Ruth Hall: A Domestic Tale of the Present Time

“Why, you can’t tell anything about it,” said Katy. “Grandma took away a little kitty because I loved it, and burned up a story-book mamma brought me, and tore up a letter which mamma printed in big capitals on a piece of paper for me to read when I was lonesome; and she wouldn’t let me feed the little snow-birds when they came shivering round the door; and she made me eat turnips when they made me sick; and she said I must not run when I went to school, for fear it would wear my shoes out; and she put me to bed so early; and I used to lie and count the stars (I liked the seven little stars all cuddled up together best); and sometimes I looked at the moon and thought I saw faces and mountains in it, and I wondered if it was shining into mamma’s window; and then I thought of you all snug in mamma’s bed; and then I cried and cried, and got up and looked out into the road, and wondered if I could not run away in the night, when grandmother was asleep. Oh, Nettie, she was a dreadful grandmother! She tried to make me stop loving mother. She told me that she loved you better than she did me; and then I wanted to die. I thought of it every night. I knew it was not true, but it kept troubling me. And then she said that very likely mamma would go off somewhere without letting me know anything about it, and never see me again. And she always said such things just as I was going to bed; and then you know I could not get to sleep till almost morning, and when I did, I dreamed such dreadful dreams.”

“You poor little thing!” exclaimed Nettie, with patronizing sympathy, to her elder sister, and laying her cheek against hers, “you poor little thing! Well, mamma and I had a horrid time, too. You can’t imagine! The wind blew into the cracks of the room so cold; and the stove smoked; and I was afraid to eat when we had any supper, for fear mamma would not have enough. She always said ‘I am not hungry, dear,’ but I think she did it to make me eat more. And one night mamma had no money to buy candles, and she wrote by moonlight; and I often heard her cry when she thought I was asleep; and I was so afraid of mamma’s landladies, they screamed so loud, and scowled at me so; and the grocer’s boy made faces at me when I went in for a loaf of bread, and said ‘Oh, ain’t we a fine lady, aint we?’ And the wheel was off my old tin cart – and – oh – dear – Katy – ” and Nettie’s little voice grew fainter and fainter, and the little chatterbox and her listener both fell asleep.

Ruth, as she listened in the shadow of the further corner, thanked God that they who had had so brief an acquaintance with life’s joys, so early an introduction to life’s cares, were again blithe, free, and joyous, as childhood ever should be. How sweet to have it in her power to hedge them in with comforts, to surround them with pleasures, to make up to them for every tear of sorrow they had shed, – to repay them for the mute glance of sympathy – the silent caress – given, they scarce knew why, (but, oh, how touching! how priceless!) when her own heart was breaking.

And there they lay, in their pretty little bed, sleeping cheek to cheek, with arms thrown around each other. Nettie – courageous, impulsive, independent, irrepressible, but loving, generous, sensitive, and noble-hearted. Katy – with veins through which the life-blood flowed more evenly, thoughtful, discriminating, diffident, reserved, (so proud of those magnetic qualities in her little sister, in which she was lacking, as to do injustice to her own solid but less showy traits;) needing ever the kind word of encouragement, and judicious praise, to stimulate into life the dormant seeds of self-reliance. Ruth kissed them both, and left their future with Him who doeth all things well.

Twelve o’clock at night! Ruth lies dreaming by the side of her children.

She dreams that she roves with them through lovely gardens, odorous with sweets; she plucks for their parched lips the luscious fruits; she garlands them with flowers, and smiles in her sleep, as their beaming eyes sparkle, and the rosy flush of happiness mantles their cheeks. But look! there are three of them! Another has joined the band – a little shadowy form, with lambent eyes, and the smile of a seraph. Blessed little trio. Follows another! He has the same shadowy outline – the same sweet, holy, yet familiar eyes. Ruth’s face grows radiant. The broken links are gathered up; the family circle is complete!

With the sudden revulsion of dream-land, the scene changes. She dreams that the cry of “fire! fire!” resounds through the streets; bells ring – dogs howl – watchmen spring their rattles – boys shout – men whoop, and halloo, as they drag the engine over the stony pavements. “Fire! fire!” through street after street, she dreams the watch-word flies! Windows are thrown up, and many a night-capped head is thrust hastily out, and as hastily withdrawn, when satisfied of the distant danger. Still, on rush the crowd; the heavens are one broad glare, and still the wreathed smoke curls over the distant houses. From the doors and windows of the doomed building, the forked flame, fanned by the fury of the wind, darts out its thousand fiery tongues. Women with dishevelled locks, and snow-white vestments, rush franticly out, bearing, in their tightened clasp, the sick, maimed, and helpless; while the noble firemen, heedless of risk and danger, plunge fearlessly into the heated air of the burning building.

Now Ruth moves uneasily on her pillow; she becomes conscious of a stifling, choking sensation; she slowly opens her eyes. God in heaven! it is not all a dream! With a wild shriek she springs from the bed, and snatching from it her bewildered children, flies to the stairway. It has fallen in! She rushes to the window, her long hair floating out on the night-breeze.

A smothered groan from the crowd below. “They are lost!” The showering cinders, and falling rafters, have shut out the dreadful tableau! No – the smoke clears away! That portion of the building still remains, and Ruth and her children are clinging to it with the energy of despair. Who shall save them? for it were death to mount that tottering wall. Men hold their breath, and women shriek in terror. See! a ladder is raised; a gallant fireman scales it. Katy and Nettie are dropped into the outstretched arms of the crowd below; the strong, brave arm of Johnny Galt is thrown around Ruth, and in an instant she lies fainting in the arms of a by-stander.

The butchering, ambitious conqueror, impudently issues his bulletins of killed and wounded, quenching the sunlight in many a happy home. The world shouts bravo! bravo! Telegraph wires and printing-presses are put in requisition to do him honor. Men unharness the steeds from his triumphal car, and draw him in triumph through the flower-garlanded streets. Woman – gentle woman, tosses the slaughtering hero wreaths and chaplets; but who turned twice to look at brave Johnny Galt, as, with pallid face, and smoky, discolored garments, he crawled to his obscure home, and stretched his weary limbs on his miserable couch? And yet the clinging grasp of rescued helplessness was still warm about his neck, the thrilling cry, “save us!” yet rang in the ears of the heedless crowd. God bless our gallant, noble, but unhonored firemen.

CHAPTER LXXXV

“Strange we do not hear from John,” said Mrs. Millet to her wooden husband, as he sat leisurely sipping his last cup of tea, and chewing the cud of his reflections; “I want to hear how he gets on; whether he is likely to get any practice, and if his office is located to suit him. I hope Hyacinth will speak a good word for him; it is very hard for a young man in a strange place to get employment. I really pity John; it must be so disagreeable to put up with the initiatory humiliations of a young physician without fortune in a great city.”

“Can’t he go round and ask people to give him work, just like cousin Ruth?” asked a sharp little Millet, who was playing marbles in the corner.

“It is time you were in bed, Willy,” said his disconcerted mother, as she pointed to the door; “go tell Nancy to put you to bed.

“As I was saying, Mr. Millet, it is very hard for poor John – he is so sensitive. I hope he has a nice boarding-house among refined people, and a pleasant room with everything comfortable and convenient about it; he is so fastidious, so easily disgusted with disagreeable surroundings. I hope he will not get low-spirited. If he gets practice I hope he will not have to walk to see his patients; he ought to have a nice chaise, and a fine horse, and some trusty little boy to sit in the chaise and hold the reins, while he makes his calls. I hope he has curtains to his sleeping-room windows, and a nice carpet on the floor, and plenty of bed-clothes, and gas-light to read by, and a soft lounge to throw himself on when he is weary. Poor John – I wonder why we do not hear from him. Suppose you write to-day, Mr. Millet?”

Mr. Millet wiped his mouth on his napkin, stroked his chin, pushed back his cup two degrees, crossed his knife and fork transversely over his plate, moved back his chair two feet and a half, hemmed six consecutive times, and was then safely delivered of the following remark:

“My – over-coat.”

The overcoat was brought in from its peg in the entry; the left pocket was disembowelled, and from it was ferreted out a letter from “John,” (warranted to keep!) which had lain there unopened three days. Mrs. Millet made no remark; – that day had gone by; – she had ate, drank, and slept, with that petrifaction too long to be guilty of any such nonsense. She sat down with a resignation worthy of Socrates, and perused the following epistle:

“Dear Mother:

“Well, my sign hangs out my office-door, ‘Doctor John Millet,’ and here I sit day after day, waiting for patients – I should spell it patience. This is a great city, and there are plenty of accidents happening every hour in the twenty-four, but unluckily for me there are more than plenty of doctors to attend to them, as every other door has one of their signs swinging out. Hyacinth has been sick, and I ran up there the other day, thinking, as he is a public man, it might be some professional advantage to me to have my name mentioned in connection with his sickness; he has a splendid place, six or eight servants, and everything on a corresponding scale.

“To think of Ruth’s astonishing success! I was in hopes it might help me a little in the way of business, to say that she was my cousin; but she has cut me dead. How could I tell she was going to be so famous, when I requested her not to allow her children to call me ‘cousin John’ in the street? I tell you, mother, we all missed a figure in turning the cold shoulder to her; and how much money she has made! I might sit in my office a month, and not earn so much as she can by her pen in one forenoon. Yes – there’s no denying it, we’ve all made a great mistake. Brother Tom writes me from college, that at a party the other night, he happened to mention (incidentally, of course) that ‘Floy’ was his cousin, when some one near him remarked, ‘I should think the less said about that, by ‘Floy’s’ relatives, the better.’ It frets Hyacinth to a frenzy to have her poverty alluded to. He told me that he had taken the most incredible pains to conciliate editors whom he despised, merely to prevent any allusion to it in their columns. I, myself, have sent several anonymous paragraphs to the papers for insertion, contradicting the current reports, and saying that ‘“Floy” lost her self-respect before she lost her friends.’ I don’t suppose that was quite right, but I must have an eye to my practice, you know, and it might injure me if the truth were known. I find it very difficult, too, to get any adverse paragraph in, she is getting to be such a favorite (i. e. anywhere where it will tell;) the little scurrilous papers, you know, have no influence.

“It is very expensive living here; I am quite out of pocket. If you can get anything from father, I wish you would. Hyacinth says I must marry a rich wife as he did, when I get cornered by duns. Perhaps I may, but your rich girls are invariably homely, and I have an eye for beauty. Still there’s no knowing what gilded pill I may be tempted to swallow if I don’t get into practice pretty soon. Hyacinth’s wife makes too many allusions to ‘her family’ to suit me (or Hyacinth either if the truth must be told, but he hates a dun worse, so that squares it, I suppose). Love to Leila.

“Your affectionate son, John Millet.”

CHAPTER LXXXVI

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Hall,” said one of the old lady’s neighbors; “here is the book you lent me. I am much obliged to you for it. I like it better than any book I have read for a long while. You said truly that if I once began it, I should not lay it down till I had finished it.”

“Yes,” said the old lady, “I don’t often read a book now-a-days; my eyes are not very strong, (blue eyes seldom are, I believe,” said she, fearing lest her visitor should suspect old Time had been blurring them;) “but that book, now, just suits me; there is common-sense in it. Whoever wrote that book is a good writer, and hope she will give us another just like it. ‘Floy’ is a queer name; I don’t recollect ever hearing it before. I wonder who she is.”

“So do I,” said the visitor; “and what is more, I mean to find out. Oh, here comes Squire Dana’s son; he knows everything. I’ll ask him. Yes, there he comes into the gate; fine young man Mr. Dana. They do say he’s making up to Sarah Jilson, the lawyer’s daughter; good match, too.”

“Good afternoon,” said both the ladies in a breath; “glad to see you, Mr. Dana; folks well? That’s right. We have just been saying that you could tell us who ‘Floy,’ the author of that charming book, ‘Life Sketches,’ really is.”

“You are inclined to quiz me,” said Mr. Dana. “I think it should be you who should give me that information.”

“Us?” exclaimed both the old ladies; “us? we have not the slightest idea who she is; we only admire her book.”

“Well, then, I have an unexpected pleasure to bestow,” said Mr. Dana, rubbing his hands in great glee. “Allow me to inform you, Mrs. Hall, that ‘Floy’ is no more, nor less, than your daughter-in-law, – Ruth.”

“Impossible!” screamed the old lady, growing very red in the face, and clearing her throat most vigorously.

“I assure you it is true. My informant is quite reliable. I am glad you admire your daughter-in-law’s book, Mrs. Hall; I quite share the feeling with you.”

“But I don’t admire it,” said the old lady, growing every moment more confused; “there are several things in it, now I think of them, which I consider highly immoral. I think I mentioned them to you, Mrs. Spear,” said she, (trusting to that lady’s defective memory,) “at the time I lent it to you.”

“Oh no, you didn’t,” replied Mrs. Spear; “you said it was one of the best and most interesting books you ever read, else I should not have borrowed it. I am very particular what I put in my children’s way.”

“Well, I couldn’t have been thinking of what I was saying,” said the old lady; “the book is very silly, a great part of it, beside being very bold, for a woman, and as I said before, really immoral.”

“It is highly recommended by the religious press,” said Mr. Dana, infinitely amused at the old lady’s sudden change of opinion.

“You can’t tell,” said the old lady; “I have no doubt she wrote those notices herself.”

“She has made an ample fortune, at any rate,” said the young man; “more than I ever expect to make, if I should scribble till dooms-day.”

“Don’t believe it,” said the old lady, fidgeting in her chair; “or, if she has, it won’t last long.”

“In that case she has only to write another book,” said the persistent Mr. Dana; “her books will always find a ready market.”

“We shall see,” said the old lady bridling; “it is my opinion she’ll go out like the wick of a candle. People won’t read a second edition of such trash. Ruth Hall ‘Floy’? Humph! that accounts, – humph! Well, anyhow, if she has made money, she had her nose held to the grindstone pretty well first; that’s one comfort. She ‘Floy’? Humph! That accounts. Well, sometimes money is given for a curse; I’ve heern tell of such things.

“ – Yes, yes; I’ve heern tell of such things,” muttered the old lady, patting her foot, as her two visitors left. “Dreadful grand, Ruth – ‘Floy’ feels now, I suppose. A sight of money she’s made, has she? A great deal she knows how to invest it. Invest it! What’s the use of talking about that? It will be invested on her back, in silk gowns, laces, frumpery, and such things. I haven’t a silk gown in the world. The least she could do, would be to send me one, for the care of that child.

“ – Yes, laces and feathers, feathers and laces. The children, too, all tricked but like little monkeys, with long ostrich legs, and short, bob-tailed skirts standing out like opery girls, and whole yards of ribbin streaming from their hair, I’ll warrant. The Catechize clean driven out of Katy’s head. Shouldn’t be at all astonished if they went to dancing school, or any other immoral place.

“ – Wonder where they’ll live? In some grand hotel, of course; dinner at six o’clock, black servants, gold salt-cellars and finger-glasses; nothing short of that’ll suit now; humph. Shouldn’t be astonished any day to hear Ruth kept a carriage and servants in livery, or had been to Victory’s Court in lappets and diamonds. She’s just impudent enough to do it. She isn’t afraid of anybody nor anything. Dare say she will marry some Count or Duke; she has no more principle.

“ – Humph! I suppose she is crowing well over me. V-e-r-y w-e-l-l; the wheel may turn round again, who knows? In fact, I am sure of it. How glad I should be! Well, I must say, I didn’t think she had so much perseverance. I expected she’d just sit down, after awhile, and fret herself to death, and be well out of the way.

“ – ‘Floy’! humph. I suppose I shan’t take up a newspaper now without getting a dose about her. I dare say that spiteful young Dana will call here again just to rile me up by praising her. What a fool I was to get taken in so about that book. But how should I know it was hers? I should as soon have thought of her turning out Mrs. Bonaparte, as an authoress. Authoress! Humph! Wonder how the heels of her stockings look? S’pose she wears silk ones now, and French shoes; she was always as proud as Lucifer of her foot.

“ – Well, I must say, (as long as there’s nobody here to hear me,) that she beats all. Humph! She’ll collapse, though; there’s no doubt of that. I’ve heard of balloons that alighted in mud-puddles.”

CHAPTER LXXXVII

“Good morning, Mr. Ellet!” said Mr. Jones, making an attempt at a bow, which the stiffness of his shirt-collar rendered entirely abortive; “how d’ye do?”

“Oh, how are you, Mr. Jones? I was just looking over the Household Messenger here, reading my daughter ‘Floy’s’ pieces, and thinking what a great thing it is for a child to have a good father. ‘Floy’ was carefully brought up and instructed, and this, you see, is the result. I have been reading several of her pieces to a clergyman, who was in here just now, I keep them on hand in my pocket-book, to exhibit as a proof of what early parental education and guidance may do in developing latent talent, and giving the mind a right direction.”

“I was not aware ‘Floy’ was your daughter,” replied Mr. Jones; “do you know what time she commenced writing? what was the title of her first article and what was her remuneration?”

“Sir?” said Mr. Ellet, wishing to gain a little time, and looking very confused.

“Perhaps I should not ask such questions,” said the innocent Mr. Jones, mistaking the cause of Mr. Ellet’s hesitation; “but I felt a little curiosity to know something of her early progress. What a strong desire you must have felt for her ultimate success; and how much your influence and sympathy must have assisted her. Do you know whether her remuneration at the commencement of her career as a writer, was above the ordinary average of pay?”

“Yes – no – really, Mr. Jones, I will not venture to say, lest I should make a mistake; my memory is apt to be so treacherous.”

“She wrote merely for amusement, I suppose; there could be no necessity in your daughter’s case,” said the blundering Mr. Jones.

“Certainly not,” replied Mr. Ellet.

“It is astonishing how she can write so feelingly about the poor,” said Mr. Jones; “it is so seldom that an author succeeds in depicting truthfully those scenes for which he draws solely upon the imagination.”

“My daughter, ‘Floy,’ has a very vivid imagination,” replied Mr. Ellet, nervously. “Women generally have, I believe; they are said to excel our sex in word-painting.”

“I don’t know but it may be so,” said Jones. “‘Floy’ certainly possesses it in an uncommon degree. It is difficult else to imagine, as I said before, how a person, who has always been surrounded with comfort and luxury, could describe so feelingly the other side of the picture. It is remarkable. Do you know how much she has realized by her writings?”

“There, again,” said the disturbed Mr. Ellet, “my memory is at fault; I am not good at statistics.”

“Some thousands, I suppose,” replied Mr. Jones. “Well, how true it is, that ‘to him who hath shall be given!’ Now, here is your literary daughter, who has no need of money, realizes a fortune by her books, while many a destitute and talented writer starves on a crust.”

“Yes,” replied Mr. Ellet, “the ways of Providence are inscrutable.”

CHAPTER LXXXVIII

“Female literature seems to be all the rage now,” remarked a gentleman, who was turning over the volumes in Mr. Develin’s book store, No. 6 Literary Row. “Who are your most successful lady authors?”

“Miss Pyne,” said Mr. Develin, “authoress of ‘Shadows,’ Miss Taft, authoress of ‘Sunbeams,’ and Miss Bitman, authoress of ‘Fairyland.’”

“I have been told,” said the gentleman, “that ‘Life Sketches,’ by ‘Floy,’ has had an immense sale – a larger one, in fact, than any of the others; is that so?”

“It has had a tolerable sale,” answered Mr. Develin, coldly. “I might have published it, I suppose, had I applied; but I had a very indifferent opinion of the literary talent of the authoress. The little popularity it has had, is undoubtedly owing to the writer being a sister of Hyacinth Ellet, the Editor of ‘The Irving Magazine.’”

“But is she his sister,” said the gentleman; “there are many rumors afloat; one hardly knows what to believe.”

“No doubt of it,” said Mr. Develin; “in fact, I, myself, know it to be true. ‘Floy’ is his sister; and it is altogether owing to the transferring of her articles, by him, to the columns of his paper, and his liberal endorsement of them, that she has had any success.”

“Indeed,” said the gentleman; “why I was a subscriber both for ‘The Standard,’ when her first article appeared in it, and also for ‘The Irving Magazine,’ and I am very sure that nothing of hers was copied in the latter until she had acquired an enviable popularity all over the Union. No, sir,” said Mr. Walter, (for it was he,) “I know a great deal more about ‘Floy’ and her writings than you can tell me, and some little about yourself. I have often heard of the version you give of this matter, and I came in to satisfy myself if it had been correctly reported to me. Now, allow me to set you right, sir,” said he, with a stern look. “The Editor of ‘The Irving Magazine’ never recognized ‘Floy’ as his sister, till the universal popular voice had pronounced its verdict in her favor. Then, when the steam was up, and the locomotive whizzing past, he jumps on, and says, ‘how fast we go!’”

“I think you are mistaken, sir,” replied Mr. Develin, with a faint attempt to retain his position.

“I am not mistaken, sir; I know, personally, that in the commencement of her literary career, when one or two articles of hers were copied into his paper by an assistant in the office, he positively forbade her nom de plume being again mentioned, or another of her articles copied into the Irving Magazine. He is a miserable time-server, sir. Fashion is his God; he recognizes only the drawing-room side of human nature. Sorrow in satin he can sympathize with, but sorrow in rags is too plebeian for his exquisite organization.