University of Virginia Library

24. CHAPTER XXIV.
MUSTERING OF FORCES.

NOT long after the tableau performance had made
Myrtle Hazard's name famous in the school and
among the friends of the scholars, she received the very
flattering attention of a call from Mrs. Clymer Ketchum,
of 24 Carat Place. This was in consequence of a suggestion
from Mr. Livingston Jenkins, a particular friend of the
family.

“They 've got a demonish splendid school-girl over
there,” he said to that lady, — “made the stunningest-looking
Pocahontas at the show there the other day. Demonish
plucky-looking filly as ever you saw. Had a row with
another girl, — gave the war-whoop, and went at her with
a knife. Festive, — hey? Say she only meant to scare
her, — looked as if she meant to stick her, anyhow. Splendid
style. Why can't you go over to the shop and make
'em trot her out?”

The lady promised Mr. Livingston Jenkins that she
certainly would, just as soon as she could find a moment's
leisure, — which, as she had nothing in the world to do,
was not likely to be very soon. Myrtle in the mean time
was busy with her studies, little dreaming what an extraordinary
honor was awaiting her.

That rare accident in the lives of people who have
nothing to do, a leisure morning, did at last occur. An
elegant carriage, with a coachman in a wonderful cape,
seated on a box lofty as a throne, and wearing a hat-band

as brilliant as a coronet, stopped at the portal of Madam
Delacoste's establishment. A card was sent in bearing
the open sesame of Mrs. Clymer Ketchum, the great lady
of 24 Carat Place. Miss Myrtle Hazard was summoned
as a matter of course, and the fashionable woman and the
young girl sat half an hour together in lively conversation.

Myrtle was fascinated by her visitor, who had that
flattering manner which, to those not experienced in the
world's ways, seems to imply unfathomable depths of disinterested
devotion. Then it was so delightful to look
upon a perfectly appointed woman, — one who was as
artistically composed as a poem or an opera, — in whose
costume a kind of various rhythm undulated in one fluent
harmony, from the spray that nodded on her bonnet to the
rosette that blossomed on her sandal. As for the lady,
she was captivated with Myrtle. There is nothing that
your fashionable woman, who has ground and polished her
own spark of life into as many and as glittering social
facets as it will bear, has a greater passion for than a
large rough diamond, which knows nothing of the sea of
light it imprisons, and which it will be her pride to have
cut into a brilliant under her own eye, and to show the
world for its admiration and her own reflected glory.
Mrs. Clymer Ketchum had taken the entire inventory of
Myrtle's natural endowments before the interview was
over. She had no marriageable children, and she was
thinking what a killing bait Myrtle would be at one of her
stylish parties.

She soon got another letter from Mr. William Murray
Bradshaw, which explained the interest he had taken in
Madam Delacoste's school, — all which she knew pretty
nearly beforehand, for she had found out a good part of

Myrtle's history in the half-hour they had spent in company.

“I had a particular reason for my inquiries about the
school,” he wrote. “There is a young girl there I take
an interest in. She is handsome and interesting, and —
though it is a shame to mention such a thing — has possibilities
in the way of fortune not to be undervalued.
Why can't you make her acquaintance and be civil to
her? A country girl, but fine old stock, and will make
a figure some time or other, I tell you. Myrtle Hazard,
— that's her name. A mere school-girl. Don't be malicious
and badger me about her, but be polite to her.
Some of these country girls have got `blue blood' in them,
let me tell you, and show it plain enough.”

(“In huckleberry season!”) said Mrs. Clymer Ketchum,
in a parenthesis, — and went on reading.

“Don't think I'm one of your love-in-a-cottage sort, to
have my head turned by a village beauty. I 've got
a career before me, Mrs. K., and I know it. But this is
one of my pets, and I want you to keep an eye on her.
Perhaps when she leaves school you would n't mind asking
her to come and stay with you a little while. Possibly
I may come and see how she is getting on if you do, —
won't that tempt you, Mrs. C. K.?”

Mrs. Clymer Ketchum wrote back to her relative how
she had already made the young lady's acquaintance.

“Livingston Jenkins (you remember him) picked her
out of the whole lot of girls as the `prettiest filly in the
stable.' That 's his horrid way of talking. But your
young milkmaid is really charming, and will come into
form like a Derby three-year-old. There, now, I 've
caught that odious creature's horse-talk, myself. You 're
dead in love with this girl, Murray, you know you are.

“After all, I don't know but you 're right. You would
make a good country lawyer enough, I don't doubt. I
used to think you had your ambitions, but never mind.
If you choose to risk yourself on `possibilities,' it is not
my affair, and she 's a beauty, — there 's no mistake about
that.

“There are some desirable partis at the school with
your dulcinea. There 's Rose Bugbee. That last name
is a good one to be married from. Rose is a nice girl, —
there are only two of them. The estate will cut up like
one of the animals it was made out of, — you know, —
the sandwich-quadruped. Then there 's Berengaria. Old
Topping owns the Planet Hotel among other things, —
so big, they say, there 's always a bell ringing from somebody's
room day and night the year round. Only child
— unit and six ciphers — carries diamonds loose in her
pocket — that 's the story — good-looking — lively — a little
slangy — called Livingston Jenkins `Living Jingo' to
his face one day. I want you to see my lot before you do
anything serious. You owe something to the family, Mr.
William Murray Bradshaw! But you must suit yourself,
after all: if you are contented with a humble position in
life, it is nobody's business that I know of. Only I know
what life is, Murray B. Getting married is jumping overboard,
any way you look at it, and if you must save some
woman from drowning an old maid, try to find one with a
cork jacket, or she 'll carry you down with her.”

Murray Bradshaw was calculating enough, but he shook
his head over this letter. It was too demonish cold-blooded
for him, he said to himself. (Men cannot pardon women
for saying aloud what they do not hesitate to think in silence
themselves.) Never mind, — he must have Mrs.

Clymer Ketchum's house and influence for his own purposes.
Myrtle Hazard must become her guest, and then,
if circumstances were favorable, he was certain of obtaining
her aid in his project.

The opportunity to invite Myrtle to the great mansion
presented itself unexpectedly. Early in the spring of 1861
there were some cases of sickness in Madam Delacoste's establishment,
which led to closing the school for a while.
Mrs. Clymer Ketchum took advantage of the dispersion of
the scholars to ask Myrtle to come and spend some weeks
with her. There were reasons why this was more agreeable
to the young girl than returning to Oxbow Village, and
she very gladly accepted the invitation.

It was very remarkable that a man living as Master
Byles Gridley had lived for so long a time should all at
once display such liberality as he showed to a young
woman who had no claim upon him, except that he had
rescued her from the consequences of her own imprudence
and warned her against impending dangers. Perhaps he
cared more for her than if the obligation had been the
other way, — students of human nature say it is commonly
so. At any rate, either he had ampler resources than it
was commonly supposed, or he was imprudently giving
way to his generous impulses, or he thought he was making
advances which would in due time be returned to him.
Whatever the reason was, he furnished her with means,
not only for her necessary expenses, but sufficient to afford
her many of the elegances which she would be like to
want in the fashionable society with which she was for a
short time to mingle.

Mrs. Clymer Ketchum was so well pleased with the
young lady she was entertaining, that she thought it worth

while to give a party while Myrtle was staying with her.
She had her jealousies and rivalries, as women of the world
will, sometimes, and these may have had their share in
leading her to take the trouble a large party involved.
She was tired of the airs of Mrs. Pinnikle, who was of the
great Apex family, and her terribly accomplished daughter
Rhadamantha, and wanted to crush the young lady, and
jaundice her mother, with a girl twice as brilliant and ten
times handsomer. She was very willing, also, to take the
nonsense out of the Capsheaf girls, who thought themselves
the most stylish personages of their city world, and would
bite their lips well to see themselves distanced by a country
miss.

In the mean time circumstances were promising to bring
into Myrtle's neighborhood several of her old friends and
admirers. Mrs. Clymer Ketchum had written to Murray
Bradshaw that she had asked his pretty milkmaid to come
and stay awhile with her, but he had been away on business,
and only arrived in the city a day or two before
the party. But other young fellows had found out the
attractions of the girl who was “hanging out at the Clymer
Ketchum concern,” and callers were plenty, reducing tête
à-têtes in a corresponding ratio. He did get one opportunity,
however, and used it well. They had so many things
to talk about in common, that she could not help finding
him good company. She might well be pleased, for he
was an adept in the curious art of being agreeable, as other
people are in chess or billiards, and had made a special
study of her tastes, as a physician studies a patient's constitution.
What he wanted was to get her thoroughly interested
in himself, and to maintain her in a receptive
condition until such time as he should be ready for a final

move. Any day might furnish the decisive motive; in
the mean time he wished only to hold her as against all
others.

It was well for her, perhaps, that others had flattered
her into a certain consciousness of her own value. She
felt her veins full of the same rich blood as that which had
flushed the cheeks of handsome Judith in the long summer
of her triumph. Whether it was vanity, or pride, or only
the instinctive sense of inherited force and attraction, it was
the best of defences. The golden bracelet on her wrist
seemed to have brought as much protection with it as if it
had been a shield over her heart.

But far away in Oxbow Village other events were in
preparation. The “fugitive pieces” of Mr. Gifted Hopkins
had now reached a number so considerable, that, if
collected and printed in large type, with plenty of what
the unpleasant printers call “fat,” — meaning thereby
blank spaces, — upon a good, substantial, not to say thick
paper, they might perhaps make a volume which would
have substance enough to bear the title, printed lengthwise
along the back, “Hopkins's Poems.” Such a volume that
author had in contemplation. It was to be the literary
event of the year 1861.

He could not mature such a project, one which he had
been for some time contemplating, without consulting Mr.
Byles Gridley, who, though he had not unfrequently repressed
the young poet's too ardent ambition, had yet
always been kind and helpful.

Mr. Gridley was seated in his large arm-chair, indulging
himself in the perusal of a page or two of his own work
before repeatedly referred to. His eye was glistening, for
it had just rested on the following passage: —

“There is infinite pathos in unsuccessful authorship.
The book that perishes unread is the deaf mute of literature.
The great asylum of Oblivion is full of such, making
inaudible signs to each other in leaky garrets and unattainable
dusty upper shelves.”

He shut the book, for the page grew a little dim as he
finished this elegiac sentence, and sighed to think how
much more keenly he felt its truth than when it was written,
— than on that memorable morning when he saw the
advertisement in all the papers, “This day published,
`Thoughts on the Universe. By Byles Gridley, A. M.”'

At that moment he heard a knock at his door. He
closed his eyelids forcibly for ten seconds, opened them,
and said cheerfully, “Come in!”

Gifted Hopkins entered. He had a collection of manuscripts
in his hands which it seemed to him would fill
a vast number of pages. He did not know that manuscript
is to type what fresh dandelions are to the dish of
greens that comes to table, of which last Nurse Byloe, who
considered them very wholesome spring grazing for her
patients, used to say that they “biled down dreadful.”

“I have brought the autographs of my poems, Master
Gridley, to consult you about making arrangements for
publication. They have been so well received by the public
and the leading critics of this part of the State, that I
think of having them printed in a volume. I am going to
the city for that purpose. My mother has given her consent.
I wish to ask you several business questions. Shall
I part with the copyright for a downright sum of money,
which I understand some prefer doing, or publish on
shares, or take a percentage on the sales? These, I believe,
are the different ways taken by authors.”

Mr. Gridley was altogether too considerate to reply with
the words which would most naturally have come to his
lips. He waited as if he were gravely pondering the important
questions just put to him, all the while looking at
Gifted with a tenderness which no one who had not buried
one of his soul's children could have felt for a young author
trying to get clothing for his newborn intellectual off
spring.

“I think,” he said presently, “you had better talk with
an intelligent and liberal publisher, and be guided by his
advice. I can put you in correspondence with such a
person, and you had better trust him than me a great deal.
Why don't you send your manuscript by mail?”

“What, Mr. Gridley? Trust my poems, some of which
are unpublished, to the post-office? No, sir, I could never
make up my mind to such a risk. I mean to go to the
city myself, and read them to some of the leading publishers.
I don't want to pledge myself to any one of them.
I should like to set them bidding against each other for the
copyright, if I sell it at all.”

Mr. Gridley gazed upon the innocent youth with a
sweet wonder in his eyes that made him look like an angel,
a little damaged in the features by time, but full of celestial
feelings.

“It will cost you something to make this trip, Gifted.
Have you the means to pay for your journey and your
stay at a city hotel?”

Gifted blushed. “My mother has laid by a small sum
for me,” he said. “She knows some of my poems by
heart, and she wants to see them all in print.”

Master Gridley closed his eyes very firmly again, as if
thinking, and opened them as soon as the foolish film had

left them. He had read many a page of “Thoughts on
the Universe” to his own old mother, long, long years ago,
and she had often listened with tears of modest pride that
Heaven had favored her with a son so full of genius.

“I 'll tell you what, Gifted,” he said. “I have been
thinking for a good while that I would make a visit to the
city, and if you have made up your mind to try what you
can do with the publishers, I will take you with me as a
companion. It will be a saving to you and your good
mother, for I shall bear the expenses of the expedition.”

Gifted Hopkins came very near going down on his
knees. He was so overcome with gratitude that it seemed
as if his very coat-tails wagged with his emotion.

“Take it quietly,” said Master Gridley. “Don't make
a fool of yourself. Tell your mother to have some clean
shirts and things ready for you, and we will be off day
after to-morrow morning.”

Gifted hastened to impart the joyful news to his mother,
and to break the fact to Susan Posey that he was about to
leave them for a while, and rush into the deliriums and
dangers of the great city.

Susan smiled. Gifted hardly knew whether to be
pleased with her sympathy, or vexed that she did not take
his leaving more to heart. The smile held out bravely for
about a quarter of a minute. Then there came on a little
twitching at the corners of the mouth. Then the blue
eyes began to shine with a kind of veiled glimmer. Then
the blood came up into her cheeks with a great rush, as if
the heart had sent up a herald with a red flag from the
citadel to know what was going on at the outworks. The
message that went back was of discomfiture and capitulation.
Poor Susan was overcome, and gave herself up to
weeping and sobbing.

The sight was too much for the young poet. In a wild
burst of passion he seized her hand, and pressed it to his
lips, exclaiming, “Would that you could be mine forever!”
and Susan forgot all that she ought to have remembered,
and, looking half reproachfully but half tenderly through
her tears, said, in tones of infinite sweetness, “O Gifted!”