Beulah Part 50

"A GUARDIAN."

Tears gushed unrestrained, as she looked at the beautiful gift. Not for an instant did she dream, of accepting it, and she shrank shudderingly from widening the breach which already existed by a refusal. Locking up the slip of paper in her workbox, she returned the watch to its case and carefully retied the parcel. Long before she had wrapped the purse in paper and prevailed on Clara to give it to the doctor. He had received it without comment; but she could not return the watch in the same way, for Clara was now able to attend regularly to her school duties, and it was very uncertain when she would see him. Yet she felt comforted, for this gift a.s.sured her that, however coldly he chose to treat her when they met, he had not thrown her off entirely. With all her independence, she could not bear the thought of his utter alienation; and the consciousness of his remaining interest thrilled her heart with gladness.

CHAPTER XXIII.

One Sat.u.r.day morning, some days subsequent to her visit to the Grahams, Beulah set off for the business part of the city. She was closely veiled, and carried under her shawl a thick roll of neatly written paper. A publishing house was the place of her destination; and, as she was ushered into a small back room, to await the leisure of the gentleman she wished to see, she could not forbear smiling at the novelty of her position and the audacity of the attempt she was about to make. There she sat in the editor's sanctum, trying to quiet the tumultuous beating of her heart. Presently a tall, spare man, with thin, cadaverous visage, entered, bowed, took a chair, and eyed her with a "what-do-you-want" sort of expression. His grizzled hair was cut short, and stood up like bristles, and his keen blue eyes were by no means promising, in their cold glitter. Beulah threw off her veil and said, with rather an unsteady voice:

"You are the editor of the magazine published here, I believe?"

He bowed again, leaned back in his chair, and crossed his hands at the back of his head.

"I came to offer you an article for the magazine." She threw down the roll of paper on a chair.

"Ah!--hem!--will you favor me with your name?"

"Beulah Benton, sir. One altogether unknown to fame."

He contracted his eyes, coughed, and said constrainedly:

"Are you a subscriber?"

"I am."

"What is the character of your ma.n.u.script?" He took it up as he spoke, and glanced over the pages.

"You can determine that from a perusal. If the sketch suits you, I should like to become a regular contributor."

A gleam of sunshine strayed over the countenance, and the editor answered, very benignly:

"If the article meets with our approbation, we shall be very happy to afford you a medium of publication in our journal. Can we depend on your punctuality?"

"I think so. What are your terms?"

"Terms, madam? I supposed that your contribution was gratuitous,"

said he very loftily.

"Then you are most egregiously mistaken! What do you imagine induces me to write?"

"Why, desire for fame, I suppose."

"Fame is rather unsatisfactory fare. I am poor, sir, and write to aid me in maintaining myself."

"Are you dependent solely on your own exertions, madam?"

"Yes."

"I am sorry I cannot aid you; but nowadays there are plenty of authors who write merely as a pastime, and we have as many contributions as we can well look over."

"I am to understand, then, that the magazine is supported altogether by gratuitous contributions?" said Beulah, unable to repress a smile.

"Why, you see, authorship has become a sort of luxury," was the hesitating reply.

"I think the last number of your magazine contained, among other articles in the 'Editor's Drawer,' an earnest appeal to Southern authors to come to the rescue of Southern periodicals?"

"True, madam. Southern intellect seems steeped in a lethargy from which we are most faithfully endeavoring to arouse it."

"The article to which I allude also animadverted severely upon the practice of Southern authors patronizing Northern publishing establishments?"

"Most certainly it treated the subject stringently." He moved uneasily.

"I believe the subscription is the same as that of the Northern periodicals?"

A very cold bow was the only answer.

"I happen to know that Northern magazines are not composed of gratuitous contributions; and it is no mystery why Southern authors are driven to Northern publishers. Southern periodicals are mediums only for those of elegant leisure, who can afford to write without remuneration. With the same subscription price, you cannot pay for your articles. It is no marvel that, under such circ.u.mstances, we have no Southern literature. Unluckily, I belong to the numerous cla.s.s who have to look away from home for remuneration. Sir, I will not trouble you with my ma.n.u.script." Rising, she held out her hand for it; but the keen eyes had fallen upon a paragraph which seemed to interest the editor, and, knitting his brows, he said reluctantly:

"We have not been in the habit of paying for our articles; but I will look over this, and perhaps you can make it worth our while to pay you. The fact is, madam, we have more trash sent us than we can find room for; but if you can contribute anything of weight, why, it will make a difference, of course. I did not recognize you at first, but I now remember that I heard your valedictory to the graduating cla.s.s of the public schools. If we should conclude to pay you for regular contributions, we wish nothing said about it."

"Very well. If you like the ma.n.u.script, and decide to pay me, you can address me a note through the post office. Should I write for the magazine I particularly desire not to be known." She lowered her veil, and most politely he bowed her out.

She was accustomed to spend a portion of each Sat.u.r.day in practicing duets with Georgia Asbury, and thither she now directed her steps.

Unluckily, the parlor was full of visitors, and, without seeing any of the family, she walked back into the music room. Here she felt perfectly at home, and, closing the door, forgot everything but her music. Taking no heed of the lapse of time, she played piece after piece, until startled by the clear tones of the doctor's voice. She looked up, and saw him standing in the door which opened into the library, taking off his greatcoat.

"Why Beulah, that room is as cold as a Texas norther! What on earth are you doing there without a fire? Come in here, child, and warm your frozen digits. Where are those two harum-scarum specimens of mine?"

"I believe they are still entertaining company, sir. The parlor was full when I came, and they know nothing of my being here." She sat down by the bright fire, and held her stiff fingers toward the glowing coals.

"Yes, confound their dear rattlepates; that is about the sum-total of their cogitations." He drew up his chair, put his feet on the fender of the grate, and, lighting his cigar, added:

"Is my spouse also in the parlor?"

"I suppose so, sir."

"Time was, Beulah, when Sat.u.r.day was the great day of preparation for all housekeepers. Bless my soul! My mother would just about as soon have thought of antic.i.p.ating the discovery of the open Polar Sea, by a trip thither, as going out to visit on Sat.u.r.day. Why, from my boyhood, Sat.u.r.day has been synonymous with scouring, window washing, pastry baking, stocking darning, and numerous other venerable customs, which this age is rapidly dispensing with. My wife had a lingering reverence for the duties of the day, and tried to excuse herself, but I suppose those pretty wax dolls of mine have coaxed her into 'receiving,' as they call it. Beulah, my wife is an exception; but the ma.s.s of married women nowadays, instead of being thorough housewives (as nature intended they should), are delicate, do-nothing, know-nothing, fine ladies. They have no duties. 'O tempora, O mores!'" He paused to relight his cigar, and, just then, Georgia came in, dressed very richly. He tossed the taper into the grate, and exclaimed, as she threw her arms round his neck and kissed him:

"You pretty imp; what is to pay now? Here Beulah has been sitting, n.o.body knows how long, in that frigid zone you call your music room.

What are you rigged out in all that finery for?"

"We are going to dine out to-day, father. Beulah will excuse me, I know."

"Indeed! Dine where?"

"Mrs. Delmont came round this morning to invite us to dine with some of her young friends from New Orleans."