; but then it was bold and exacting, too. The
writer wished to know how much she received from the "Pilgrim," and
"Standard," and what was her real name. Would it be prudent to entrust
so much to an entire stranger? and the very first time he asked, too?
Even granting he was actuated by the best of motives, would he not think
if she told him all, without requiring some further guaranty on his
part, that her confidence was too easily won? Would he not think her too
indiscreet to be entrusted with his confidence? Would he not be apt to
believe that she had not even sufficient discretion on which to base a
business arrangement? And then, if his letter _had been_ dictated by
idle curiosity only, how unfortunate such an _exposé_ of her affairs
might be. No--she--could--not--do--it! But then, if Mr. Walter _were_
honest, if he _really_ felt such a brotherly interest in her, how sweet
it would be to have him for a brother; a--_real, warm-hearted, brotherly
brother_, such as she had never known. Ruth took up her pen to write to
Mr. Walter, but as quickly laid it down. "Oh--I--cannot!" she said; "no,
not to a stranger!" Then, again she seized her pen, and with a quick
flush, and a warm tear, said, half pettishly, half mournfully, "Away
with these ungenerous doubts! Am I never again to put faith in human
nature?"
Ruth answered Mr. Walter's letter. She answered it frankly and
unreservedly. She stated what wages she was then receiving. She told him
her name. As she went on, she felt a peace to which she had long been a
stranger. She often paused to wipe the tears--tears of happiness--from
her eyes. It was so sweet to believe in _somebody_ once more. She wrote
a long letter--a sweet, sisterly letter--pouring out her long pent-up
feelings, as though Mr. Walter had indeed been her brother, who, having
been away ever since before Harry's death, had just returned, and,
consequently, had known nothing about her cruel sufferings. After
she had sealed and superscribed the letter, she became excessively
frightened at what she had done, and thought she never could send it to
Mr. Walter; but another perusal of his letter reassured her. She rose
to go to the post-office, and then became conscious that she had not
removed her bonnet and shawl, but had sat all this while in walking
costume! "Well," said she, laughing, "this _is_ rather blue-stocking-y;
however, it is all the better, as I am now ready for my walk." Ruth
carried her letter to the post-office; dropping it into the letter-box
with more hopeful feelings than Noah probably experienced when he sent
forth the dove from the ark for the third time.