University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.
MISS GILBERT COMPLETES HER NOVEL—A GREAT SUCCESS, IN
THE OPINION OF HER FRIENDS.

The snow had passed away, and Spring, shy-faced,
and shivering under sheltered rocks, had breathed the
sweet arbutus into bloom, and sky-born bluebirds
came down on the air of wondrous mornings, with
throats full of fresh and fragrant melody. The days grew
still and long. On the hills around the village of
Crampton, the sugar-fires were smoking; and in the
yards of the quiet dwellings the sturdy chopper's axe
was swung all day long above the winter-gathered piles.
Sounds came from a great way off, startling the universal
stillness. Dogs basked all day on southern door-steps,
and cattle, turned out from dark stalls, tried horns
and heads with each other, or frisked in ungraceful,
elephantine play. There was a sound in the earth, as if
myriad fairies were at work preparing juices for the
grass and fruits and flowers—a sound of tiny footsteps
and multitudinous bells, deep down in caverns and dingles;
and here and there a bank smiled back in downy
green the sun's first radiant favors.

On one of these beautiful spring days, Miss Fanny
Gilbert, grown weary and thin with her hard winter's
labor, sat in her room, giving the finishing touches to
her novel. It had been a task of far greater magnitude
than she had anticipated. Oftentimes she had been
quite discouraged. Animated by no purpose but to
win popular applause, the day of repayment for all her
self-denial and labor seemed so far distant, that not unfrequently
she felt tempted to throw her manuscript into
the fire. Had she been at work for money, or had
she been animated by a desire to accomplish some great
reform, or had she been engaged in doing some work of
duty, as one of God's willing laborers, then she might
have been content. But always the eye of the public
was upon her. What will the critics think of this?
What will the world think of this? What shall be the
reward, in popular praise, for all this tax upon the heart
and brain, and all this toil of hand? These were the
questions that were always before her. Frequently her
pen dropped from her fingers, and her imagination flew
away like a bee to nestle among the flowers and suck
the honey that were not yet hers.

Dr. Gilbert had been too decided in his opposition
to Fanny's project, to betray any anxiety to make himself
acquainted with its progress; yet he was very curious
to see the new book, or to hear it read. It had
been enough for Aunt Catharine that the doctor opposed
his daughter to secure her sympathy for the
young authoress, and as Fanny felt praise to be absolutely
necessary to her, she had read every chapter to
her aunt, and had been very much inspired by the good
woman's comments. Aunt Catharine said there was a

great deal more love in it than she cared any thing
about, but it was “real good, every bit of it.” Fanny
had not a very high regard for her aunt's literary judgment,
but she got the praise, and the praise answered
its purpose.

Fanny laid aside her manuscript, and raised the
window of her room, upon which the sun shone warmly,
and looked upon the scene. Her weary brain and heart
sought for refreshment. She remembered the springs
that had come and gone during her childhood and girlhood,
recalled the golden time when a perfect spring-day
flooded all her sensibilities with sunshine, and crowded
her heart to overflowing with a sweet, exultant joy. She
recalled the pervasive spirit of poetry that informed and
enveloped the rudest objects, warmed by the sun of
spring, and longed, in forgetfulness of self and of care,
to bathe her heart in it once more. Oh! for the fresh,
innocent, careless gladness in existence that had once
held its honeyed centre in her soul!

She looked out, saw the sun and the deep blue sky,
heard the carol of the bluebird, marked the smoke
slowly curling up from the sugar-groves, listened to the
awaking murmurs of the season, watched the uncouth
gambols of the rude forms of life in the farm-yard; but
the old joy would not come back to her. Her heart
seemed dry and dead—only living in an unsatisfied
yearning. Her sensibilities, kept tense through the long
winter, and overwrought among scenes of fictitious joy
and woe, refused to respond to the simple influences of
nature. There was no spring for her. She had stood
so long in a false attitude with relation to a true, natural
life, and had labored so long in obedience to an

illegitimate motive, that nature could find no open passage
to her soul—no responsive chamber within it.

It was noon. Across the common, the door of the
old school-house opened, and forth poured a chattering
throng of boys and girls. They seemed like so many
senseless dolts to her. Their noise annoyed—almost
disgusted her. She preferred, after all, her own insensitive
isolation to joy that had no meaning in it, and
pleasure that could not reason of itself. Soon the form
of Mary Hammett made its appearance. She passed
through the group, and every eye seemed to turn to her
in love. With a calm step, looking up and around, and
apparently drinking in with fulness of delight the influences
of the day, she crossed the common and entered
the dwelling of Mrs. Blague. Fanny watched for her
appearance at her window, separated from her own by
two or three patches of garden. Miss Hammett entered
her room, raised her window, looked out without seeing
her friend, and then turned back. But Fanny could not
keep her eyes from the window of her neighbor, whom,
in one or two interviews, she had learned to respect
profoundly. At length she caught the sound of a low
song, rising and falling in Miss Hammett's room; and
then there burst out, sweet and clear as the notes of the
bluebird on the elm that drooped over the house, the
words:

Ah! yes. Fanny's heart was greedy for the praise of
men—thirsting for the adoration of the world—and it
was dry. Her neighbor's heart was overflowing with
adoration and praise of the paternal fountain of her life,
and it was as fresh as if it were beaded with the dew of
childhood. For the moment, the massive manuscript
upon her table looked utterly meaningless and worthless
to her. Had the paper been blank, it would have
seemed of higher value. She recalled her mother's pious
counsels, her neglect of her own higher duties, and then
she closed her window and wept. How happy are
those, thought Miss Gilbert, who have no ambition,
who have never tasted the world's praise, and do not feel
moved to great achievements to secure it! Would
God she were like others! The womanly nature was,
for the moment, predominant within her, and she longed
for sympathy—longed to pour out her heart to Mary
Hammett.

If Miss Hammett would hear her book, and advise
her, would it not be well? She would go and see her.
But if the young woman should not like her book, and
should tell her so, how would she receive the criticism?
Her whole nature, she felt, would revolt against the adverse
judgment at once. If Miss Hammett should be
pleased, it would be very well; if displeased, she would
turn upon her heel and rely upon herself.

Nightfall came, and with it the close of Miss Hammett's
school for the day. When Fanny saw the teacher
enter Mrs. Blague's dwelling, she threw a shawl upon
her shoulders, and walked over to call upon her. Miss
Hammett invited Fanny to her room, and after a
brief conversation the latter said: “Miss Hammett, I
have been doing a very foolish and a very indiscreet
thing.”

“The first, I presume, in your life,” said Miss
Hammett with a smile; “but confession half-atones for
it.”

“You cannot guess what it is.”

“I am a very indifferent guesser,” said Miss Hammett.
“You are not engaged?”

“No,” and Miss Gilbert laughed almost derisively.

“You haven't kissed the cat?”

“No.”

“Nor your father?”

“No,” and then Miss Gilbert laughed merrily.

“You see I can never guess,” said Miss Hammett,
“and you may as well tell me at once.”

“I have written a book.”

Miss Hammett held up both hands in astonishment,
that had quite as much of the genuine as of the fictitious
in it. “There is only one thing worse than this that I
know of,” said she, and shook her head with mock seriousness.

“What is that?” inquired Fanny.

“To publish it.”

Fanny's eye flashed, the color mounted to her forehead,
her lip quivered, and her tongue refused its office.
Miss Hammett was on her knees in a moment, and
throwing her arms tenderly around Fanny's waist, exclaimed:
“Dear! dear! what have I done? Tell me,
Miss Gilbert—have I offended you? Have I wounded
you?”

Ah! how the woman in Fanny melted before this
delicate demonstration! She bowed her head on Miss
Hammett's shoulder, and there in a precious embrace
she poured out her heart, revealing all her hopes, ambitions,

expectations. When it was all over, both rose
to their feet, and, with their arms around each other,
paced back and forth in the apartment. Miss Hammett,
whose quick sensibility and insight had enabled her to
read her companion's heart at once, was pained. “We
are very different to each other,” said she. “To me,
the idea of making my name public property—of permitting
it to go abroad as an author, subject to criticism,
and to unjust and frivolous judgments—the
thought of being talked about in private parlors and
public places, and of coining my heart's best emotions
and my sweetest imaginations into words which the
world can use as a glass by which it may read my life,
is very terrible. If I could write books, I might possibly
do so; but I could only be induced to allow them
to be published by the assurance that I should never be
known as their author.”

“And have you no desire to be admired, to be loved,
to be praised by the world?” inquired Miss Gilbert
warmly.

“By my world, yes;” and Miss Hammett's eyes
filled with tears. “Miss Gilbert, the time will come
when even one soul will be more than all the world to
you—when you would give all the praises of the world's
thousand millions—when you would give the sun, moon,
and stars, if they were yours, to monopolize the admiration,
the love, and the praise of one man. A woman's
true world is a very small world in its dimensions, yet
it is the heart's universe. The great world is fickle, and
must be so. It lifts its idols to their pedestals, and
worships them for an hour; then it kicks them off, and
grinds them into ruin, that other and fresher objects

of worship may take their places. Besides, a woman
cannot be content to be a sharer. She claims monopoly,
and, in the richest world she ever knows, she has
it.”

Fanny made no immediate response, and the pair
walked back and forth in silence for a minute. At
length she said: “And has fame positively no charms
for you? Do you never envy those kings and queens
in the realm of intellect, who walk, in the sight of the
people, with crowns upon their heads?”

“Envy them, Miss Gilbert? I pity them—rather,
perhaps, I am grateful that God did not impose upon
me their responsibilities, their labors, their isolation,
and their sad temptations to envy each other. I have
no experience to inform me, and no direct testimony
from the experience of those I have known; but my
heart tells me that the sweetest reward of great achievements
is the excitement to a tenderer love, and a more
thorough devotion of the one heart and the little circle
of hearts with which the author holds direct personal
communion. A great man, without a loving heart at
his side, or a circle of loving hearts around him, must,
it seems to me, have a love for all mankind, such as
only a great Christian heart can know, to keep him from
committing suicide. My heart tells me, too, that we
can only find reward in working for those we love. A
woman, working for the world's praise, will always
have to measure the satisfaction she finds in that praise
by the same cup that holds her love. How much do
you love the world, Miss Fanny?”

“I don't know—I haven't thought—it is all new to

me,” replied Fanny, convinced for the moment of her
selfishness.

“Now,” said Miss Hammett, kissing her companion,
“I will stop preaching. I am sure I did not mean to
let my tongue run on so. But you shall preach to me
now. Do me the favor to read your book to me, will
you? It will be delightful employment for half a dozen
evenings.”

“I came here on purpose to ask you to hear me read
it,” replied Fanny.

“You are very kind.”

“On the contrary,” said Fanny, “I am entirely selfish.
I wish to have you tell me what you think of it,
and to suggest alterations where you see opportunities
for improvement.”

“Ah! Miss Gilbert, I'm afraid,” replied Miss Hammett,
shaking her head, and looking pleasantly into
Fanny's eyes. “I'm afraid, I'm afraid.”

“Really, now,” said Fanny earnestly, “I want your
opinion of my book, and I promise to be reasonable,
and tractable, and patient.”

“I can deny you no service,” replied Miss Hammett,
“but if I engage to criticize your book, I cannot
enjoy it. Criticism and enjoyment never go hand in
hand. If I had undertaken to criticize even this beautiful
morning, it would have shut out all the joy it
brought me. So you see that I am very selfish, too.”

“You do not decline?” said Fanny.

“No, I do not decline, but you must promise me
some things first. You must promise to regard me as
an elder sister—one who loves you, and has a real interest
in your happiness and your success—as one

whose pain it would be to pain you—as one whose love
and truth to you can only be vindicated in a matter like
this by the most thorough faithfulness. Further than
this, you shall promise that whatever may be the result
of our interviews over your book, it shall never interfere
with our friendship.”

“I promise—in token of which I hereby—” the act
took the place of the word, the act being performed
by organs that could not speak and kiss at the same
time.

So Fanny promised that after tea she would bring
in her book, and begin the task agreed upon. As she
left the door of Mrs. Blague, she felt that she had been
shorn of some very comfortable delusions. She had
caught a pretty distinct glimpse of her own heart, and
of the worthless nature of its ruling motives. Her
book, that had looked so large to her, and had seemed
to fill so much of the world, had become almost contemptible.
She was about to commit it to the critical
eye of the village schoolmistress—lately a factory-girl
—at most, a very insignificant portion of that great
public for which the book was written; yet her heart
sank within her. Miss Hammett loved her, and would
be kind, yet she shrank from her judgment. How
would she fare with the great world that did not love
her, and would not be kind?

The story of the subsequent interviews between
the authoress and her gentle critic would be tedious,
and needs not to be told. With the tact of a truly kind
heart, Miss Hammett praised the excellencies of the
book, and pointed out its defects. When alone, Fanny
often quarrelled with the judgment that had been rendered—rebelled

against it—but ended by adopting it,
and profiting by it. Many pages she rewrote entirely,
but her self-love was grievously wounded during the
process, and it was only by the severest self-discipline
that she was kept from entertaining bitter and unworthy
thoughts of the kind woman who had humiliated her.
It was not pleasant to think that the book was better
for Miss Hammett's ministry. It was not agreeable to
remember that her own good judgment had been called
in question, and that she had been obliged, as a rational
woman, to yield the point.

But there was another ordeal, lying between Miss
Hammett and the public. Her father had not heard the
book read, and she knew that he would not allow it to
be published until he should become acquainted with its
contents in some way. Though shaken by the arguments
and the sentiments of the schoolmistress, she had
never for a moment relinquished the idea of publication.
Her overweening desire for public applause had slept at
intervals, but it had only slept to awake with new vigor.
As she passed out from Miss Hammett's immediate
personal influence, the old dream of fame and a career
filled her and enveloped her.

She was shrewd enough, and knew enough of her
father's character, to detect the real gratification he felt,
when, with assumed coolness, he received the announcement
that her book was concluded. It belonged to a
class of books, he said, that he never read, and he felt
himself incompetent, in many respects, to judge of its
merits. Would it not be well to invite in Mr. and Mrs.
Wilton? Both were people of taste and culture, and
he should rely much upon their judgment.

Fanny declared herself ready for any arrangement,
and the doctor walked over to the parsonage, and talked
up the matter with the good pastor and his wife. They
were ready for the proposition of the doctor. They always
were ready for any proposition of the doctor. He
ruled the parish, and they had a profound respect for
him, partly from that fact, and partly from the fact that
he was honestly worthy of it.

Fanny approached this ordeal without a particle of
trepidation. Miss Hammett had helped her to a more
just appreciation of her book than she had before possessed.
She knew where it was strong, and she felt,
furthermore, that those who would listen to her were
more in sympathy with the motive which actuated her
than Miss Hammett had been. The evening for the
reading was set, and, at the appointed hour, Miss Fanny
Gilbert had her audience about her. Aunt Catharine,
who had heard it all piecemeal, wished to hear it entire,
and was in her seat. Fanny began, and as, occasionally,
she looked out upon her auditors, the eager look,
the expression of undisguised interest, filled her with
proud satisfaction. Mr. Wilton gave frequent exclamations
of delight, and the reader gathered new excitement
with every page. Her eyes flashed, her cheeks
glowed, her voice grew round and full and flexible, and
her audience looked on and listened in astonishment.
Dr. Gilbert, as he became aware of the impression produced
upon the others, forgot his resolution to be cool
and reserved, and took no pains to conceal his gratification.
Mr. Wilton was amazed. Mrs. Wilton was
overwhelmed. The voice of the reader flowed on and
on, never faltering, never pausing. The little clock

with its tiny bell struck the hours, but no one heard
it. “Eight—nine—ten—eleven—twelve—” articulated
with silver sound the silvery-sounding revelation; and
then the last page was tossed from Miss Gilbert's
hands. Mrs. Wilton threw her arms around Fanny's
neck, and kissed her again and again. Mr. Wilton, inspired
about equally with the book and the pretty scene
enacted between his wife and Fanny, jumped to his feet,
and clapped his hands wildly. Ah, Dr. Gilbert! Dr.
Gilbert! Why can you not sit still? What are you
doing? Shaking hands with Aunt Catharine, and laughing
like a madman, to keep yourself from crying! Ah,
Dr. Gilbert! what a fool!

And what did Fanny do? What did Fanny say?
Nothing, but she thought this: “If I could only get
the ear of the worlds as I have got the ears of these! If
I could only get the praise of the world as I get the
praise of these!” The evening's triumph was only
significant to her as an earnest of a prouder triumph to
come, and an assurance of the co-operation of her father
in her schemes. She received his congratulations
amiably, but in that queenly kind of way which showed
that she regarded them as her right, rendered to her as
a matter of course.

“It's getting rather late,” said the doctor, pulling
out his watch and winding it, “but you would oblige us
very much, Mr. Wilton, by advising us with relation to
a publisher.”

Fanny smiled at her father's ready assumption of
partnership, and recalled the scene in which he played
so different a part in the early history of her enterprise;
but she said nothing, while Mr. Wilton rubbed the spot

on his head where he had apparently laid aside a list of
publishers, and prepared his opinion of their respective
merits.

“There's the great house of the Kilgores,” suggested
Mr. Wilton. They have a larger list of publications, and
a larger correspondence, than any other house in the
country.

Dr. Gilbert frowned, and drummed on the arms of
his chair. “Is it not possible,” said he, “that, in consequence
of such a range of business, they would fail
to give to the work that degree of consideration which
our interest, not to say any thing of its merits, demands?”

“Possibly,” responded the pastor, adding, “then
there is the enterprising house of Kapp & Demigh.
They are famous, you know, for advertising freely, and
pushing things. I should say the Kilgores, if you can
get them, and Kapp & Demigh if the Kilgores decline
—an event which, I confess, does not seem very likely
to take place.”

“I have no fears,” said Fanny proudly, “if they will
read the book.”

“I'm sure you need not have any, my dear,” responded
Mrs. Wilton warmly.

“Well, perhaps we had better write to both,” said
the doctor, with a shrewd twinkle of the eye, “and if
they should both want the book, it may help us to get
more favorable terms.”

So it was settled, and the Wiltons took their leave.
The doctor then advanced to the table, and copied into
his note-book the name of the volume which he had decided
to offer through the mail to the great publishing

firms of Kilgore Brothers, and Kapp & Demigh, and
this was the record:

TRISTRAM TREVANION;
OR,
THE HOUNDS OF THE WHIPPOORWILL HILLS:
A Nobel,
BY EVERARD EVEREST, Gent.

“Why do you choose the name of a gentleman for
your nom de plume, Fanny?” inquired the doctor,
spelling over the name slowly, to see if he had got it
right.

“Oh! a fancy,” replied Fanny languidly. “Besides,
it seems to me to be written in a masculine style.”

“But I—I should think you would like to have
your own name associated with the book,” suggested
the doctor.

“If it should prove to be a success,” replied Fanny,
“there are ways enough, I suppose, for securing such an
association. Meantime, a little mystery will hurt nothing,
and may help a great deal.”

The doctor, wholly unsophisticated in matters of
authorship, did not see through the whole of his daughter's
plan, but he saw that she had a plan with which
she was satisfied, and thought best to trust her. Fanny
gathered up her manuscript, and bidding her father
“good night,” retired to her room.

It was impossible, of course, for Dr. Gilbert to go to
bed with work undone, that it was possible to do. So
he took his pen, and addressed to the great publishing
house of the Kilgores in New York the following letter,
a duplicate of which he also wrote and addressed to
Messrs. Kapp & Demigh:

Dr. Gilbert re-read his twin epistles carefully, folded
and sealed them, and went to bed.