Rose Clark

"Oh, do it, by all means," mocked Gertrude, "it is the easiest thing in the world to write a book. It would be just the thing for a little sensitive-plant like you. I think I see it fairly launched. I think I see you sit down with the morning paper in your hand to read a criticism on it, from some coarse pen, dressed in a little brief authority, in the absence of some editor; a fellow who knows no difference between a sun-flower and a violet, and whose daily aspirations are bounded by an oyster supper, or a mint-julep. I think I see you thumped on the head with his butchering cleaver, every nerve quivering under the crucifixion of his coarse scalpel."

"But surely there are those who know a good book when they see it, and I mean to write a good book."

"You little simpleton, as if that would save you! Do you suppose you will be forgiven for writing a good book? No, my dear; the editor of 'The Daily Lorgnette,' takes it up, he devours a chapter or two, he begins to fidget in his chair, he sees there is genius in it, he gets up and strides across his office, he recollects certain books of his own, which nobody ever read but his publishers and himself, and every word he reads irritates that old sore. The next day, under the head of book notices you will see the following in the Daily Lorgnette: —

"'Gore House, by Rose Ringdove.'

"'We have perused this book; it is unnecessary to state in its title-page that it was written by a female hand. The plot is feeble and inartistic. In dialogue, the writer utterly fails; the heroine, Effie Waters, is a stiff, artificial creation, reminding us constantly of those females painted on the pannels of omnibuses, convulsively grasping to their bosoms a posy, or a poodle. There is an indescribable and heterogeneous jumbling of characters in this volume. The authoress vainly endeavors to straighten out this snarl in the last chapter, which has nothing to recommend it but that it is the last. We advise the authoress of 'Gore House' to choose some other escape-valve for her restless femininity; petticoat literature has become a drug in the market.'

"How do you like that?" said Gertrude, laughing.

"Well, the editor of the 'Christian Warrior' sits down to read 'Gore House,' he takes out his spectacles, and wipes them deliberately on his red-silk pocket-handkerchief, he adjusts them on the bridge of his sagacious nose; he reads on undisturbed until he comes to the description of 'Deacon Pendergrast,' who is very graphically sketched as a 'wolf in sheep's clothing.' Conscience holds up the mirror, and he beholds himself, like unto a man who sees his natural face in a glass. Straightway he sitteth down, and writeth the following impartial critique of the book:

"'We have read "Gore House." We do not hesitate to pronounce it a bad book, unfit to lie on the table of any religious family. In it, religion is held up to ridicule. It can not fail to have a most pernicious influence on the minds of the young. We hope Christian editors all over the land will not hesitate, out of courtesy to the authoress, to warn the reading public of this locomotive poison.'

"The editor of the 'Christian Warrior' then hands the notice to his foreman for an early insertion, puts on his hat, and goes to the anniversary of the Society for the Propagation of the Gospel, of which he is president.

"The editor of the 'John Bull' reads 'Gore House.' He is an Englishman, and pledged to his British blood, while he makes his living out of America, to abuse, underrate, and vilify, her government, institutions, and literature, therefore he says, curtly:

"'We have received "Gore House" – they of course who wish for literature, especially female literature, will look the other side of the Atlantic." He then takes one of the most glowing passages in 'Gore House,' and transposing the words slightly, passes it off for editorial in his own columns.

"The editor of 'The Timbrel' reads Gore House. He has a female relative, Miss Clementina Clemates, whose mission she thinks is to be an authoress. In furtherance of this design of hers, he thinks it policy to decry all other rival books. So he says:

"'We have read "Gore House." We ought to say we have tried to read it. The fact is, the only lady book recently published that we can heartily recommend to our readers is "Sketches of the Fireside, by Clementine Clemates."'

"The editor of the 'Dinsmore Republican' reads the book. He is of the Don Quixote order, goes off like an old pistol half primed, whenever the right chord is struck. Gore House takes him captive at once. He wishes there were a tournament, or some such arrangement, by which he could manifest his devotion to and admiration of the authoress. He throws down the book, unties his neckcloth, which seems to be strangling him, loosens his waistband button to give his breathing apparatus more play, throws up the window, runs his fingers through his hair, till each one seems as charged with electricity as a lightning-rod, and then seizing his goose-quill, piles on the commendatory adjectives till your modesty exclaims, in smothering agony, 'Save me from my friends, and I will take care of my enemies.'"

"But tell me," said Rose, "is there no bright side to this subject you can depict me?"

"Oh, yes," said Gertrude, "there are editors who can read a book and deal fairly and conscientiously by it and its author, who neither underrate nor overrate from fear or favor, who find fault, not as an escape-valve for their own petulance or indigestion, but gently, kindly, as a wise parent would rebuke his child – editors on whose faith you can rely, whose book reviews are, and can be, depended upon, who feel themselves accountable to other than a human tribunal for their discharge of so important a public trust."

"Well," said Rose, in despair, "if I might be Sappho herself I could not run such a gauntlet of criticism as you have described."

"Far happier to be Cornelia with her jewels," said Gertrude, snatching up the beautiful Charley (I take it Cornelia had a glorious husband). "Fame is a great unrest to a true woman's heart. The fret, and tumult, and din of battle are not for her. The vulgar sneer for which there is no preventive, save the unrecognized one of honor; the impertinent tone of familiarity, supposed to be acceptable by those to whom a woman's heart is yet a sealed book; what are tears to oppose to such bludgeon weapons? No, the fret and din of battle are not for her; but if, at the call of trumpet-tongued necessity, she buckle on the armor, let her fight with what good courage her God may give her, valuing far above the laurel crown, when won, the loving hearts for which she toils – which beat glad welcome home."

CHAPTER XLV

Miss Anne Cooper was a maiden lady of forty-two; a satellite who was well contented to revolve year after year round Madame Vincent, and reflect her golden rays. Madame Vincent had been a beauty in her day, and was still tenacious of her claims to that title. It was Miss Anne's constant study to foster this bump of self-conceit, and so cunningly did she play her part, so indignantly did she deny the advances of Old Time, that madame was flattered into the belief that he had really given her a quit claim.

Miss Anne's disinterested care of the silver, linen, and store-room was quite praiseworthy to those who did not know that she supplied a family of her relatives with all necessary articles from the Vincent resources. It was weary waiting for the expected codicil, and Miss Anne thought "a bird in the hand was worth two in the bush;" so if she occasionally abducted a pound or two of old Hyson or loaf-sugar, or a loaf of cake, or a pair of pies, she reasoned herself into the belief that they were, after all, only her lawful perquisites.

Yes, it was weary waiting for the codicil. Madame Vincent was an invalid, 'tis true; but so she had been these twenty years, having one of those india-rubber constitutions, which seem to set all medical precedents at defiance. She might last along for ten years to come – who knew?

Ten years! Miss Anne looked in the glass; the crow's-feet were planted round her own eyes, and it needed no microscope to see the silver threads in her once luxuriant black locks. Not that Miss Anne did not smile just as sweetly on her patroness as if she would not at any time have welcomed a call upon her from the undertaker. Miss Anne's voice, as she glided through the house with her bunch of keys, had that oily, hypocritical whine which is inseparable from your genuine toady, be it man or woman.

Miss Anne sat in the "blue chamber" of the Vincent mansion – a chamber that had once been occupied by young Master Vincent. Whether this gave it a charm in the lady's eyes or no, Miss Anne never had said. It was true that young Master Vincent, when he had nothing else to do, amused himself with irritating Miss Anne up to the snapping-point. They scarce met without a war of words, half jest, half earnest; but for all that, young Vincent's every wish was anticipated by Miss Anne. It was she who reinserted the enameled buttons in his vests, when they came from the laundress; it was she who righted his room, and kept all his little dandy apparatus (in the shape of perfumes, gold shirt-buttons, hair-oil, watch-guards, rings, etc.) in their appropriate places.

Your D'Orsay abroad, is generally a brute at home; selfish, sarcastic, ill-tempered, and exacting where he thinks it does not pay to be otherwise. All this Miss Anne turned aside with the skill and tact of a woman; occasionally quite quenching him with her witty replies, and forcing him to laugh even in his most diabolical moods. To be sure he would mutter some uncanonical words after it, and tell her to go to the torrid zone; and Miss Anne would smile as usual, drop a low courtesy, and glide from his presence; sometimes to go round making all sorts of housekeeping blunders; sometimes to sit down in her room, with her hands folded in her lap, and her great black eyes fixed immovably on the carpet, for all the world just as if Miss Anne were in love.

Old maids have their little thoughts; why not?

On the present occasion, as I have said, Miss Anne sat in "the blue chamber." She was paler than usual, and her Xantippe lips were closed more firmly together. The thread of her thoughts seemed no smoother than the thread between her fingers, beside breaking which she had broken six of Hemming's best drilled-eyed needles. At length, pushing the stool from beneath her feet, she threw down her work and strode impatiently up and down the apartment.

"To be balked after serving this Leah's apprenticeship, by a baby! and by that baby! I could love it for its likeness to him, did it not stand in my way. It was such doll faces as that baby's mother's which could fascinate Vincent, hey? – soulless, passionless little automatons. Ye gods! and how I have loved him, let these sunken eyes and mottled tresses bear witness," and Miss Anne looked at herself in the glass. "That is all past now; thank heaven, that secret dies with me. Who would ever suspect me of falling in love?" and Miss Anne laughed hysterically. "And now that hope died out, that baby is to come between me and my expected fortune!

"Simple Chloe! She little thought, when she repeated to me what she called 'her young mistress's crazy ravings,' that I could 'find a method in that madness.' Love is sharp-sighted; so is policy. That baby shall never come here. It should not, at any rate, for the mother's sake, pretty little fool!

"Madame will 'adopt' the baby, forsooth! She will fill the house with bibs and pinafores, and install me as head nurse, and to that child! All my fine castles to be knocked down by a baby's puny hand! We shall see.

"That old dotard, to adopt a baby at her time of life, when she ought to be thinking of her shroud."

"Ah, Anne, you there," said a voice at the door, "and busy as usual?"

"Yes, dear madame, work for you is only pastime."

"You were always a good creature, Anne," and madame tapped her affectionately on the shoulder.

"How very well you are looking to-day," said Anne. "Mourning is uncommonly becoming to you. Becky and I were saying this morning, as you passed through the hall, that no one would suppose you to be more than thirty."

"S-i-x-t-y, my dear, s-i-x-t-y," replied the old lady, cautiously closing the door; "but you should not flatter, Annie."

"It is not flattery to speak the truth," said Anne, with a mock-injured air.

"Well, well, don't take a joke so seriously, child; what everybody says must be true, I suppose," and madame looked complacently in the glass.

"Anne, do you know I can not think of any thing but that beautiful child? Don't you think his resemblance to our Vincent very remarkable?"

"Very, dear madame, I am not at all surprised at your fancying him. He is quite a charming little fellow."

"Isn't he, though?" exclaimed madame, with a pleased laugh; "do you know Anne I have about made up my mind to adopt him? I shall call him Vincent L'Estrange Vincent."

"How charming!" said Anne, "how interesting you will look; you will be taken for his mother."

"Very likely," said madame. "I recollect we were quite an object of attraction the day we rode out together; I think I am looking youthful Anne."

"No question of it, my dear madame – here – let me rearrange this bow in your cap; that's it; what execution you must have done in your day, madame."

"I had some lovers," replied the sexegenarian widow, with mock humility, as she twisted a gold circlet upon her finger.

"If report speaks true, their name was legion; I dare say there is some interesting story now, connected with that ring," suggested Anne.

"Poor Perry!" exclaimed madame – "I didn't treat him well; I wonder what ever came of him; how he used to sigh! What beautiful bouquets he brought me – how jealous he was of poor dear Vincent. I was a young, giddy thing then; and yet, I was good-hearted, Anne, for I remember how sorry I used to be that I couldn't marry all my lovers. I told Perry so, one day when he was on his knees to me, but he did not seem as much pleased as I expected. I don't think he always knew how to take a compliment.

"Poor Perry!

"I couldn't help liking him, he had such a dear pair of whiskers, quite à-la-corsair – but Vincent had the money, and I always needed such a quantity of dresses and things, Anne.

"Well – on my wedding-day, Perry walked by the house, looking handsomer than ever. I believe the creature did it on purpose to plague me. He had on white pants, and yellow Marseilles vest, salmon-colored neck-tie, and such a pretty dark-blue body-coat, with brass buttons; such a fit! I burst out a crying; I never saw any thing so heart-breaking as that coat; there was not a wrinkle in it from collar to tail. I don't think I should ever have got over it, Anne, had not my maid Victorine just then brought me in a set of bridal pearls from Vincent; they were really sumptuous.

"Poor dear Perry!

"Well – I was engaged to him just one night; and I think the moon was to blame for that, for as soon as the sun rose next morning, I knew it would not do. He was poor, and it was necessary I should have a fine establishment, you know. But poor Perry! I never shall forget that blue body-coat, never – it was such a fit!"

"The old fool!" exclaimed Anne, dismissing the bland smile from her face as the last fold of madame's dress fluttered through the door; "after all, she might do worse than to adopt this child. I could easier get rid of that baby than her second husband. I must rein up a little, with my flattery, or she may start off on that track.

"Poor Perry, indeed!" soliloquized Anne, "what geese men are! how many of them, I wonder, have had reason to thank their stars, that they did not get what their hearts were once set on. Well – any will-o'-the-wisp who trips it lightly, can lead any Solomon by the nose; it is a humiliating fact;" and Miss Anne took a look at herself in the glass; "sense is at a discount; well, it is the greatest compliment the present generation of men could have paid me, never to have made me an offer."

CHAPTER XLVI

"And you, then, are the mother of the beautiful child, I wish to adopt?" asked Madame Vincent, gazing admiringly at Rose.

Our heroine's long lashes drooped upon a cheek that crimsoned like the heart of a June rose, as she timidly answered:

"Yes, madame."

"You are extremely pretty, child, and very young to be a mother. Have you any other children?"

"None," replied Rose, "but Charley."

"And you would not give him up to me?" asked madame, coaxingly. "Do you think his father would object?"

"His father is dead, madame," said Rose, in a low voice.

"Pardon me, child, I did not know that you were a widow. I am a widow. It is very dull, being a widow; don't you think so, dear? Did your husband leave you property?"

"No," replied Rose, answering the inexcusable question, for she could not bear to seem disrespectful to Vincent's mother.

"That is a pity, dear; my husband left me plenty. I shall will it all to Charley, if you will only give him up to me. What was your husband's name, dear."

"Vincent L'Estrange Vincent;" answered Rose, startled at the strange sound of her own voice.

"Singular! Same name as my son's," said madame, "Very singular."

"He was your son;" said Rose, in the same strange, cold tone.

"My son never was married;" replied madame.

"God knows he told me we were so, and I believed him," answered Rose.

"He made believe marry you, then, did he?" asked the childish old lady. "He did that to a great many women, I believe. Gentlemen often do such things, so they tell me. Your child is of course illegitimate then."

Rose's lips moved, but no answer came.

"And what do you intend to do with him, child?"

"Bring him up to despise the sin of which his father was guilty," replied Rose, boldly.

"Oh yes, that's all very proper; but if you give him to me, there will be no occasion ever to mention it at all, or you either, child."

"Madame," said Rose, with a proud dignity. "Is it a mother who speaks to a mother such words as these? You love your son none the less that he made my name a reproach and a by-word, crimsoned my innocent cheek with shame, dimmed my eyes with unavailing tears. Shall I, think you, love my son the less that your son deserted him? Shall I love my son the less that through days and nights of tearful anguish his smile, his love, was all of heaven I ever dared to look for?"

"Oh, certainly not – oh, of course not," replied the old lady, nervously; "but you know he may not always love you as well as he does now, when he knows – "

"In God I put my trust;" said Rose, as tears streamed from her eyes.

"Well, don't cry, child – don't cry. I hate to see people cry. All I wanted to say was, that you would always be a drag on him, if he tried to rise in the world; but don't cry. It is right for you to trust in God, every body ought to be pious, it is so respectable. I have been confirmed myself; but don't cry, it will spoil your handsome eyes. You are young yet, perhaps somebody may marry you, if you keep quiet about this."

"I would never so deceive any man," answered Rose, with dignity.

"Deceive! oh, no, child, that would be very wrong. I only meant that you should say nothing about it; that is a different thing, you see. Now I loved a Mr. Perry much better than I did my husband, but it would have been quite foolish had I allowed it to be known, you know, because Vincent was very rich, and it was necessary I should have a handsome establishment. Oh, no! of course I do not approve of deception, that is very wrong, but there are cases where it is best for a woman to keep quiet. Well, how about Charley? have you quite decided not to part with him?"

"Quite," said Rose, "Charley must remain with me;" and, with a dignified air, she bowed madame to her carriage.

CHAPTER XLVII

"A regular little romance, I declare," said madame, laying off her black bonnet, and fanning herself languidly, "quite a little romance.

"Vincent's boy! no wonder he is so handsome; no wonder I was so attracted toward him. Vincent was a little wild, but very likely that young thing did her part of the courting. She is very handsome, and, with a little instruction under other circumstances – with a little instruction from me, I say, she would be quite presentable in society.

"It is very odd she would not give up Charley. I thought that style of people were always glad to get rid of their children; in fact, I think it her duty not to stand in the child's light. She is a Puritanical little puss, and quite queenly, too, for a Magdalen. I was quite dashed, as one may say, once or twice, by her manner, although I pride myself on my self-possession. She is really quite superior to her station; but Vincent, dear boy, always had indisputable taste; there never was a taint of grossness about him.

"He was very fastidious. I remember I put off his father's funeral one whole day, in order that the tailor might alter the coat-collar of his new mourning-suit. Yes, and he was so sensitive, too, poor dear! he felt his father's death so much that he was obliged to go directly from the grave to the club-house, to dissipate his mournful thoughts.

"Ah! Anne, is that you? sit down; I have just returned. Do you know, the mother of that baby refused to give him up. She says it is one of our Vincent's children. She is a very pretty young woman, Anne – not a high-bred beauty, of course; that you never see, except in aristocratic circles, still, she is quite pretty."

"Very," replied Anne, quite nonchalantly.

"Ha! you have seen her, then?" asked madame, with some surprise.

"My dear madame, I really would prefer saying nothing upon the subject. I answered your first question frankly, because I make it a point never to deceive you; but I really wish you would not question me, I dislike so much to speak ill of any one."

"But I insist upon knowing, Anne; in fact, I think it is quite unkind of you to have any secrets from me, so long as you have been in my confidence, too."

"Ah, well, dear madame, if you insist, I suppose I must yield, for I can refuse you nothing. The person you have been to see this morning is an arrant impostor. She is playing a deep game with you; her refusal is not sincere; she expects you will return and persist in asking for Charley, and intends then to make money out of the operation."

"Well, she is very much mistaken, then," said the old lady, indignant, as easily duped people are, who always fancy themselves a match for any double and twisted diplomatist, "very much mistaken, for I shall never go near her again. Then that story was all trumped up she told me about the baby being our Vincent's."

"Certainly," said Anne; "I tell you, my dear madame, she has played that game on several people beside you."

"Possible?" said the old lady, fanning herself violently; "the impudent little baggage! But how did you find it all out, Annie?"

"Ah! there, you must really excuse me, my dear madame. My informant is so afraid of being involved, that I was sworn to the strictest secrecy on that point, but, I assure you, my authority is reliable."

"I have no doubt of it, my dear Anne, if you say so. But why did you not speak of it before?"

"Well, that was my first impulse, of course; but you see how it was. I was placed in very delicate circumstances, dear madame. Here I am a dependent on your bounty; you have been always like a kind mother to me; your heart was set on adopting this child; had I opposed it, you might have suspected my motives; that thought was too painful for me; and so, up to this time, when you extorted it from me, I have been vacillating," and Anne looked lachrymose.

"You dear, good creature," exclaimed madame, "you always had the best heart in the world. You should not have tortured yourself so unnecessarily, Anne. You know I never would imagine you guilty of such mean motives. You may have my brown silk dress, Anne, and the dark blue brocade. I had never worn either when I was called into mourning. I declare, Anne, you have the best heart in the world. You need not blush about it, child," said madame, as Anne covered her face with her handkerchief to conceal a laugh. "You are too modest by half, Anne; but it is always so with real merit."