THE FIRST FRUITS OF GENIUS.
Ruth Laurence kept her secret. An idea had entered her head which she
was resolved to carry out, unaided and alone. At first she longed to
tell her good fortune to her mother; but Mrs. Laurence was never
sympathetic or impulsive enough to win that loving confidence which Ruth
longed to give. She had thought her own thoughts, and suppressed her
natural impulses so long, that this precious secret became as gold to a
miser, after she had dwelt upon it, unspoken for a few hours.
One thing was certain: Eva should go to this party dressed like the lady
she was. Enough of the money under her pillow should be used for that.
Her own frail fingers had earned this great happiness for her sister.
Tears came into those soft eyes as Ruth thought of it: tender, sweet
tears, such as the good and unselfish alone can shed. She murmured to
herself: “Yes, it shall be snow-white, and fleecy as foam. I have the
idea in my mind, with a contrast—something brilliant and rich. Still,
she does not need that to make her the most beautiful of them all. Dear
Eva! what a surprise it will be! Here she comes, looking _so_ tired!”
Eva came into the little parlor weary and sad; for the duties of her
position were frequently galling to the pride of a high-spirited girl;
and every hour some painful contrast was forced upon her which disturbed
her sense of justice. While the family had been in absolute want, this
feeling was held in abeyance by all those active sympathies that trample
down minor causes of grief under great afflictions, but now the proud
nature of the girl asserted itself, and strongly cynical and bitter
feelings were rooting themselves in her young heart.
Eva took off her bonnet, and, kneeling down by her sister’s couch,
kissed her tenderly.
“Why, Ruthy, how warm your cheek is! How your arms cling to me! What is
the matter? It seems like joy—but how can that come here?”
“A pleasant thing has happened, Eva, dear. You are invited to a splendid
party in the Fifth Avenue. Look here!”
Eva caught her breath. An invitation to her! She took the square fold of
paper, and, dazzled by the monogram, began to examine it with that
nervous curiosity which makes so many people hesitate to learn the truth
at once.
“It is from Mrs. Carter, the sister of that gentleman who looked over my
drawings. Such a cheerful, kind woman! She brought it herself, that
there might be no mistake, and will send her own carriage for you. Isn’t
it delightful?”
“Oh, how I wish it possible!” exclaimed Eva, dropping the invitation
from her hand with a pang of absolute despair. “That is what so many
people were talking about: all the customers were full of it. I think
Mr. Harold has an invitation. But it is of no use; I wish she had not
brought it.”
“Oh, Eva!”
“It is just cruel,” answered the girl, throwing herself into a chair,
and clasping both hands over her eyes to hide her tears.
“But you are going, Eva. I promised it.”
“_You_ promised! poor darling!”
“I did, indeed. So just wipe your eyes, and let me tell you something.
Look here! Hush, now! do not cry out!”
Here Ruth took a twenty-dollar note from under her pillow, and held it
up before Eva’s eyes.
“Ruth, Ruth, where _did_ you get that?” cried the girl, in utter
amazement.
“Oh, _I_ have been doing bits of work for it on the sly. Eva! Eva! I
won’t keep anything from you. Look here! and here! I have earned it all
with my pictures, that you thought so pretty. This is for you. Stoop
down, and let me whisper what I mean to do with the rest.”
Eva stooped down, and lifted her head again, all in a glow of delight.
“Oh, Ruthy! it seems like fairy-work! You have taken away my breath!”
“They will take more; and that gentleman will teach me how to give them
greater perfection. You see it is no dream, sister!”
“And it was your genius that got me this invitation, Ruth,” said Eva,
with grateful enthusiasm. “I could not understand it before. It seems
almost possible that I may go!”
“Almost! It is quite possible! I have been lying here, with my eyes on
the ceiling, thinking over the dress. It must be lovely, you know, but
not cost more than this one bill. White tarletan, I should say, with a
long train, a flounce or two, and rows on rows of broad, puffy, ruches.
Crimson roses in your hair, and a little cluster on your bosom. No! it
shall be one, fragrant and half blown, on the left shoulder. No other
ornaments.”
“Of course not, you foolish darling! How am I to get them?”
“Not a thing!—just the white and red. To think of it is like painting a
picture. I can see you now, with your black hair falling in broad, heavy
braids nearly to the shoulders; two or three long ringlets sweeping
almost to the waist; just a little coronal of red roses over the
forehead; and the dress sweeping away, fold after fold, like dancing
white poppies over drifting snow. I tell you, Eva, it will be superb.”
“But how is all this to be done, Ruth?”
“I shall be bolstered up, and sew on it in the day-time. You will help
me at night. I tell you, dear, it will be charming.”
“And you, poor dear, will be left at home, and see nothing.”
“What, I! Indeed, you know nothing about it. I shall just lie here, with
my hands folded, so, and my eyes shut, thinking over everything as it
happens. The way people will look at you, and whisper, ‘Who is that?
Isn’t she—’ But I won’t tell you all that I shall see. Be sure you will
not enjoy it more than I shall. Then there is James!—won’t it delight
him?”
“But mother! what if she forbids it?” said Eva, with sudden dismay. “She
might, you know.”
“We must get Mrs. Smith on our side,” said Ruth, faltering a little.
“Mrs. Smith, and our James. She cannot stand out against them. But hush!
she is at the door.”