And now our heroine had become a regular business woman. She did not
even hear the whir--whir of the odd lodger in the attic. The little room
was littered with newspapers, envelopes, letters opened and unopened,
answered and waiting to be answered. One minute she might be seen
sitting, pen in hand, trying, with knit brows, to decipher some horrible
cabalistic printer's mark on the margin of her proof; then writing
an article for Mr. Walter, then scribbling a business letter to her
publishers, stopping occasionally to administer a sedative to Nettie, in
the shape of a timely quotation from Mother Goose, or to heal a fracture
in a doll's leg or arm. Now she was washing a little soiled face, or
smoothing little rumpled ringlets, replacing a missing shoe-string or
pinafore button, then wading through the streets while Boreas contested
stoutly for her umbrella, with parcels and letters to the post-office,
(for Ruth must be her own servant,) regardless of gutters or
thermometers, regardless of jostling or crowding. What cared she for
all these, when Katy would soon be back--poor little patient, suffering
Katy? Ruth felt as if wings were growing from her shoulders. She never
was weary, or sleepy, or hungry. She had not the slightest idea, till
long after, what an incredible amount of labor she accomplished, or how
her _mother's heart_ was goading her on.
"Pressing business that Mis. Hall must have," said her landlady, with
a sneer, as Ruth stood her dripping umbrella in the kitchen sink.
"Pressing business, running round to offices and the like of that,
in such a storm as this. You wouldn't catch _me_ doing it if I was a
widder. I hope I'd have more regard for appearances. I don't understand
all this flying in and out, one minute up in her room, the next in the
street, forty times a day, and letters by the wholesale. It will take
me to inquire into it. It may be all right, hope it is; but of course I
like to know what is going on in my house. This Mis. Hall is so terrible
close-mouthed, I don't like it. I've thought a dozen times I'd like to
ask her right straight out who and what she is, and done with it; but I
have not forgotten that little matter about the pills, and when I see
her, there's something about her, she's civil enough too, that seems
to say, 'don't you cross that chalk-mark, Sally Waters.' I never had
lodgers afore like her and that old Bond, up in the garret. They are as
much alike as two peas. _She_ goes scratch--scratch--scratch; _he_ goes
whir--whir--whir. They haint spoke a word to one another since that
child was sick. It's enough to drive anybody mad, to have such a mystery
in the house. I can't make head nor tail on't. John, now, he don't care
a rush-light about it; no more he wouldn't, if the top of the house was
to blow off; but there's nothing plagues _me_ like it, and yet I aint
a bit curous nuther. Well, neither she nor Bond make me any trouble,
there's that in it; if they did I wouldn't stand it. And as long as they
both pay their bills so reg'lar, I shan't make a fuss; I _should_ like
to know though what Mis. Hall is about all the time."
* * * * *
Publication day came at last. There was _the_ book. Ruth's book! Oh, how
few of its readers, if it were fortunate enough to find readers, would
know how much of her own heart's history was there laid bare. Yes,
there was the book. She could recall the circumstances under which each
separate article was written. Little shoeless feet were covered with the
proceeds of this; a little medicine, or a warmer shawl was bought with
that. This was written, faint and fasting, late into the long night;
that composed while walking wearily to or from the offices where she
was employed. One was written with little Nettie sleeping in her lap;
another still, a mirthful, merry piece, as an escape-valve for a
wretched heartache. Each had its own little history. Each would serve,
in after-days, for a land-mark to some thorny path of by-gone trouble.
Oh, if the sun of prosperity, after all, should gild these rugged paths!
Some virtues--many faults--the book had--but God speed it, for little
Katy's sake!
* * * * *
"Let me see, please," said little Nettie, attracted by the gilt covers,
as she reached out her hand for the book.
"Did you make those pretty pictures, mamma?"
"No, my dear--a gentleman, an artist, made those for me--_I_ make
pictures with a-b-c's."
"Show me one of your pictures, mamma," said Nettie.
Ruth took the child upon her lap, and read her the story of Gertrude.
Nettie listened with her clear eyes fixed upon her mother's face.
"Don't make her die--oh, please don't make her die, mamma," exclaimed
the sensitive child, laying her little hand over her mother's mouth.
Ruth smiled, and improvised a favorable termination to her story, more
suitable to her tender-hearted audience.
"That is nice," said Nettie, kissing her mother; "when I get to be a
woman shall I write books, mamma?"
"God forbid," murmured Ruth, kissing the child's changeful cheek; "God
forbid," murmured she, musingly, as she turned over the leaves of her
book; "no happy woman ever writes. From Harry's grave sprang 'Floy.'"