Part 16 (1/2)
”I cannot, Mr. Bostic.”
”May I ask why?”
”Because I stand as the young woman's protector. She despises Sawyer, and her father was determined that she should be his wife.”
”Did she tell you, sir?”
”Yes, and I have promised; but this is confidential.”
”Then, sir, the pet.i.tion must not be signed. The ceremony, after all, was a blessing, and I shall not again crave the banker's forgiveness.
Good night.”
CHAPTER XIII.
IN A MAGAZINE.
There came a day, and it followed the picnic, with not a week between, when Lyman's midnight scratching, done at the house of old Uncle Buckley, came out into the dazzling light. A story written by him appeared in one of the leading magazines of the East. It was a simple recital, a picture of the country and its people, and so close down upon the earth did it lie that a patter of rain that fell somewhere among the words brought a sweet scent from the blackberry briars, and a smell of dust from the rain. There were intelligent reading persons, in Old Ebenezer, and with the big eye of astonishment they viewed the story, but they were afraid to form an opinion until the critic of the ”State Gazette,” following a bold lead struck by an eastern reviewer, declared it to be a piece of masterly work. And then the town of Old Ebenezer was glad to a.s.sert its admiration. The leading hardware man said that he had noticed from the first that there was something strange about the fellow.
”And,” said he, ”you can never tell what a strange sort of a fellow may pop up and do. Now, there was old Kincade's son Phil. Everybody knew he was curious; everybody could see that, but they didn't know how to place him. I told them not to place him. I told them there was no telling where he might break out. His daddy said he was a fool. I said 'wait.' Well, they waited, and what came? The boy discovered a process for tanning c.o.o.n hides without bark, and now look at him.
Worth ten thousand dollars if he's worth a cent.”
A saddler gave his opinion: ”I knew he had it in him. I haven't read his article, but I'll bet it's good. Why, he's said things in my shop that it would be worth anybody's while to remember. Just stepped in and said them and went out like it wasn't no trouble at all. And look what he's done for the paper here! Every time he touches her he makes her flinch like a hoss-fly lightin' on a hoss. And when everybody was making such a mouth about that fool marriage, I--well, I just kept my mouth shut and didn't say a word.”
Warren was the proudest man in town. He was so elated and so busy talking about the story that he never found time to read it, except to dip into it here and there, to find something to start him off on a gallop of praise.
”Why didn't you tell me, so that I might have known what to expect?
Why did you nurse it so long?” Warren asked, as he and Lyman sat in the office.
”Oh, I hadn't anything to tell, except of a probable prospect. And nothing is more tiresome than to listen to a man's hopes.”
”But you must have known that the story would be a success.”
”No, I didn't.”
”Well, maybe not. It was fortunate to drive center the first shot.”
Lyman laughed sadly. ”Warren,” said he, nodding toward the magazine, which lay upon the table, ”I began to scatter seeds so long ago that I hardly know when; and one has sprouted. I have been writing stories for the magazines ever since I was a boy, and they were returned with a printed 'thank you for--' and so forth. I had thought, as many young writers think, that I must be deep and learned. I didn't know that one half-hidden mood of nature, one odd trait of man, one little reminder to the reader of something that had often flitted across his mind, was of more value than the essence of a thousand books. I strove to climb a hill where so many are constantly falling and rolling to the bottom.
At last I opened my eyes and shut my memory, and then I began to progress. But not without the most diligent work. This story, (again nodding toward the magazine) was written six times at least.”
”Why, you have made it look as easy as falling off a log,” said Warren.
”Yes; it was work that made it look easy. There are two sorts of successful stories; one that makes the reader marvel at its art; the other one that makes the reader believe that almost anybody could have written it. The first appeals to the stylist and may soon die. The other may live to be a cla.s.sic.”
”Go ahead. That sort of talk catches me. It seems now that I have thought it many times, but just didn't happen to say it. Have you got anything in hand now?”
”Yes; I might as well let it all out now. I have a book accepted by a first-cla.s.s house, and I have a long story which I may submit to a magazine to be published as a serial in the event of the success of the book.”
”You are all right. I have often told you that. Why, some of the things you have written for this paper would do to go into the school readers along with the dialogue between some fellow--forget his name now--and Humphrey Dobbins; and that barber who lived in the City of Bath. Recollect? Let's see, 'Respect for the Sabbath Rewarded.' Don't you know now? 'And say,' the stranger says to him, 'I have glorious news for you. Your uncle is dead,' and so on. But it used to tickle me to think the fellow could find any glory in the news of his uncle's death, but I guess he did.”
”Yes, I remember. He was the barber that wouldn't shave on Sunday. And as a reward his uncle died and left him a lot of money. And you'd hit it off pretty well now by marking out virtue in 'Virtue Is Its Own Reward,' and subst.i.tuting 'money.'”