Part 6

For this reason it was all the more remarkable that such an exclamation as the one recorded should have escaped him. His duties included such an endless amount of boredom that the perusal of a manuscript which could have had such words applied to it would have been cause for immense gratulation to him, had it been its merit which had called forth such an expression. As a matter of fact, it was not this, but rather a very extraordinary coincidence.

Mr. Black was possessed of a marvellous insight into the literary demands of his subscribers, and it was this insight which had swelled his list to its present size; and he knew perfectly well that the manuscript now in his hands would have to be refused, as he knew also that the one which he had laid down just before it must share the same fate. And yet to himself, personally, both of these manuscripts had been of deep and peculiar interest.

The first was written in a woman’s hand, and was signed “Ethel Ross,” and, in the note that had accompanied it, Miss Ethel Ross had given her address in a certain small and obscure town. This note, as well as the manuscript itself, had a certain _naïveté_ about it which gave Mr. Black some insight into the writer. The freedom with which the note was written was of a piece with the freedom with which the manuscript was written, and Mr. Black felt pretty sure that both of them were under the protection of a _nom de guerre_. The young lady calling herself Miss Ethel Ross had taken him into her confidence in the amusing way in which a contributor so often confides in an unknown editor. Mr. Black, however, was a very human-hearted editor, and he never objected to these confidences, and even did what he could to give a friendly word of response to the writers, independent of his judgment of the manuscript.

In this instance the writer had acknowledged the fact that this was her first manuscript, and had added that it would probably be her last! She had always heard, she went on to say, that everybody had one story in them, and, if that saying were true, this was her story. She had never thought of writing for publication before, she said, but for certain reasons she had suddenly concluded to make the effort, and the accompanying manuscript was the result.

With these data to go upon, Mr. Black, who was a keen student of human nature, had seen the whole thing as plain as a picture before his eyes, even to the understanding of the “certain reasons.” He felt sure that the need of money had been the reason--a _motif_ for literary effort known to him all too well. There was no indication in either the letter or the manuscript of even the faintest stirring of the divine afflatus of literary creation. There was no hint of any desire for fame. It was distinctly, and he felt sure, honestly, owned, that the writer had emptied herself in this story, and would be incapable of doing anything further. Of all the incentives to writing known to him, the need of money was the only one that fitted this case. And how powerful must that need have been to have caused a woman to write her heart out, as this woman had done here.

The story, if it could be called a story, was absolutely without literary form, and so unfinished in style that no magazine could have ventured to print it. And yet there breathed through it such an exquisite soul of sweetness, such a spirit of refinement, purity, innocence, aspiration and charm, that Mr. Black was tempted to ask her to re-cast the manuscript, leave out the poor attempt at plot, and let the subtle self-analysis appear in the form of entries in a journal, or letters, or something of that sort. There were two reasons against this, though--one was, that he felt that the girl would have been incapable of doing what he wanted, and would simply have made a mess of it; and the other was, that he positively shrank from exposing to public view the secrets of the heart of this young girl. For the keynote of this poor story of hers was the aspiration of a young, innocent, and ardent woman after love. What it described was the hardships of a lot keenly interpenetrated with pain, full of privation of body and soul, obscured by perplexities and difficulties on every side, and yet sweetened, illuminated, glorified, by the possibility of the attainment of the supreme good, which, to this being, at least, was to be found only in love. Here was a creature, if ever words painted truth, whose waiting heart was kept both strong and pure by the sanctification of that hope. The manuscript proved beyond a doubt, that, though she could not write, she could love!

Mr. Black had laid it down, with tenderness and regret, and had rather sadly gone about the task of writing her a note to be sent with the returned manuscript. He had had to harden his heart to this sort of thing so often, that he did not flinch from the plain duty before him, and he would not lead this girl to believe that she could ever write. What he felt like telling her was, that he found himself positively grateful to her for the self-revelation of so pure a heart and so strong a spirit. This, of course, he was not at liberty to express; but he said what he could to soften the blow to her, and he put aside to be returned to the author the manuscript, which was beautifully written (on both sides of the paper, however), and tied with a bit of blue ribbon.

Then he took up the next manuscript, and, to his relief, found it to be in a man’s handwriting. It would help him, he hoped, to efface the impression which its predecessor had made on him. This strong and vigorous writing was unknown to him also, and Mr. Black began to read, with that stirring of possibilities which rises in the jaded mind of the editor at the sight of the work of a perfectly new contributor, and which ninety-nine times out of a hundred ends in disappointment.

This case proved not to be the exceptional one, for this manuscript possessed the same faults of inexperience and lack of literary form as the last one. The letter that accompanied it furnished a further coincidence, in the fact that it acknowledged the use of a _nom de guerre_, and that the present was the first effort of the writer, who, for certain reasons, had been impelled to write this one story, and would probably never write another. The motive, however, in this case, must have been a different one; for this man, who called himself Hugh Robertson, said that he didn’t think his story worth paying for; (This made Mr. Black smile. Could it then be worth publishing?) but he would like to have it come out in this magazine, because its circulation was so large that, in that way, it would reach a great number of readers.

And what, then, was the message for which this Hugh Robertson desired such a wide audience? Mr. Black read the manuscript attentively, and then, after a brief study of the man, as his character was indicated in his note and his handwriting, he constructed his theory of the case. Here was a man, strong, able, successful, surrounded by conditions of prosperity and ease which flatly contradicted the case of Ethel Ross--and yet the keynote to this soul, too, was the all-powerful one of love. Between the two there was a difference, however, for the woman’s heart was attuned to aspiration and the man’s to renunciation. The message from the woman’s heart was that every trial and earthly evil could be borne without complaint, so long as there remained the possibility of the fulfilment of ideal love. The message from the man’s heart was that the fulfilment of ideal love was so well-nigh impossible a thing (though every other fulfilment which the world could give was scant joy in comparison with it), that it behooved one to learn earnestly the lesson of resignation without cynicism. The man’s voice was the stronger of the two, and his message was the nobler, but then there was every indication of its being the outcome of a maturer mind.

It had been as Mr. Black laid down the second manuscript that he had uttered the exclamation already recorded, and the thing that struck him as so very extraordinary was the subtle sort of answering to each other’s needs which these two manuscripts conveyed to his mind. The man’s was as obviously a self-revelation as the woman’s; and the perspicacious editor shrewdly suspected him of being a very shy man, who would not have been able to express himself fully and freely in his own person, and who had therefore sought this means of saying what he had to say to as large an audience as he could reach. Mr. Black could not quite explain why he felt it so, but, in reality, he was convinced that this was a man of influence and importance, who lived a life of active labor, in which he was able to express himself objectively, but who was now, for the first time, giving his soul a subjective expression in this manuscript. The address given by Hugh Robertson was in a great and populous city. It was also in a locality not very far away from the little town from which Ethel Ross had dated her letter. Mr. Black reflected on this fact rather wistfully. He wished that this man and this woman could meet. He could hardly have been the judge of fiction that he was, without a certain amount of romance in him; but, on the other hand, he had an equal amount of common sense, and he saw that the obvious and practical duty of the present moment was to guard the confidence of his contributors in the discharge of his functions as editor.

So he drew a sheet of paper toward him, and wrote his letter to Hugh Robertson. It was much shorter and more restrained than the former one, for no one could fail to recognize in this man a person quite able to stand on his own feet, and yet Mr. Black felt conscious of a regret in this instance, too. A man so strongly capable of renouncing seemed to him the very man who deserved to possess.

Before he had quite finished, he was interrupted by a pressing business demand, so he thrust both the finished and unfinished letters into the drawer of his desk, together with the letters to which they were the answers. Before he left the room, he called one of his assistants and delivered to him the two manuscripts, to be put up for return, and giving the addresses, told the clerk to send on the manuscripts, and he would forward, later in the day, his letters to the two authors.

He hurried away from the room then, and the clerk took the two manuscripts into the outer office, put them up with great precision and care, and in all unconsciousness sent Hugh Robertson’s manuscript to Ethel Ross, and Ethel Ross’s manuscript to Hugh Robertson. He had understood Mr. Black’s very explicit directions, but, in putting up and sealing the two parcels, he had mixed them.

So it came to pass that when Miss Ethel Ross--whose real name, in full, was Ethel Ross Duncan--went on her daily mission to the little postoffice of the small country town, she received one day, not the envelope containing a check, for which she so mightily longed, but a bulky package, which made her very young and ardent heart sink low within her. She really had not expected to have her story returned. It had seemed to her, as she had written it with breathless agitation, in stolen moments, alone in her chamber at night, so palpitatingly interesting, that, as she had ended it, she had felt a positive certainty of seeing those thrilling words turned into print, and of having, in exchange for it, a check which should be large enough for her to carry out a passionate desire of her heart.

It was with difficulty that she could repress her tears as she took the package, which had suddenly become so stale and poor and worthless a thing, and walked homeward with it.

It could hardly be called a home to which she was going back, for she had neither father nor mother to give that sacred character to the shabby little house she now approached. But this house contained, all the same, the being who was at once the source of the sweetest pleasure and the keenest pain in her young life. This was her little brother, who, long ago, had had an injury from a fall, and who had been an invalid and a cripple ever since. The whole responsibility of his care, as well as his support, was upon Ethel, and she had been able to discharge it by means of a position in the village school, which paid her just enough for the bare living of the two. For years her brother’s case had been considered hopeless, and the local doctor, saying he could do no good, had not kept up his visits. Lately, however, Ethel had heard of wonderful things achieved by a distinguished surgeon in a great city not far away, and it had now became an ardent hope in her heart to take little Bob there. She confided this wish to the woman with whom they boarded, but the rural mind is slow to catch enthusiasm, and she had only responded by saying that it would take more money than ever she could scrape together. Ethel had managed to save a little by great economy, and she calculated that this would cover the traveling expenses, if only she could get from somewhere enough to pay the doctor.

This had been the spur that had led her to make that desperate effort with the story, and to lay bare the deepest and most sacred feelings of her heart. She was a very reserved girl, and she never could have done it, but for the safety of distance, and the protection of a name that was not her own.

Well, she had done it, and done it conscientiously. She had “dipped her pen in herself” and written out of her own heart, and this was the result--to have the record of her soul-life returned with thanks, or perhaps without them. She felt no interest in opening the packet, and went and thrust it out of sight in the back of a drawer in her own room as soon as she reached the house. Bob was in pain, and he called to her crossly, and complained because she had left him. He was often impatient with her, and she generally bore it sweetly; but to-day it cut and irritated her.

She said nothing, however, as she took off her hat and came to the side of the couch where he was lying. The child looked up and saw tears in her eyes, and his face and tone grew more resentful still.

“What are you crying about?” he said. “What business have _you_ to cry, when you are well and strong, and you can walk and run and go about wherever you please, and never have an ache or a pain? And then you have the ‘cheek’ to tell me to be brave, and to bear my pain, and not to cry!”

“O Bobby, you are right!” she said. “I ought not to cry and be a coward, and I _am_ ashamed of it; but something has happened that has disappointed me so dreadfully. However, I’ll try to be brave about it, and remember the lessons I have tried to teach to you. I wish I could help you--poor little Bob! It _is_ awful, _awful_, to have to suffer all the time as you do; but, at least, you don’t suffer in your mind--do you? You know I always take care of you and make you as comfortable as I can. Tell me that, Bobby, for it comforts me more than anything in the world to think of that.”

“Of course, I know you will take care of me,” said the child; “but is nobody ever going to do anything to make me any better? Am I going to lie and suffer all my life, and never be strong and well like other boys?”

“O Bobby, I don’t know! I don’t know!” said the poor girl, remembering, with a pang, the failure of the only effort it had been in her power to make. “I want to take you to the city to see that great doctor, for I think he might be able to help you. I will do it, if I ever can, but poor sister can do so little to make money, and it takes money to do a thing like that.”

“Yes, I know,” said the boy, with a certain change in his tone. “When I was little, I used to think I’d make money for you. I used to say you were too pretty to work, and that I would work for you. When Mother died and the pension stopped, I thought if you’d work for me a little while, I’d soon be able to work for you, and I would have done it, if I had not had that fall. Oh, why didn’t it kill me at once! I wish it had!”

“No, my Bobby, no!” said Ethel, bending over him and drawing his arm around her neck. “If you had died, poor sister would have had no one in the world to love; and that would be the worst thing that could happen to anybody.”

“It’s not so bad as being lame,” said the boy.

“O Bobby, I think it’s worse!” said Ethel, half involuntarily.

“Then it shows how much you know about it!” said Bobby; and Ethel made haste to soothe and reassure him, and tell him how much she sympathized with his trouble, and stifled back the wish that he, or somebody, could sympathize with hers.

When night came at last, and the child had gone to sleep, and Ethel was alone in her little room that opened into his, she softly closed the door between them, and gave herself up to the luxury of a good cry. It was one of the few luxuries within her reach; she did not often indulge herself in this, but to-night she felt she must. It was this craving for sympathy which brought it on her--the passionate wish that somebody understood her and was aware of the struggle she made continually, by day and by night, to still the craving of her heart for love. She loved Bobby, but he was an unceasing care to her, and she wanted somebody to care for her, as she cared for him. If she had, how ardently grateful would she be for such care and protection--and how little he seemed to respond to or appreciate it! Of course, it was not to be expected of a crippled boy, continually preoccupied by pain, and, as a rule, she never thought of expecting it. But to-night she felt that need of being understood swelling up within her so passionately, that it seemed almost more than she could bear.

When she had cried until there seemed to be no more tears left to shed, she got up and went to the old dressing-table to prepare for bed. She looked at herself, half bitterly, as she realized how useless all those foolish tears had been. She might as well make up her mind that her lot in life was to be drudgery and disappointment, and that no one would ever really understand her or enter into the feelings of her heart.

She pulled open a drawer to get something out, and as she did so she remembered the manuscript. She took it out and looked at the cold, unsympathetic typewriting on the back. It was foolish of her to shrink from opening it, and she would compel herself to look once more at those poor pages which she had written with such heart throbbings, and sent off with such hopes.

Running a hairpin along the edge of the sealed envelope, she cut it open and drew the contents out. How was this? They looked unfamiliar. There was no binding with blue ribbons, no delicate woman-writing. Instead, she held in her hands a number of loose sheets covered with the strong, distinct, nervous characters of a man’s hand. The title of this manuscript was _The Draught Divine_. The title of hers had been _The Soul-Thirst_. The caption under the title was exactly the one that she had put under hers:

“The thirst which from the soul doth rise Doth ask a draught divine.”

But for this coincidence she would probably have suspected some mistake at the editorial office and put the manuscript by; but after seeing this, she felt that she must read it.

And so, standing fascinated where she was, she turned leaf after leaf, and read breathlessly on. As she did so, the old mirror opposite reflected a picture whose glowing beauty deepened every minute. Here, the divine draught of love was so strongly analyzed, its component parts so comprehendingly described, and its powerful effects so brilliantly demonstrated, that the paper had almost the character of a scientific treatise. The subject, she felt, could scarcely have been handled in this deliberate way but for the very fact that the writer was in an attitude, not of anticipation, but of renunciation. It mattered little to Ethel that the plot of this story was ill-constructed and illogical, and the situations commonplace and trite. What she saw before her on these sheets, and felt permeating every corner of her soul, was the renunciation of all the ideal conditions of living and loving that her heart aspired to. What this man gave up was what she had always so resolutely claimed--what she had never wavered in demanding and expecting of life, until this very evening, when, for the first time, she had looked in the face of possible renunciation.

But with the reading of this paper she shifted back to her old ground, for here, at least, she felt herself comprehended at last. Not one of all the people with whom her lot had hitherto been cast had ever uttered thoughts and feelings such as these; but here, in this manuscript, were the very echoes of her own soul. Yes, all of them--the loud, sonorous, reverberating ones, no less than the delicate soundings of her finest needs. She looked at the signature at the end, and saw the words, “Hugh Robertson.” This gave an individual character to the consciousness that had just entered into her, and the mere knowledge of the existence of such a personality in the world was a stimulating and an exhilarating thought that made her smile.

As she did so, she looked up and caught the reflection of herself in the mirror before her. Happiness, the supreme beautifier, had swiftly done its wonder-work, and she could not fail to realise that she was very fair to see. The knowledge of it gave her pleasure. The power of enjoyment, lately so stultified and depressed, returned to her with a glowing ardor. All the world began suddenly to look more hopeful. Ah, life was sweet, its opportunities were great and precious, its possibilities were divine!