Part 29 (2/2)
”I am not certain of going at all yet.”
”Well, when you do get ready, it'll be all right; but I do hope you'll find my poor Charley somewhere. You an' him would make the beautifulest lookin' couple on top o' ground.”
”Please do not say anything more about that, and when we find him, we will see what he has to say about it himself.”
”It's awful to write books for a livin'. It jest seems to me I'd die.”
”Why?” asked Blanche.
”La me, I couldn't live and not have a chance to talk to anybody.”
”I believe it,” said Blanche.
”Why, it jest seems to me it must be awful to sit all day and think.
Why, I'd ruther wash every day in the week.”
”Every one has his taste,” said Blanche, ”and play becomes work when monotony steps in; but gaining a living by the pen is by no means play. It has its toil, and also its charms. There are hours when it is only a beautiful pastime, and there are hours of the most incessant toil. It is neither all pleasure nor all pain.”
”Well, for my part I wouldn't never want to be a writer. I never see one afore, and I always thought it was something awful nice, but, la me, I never would want to tear my brains to pieces in that way.”
Blanche arose and looked out of the window. The evening was coming on, and the street lamps were just beginning to light up the city. Shop girls, with white, tired faces, men and women of toil, even children, worn and weary, were hurrying along through the cold. Everything looked like toil to Blanche Elsworth at that moment. What a long, long weary round of toil she had just completed. Her first novel had been set afloat upon the world to fall into the hands of the lover of fiction or to be scanned by the scathing eye of the critic. She remembered how, when she started, that looking before her it seemed like a long lane that had no turn. How would she ever reach the end?
she had thought. Could she? Others had, but had they the difficulties to overcome that she had? She did not believe they had, but she would try it at least. She had published several small books of poems, but the work on which she was about to start out was so much broader, so much more toilsome.
CHAPTER XXIII.
JUNE'S REASON--LETTER FROM PAUL.
Carrie Horton was seated in the Wilmer library. She had wandered to the bright and glowing little world of books, and choice and rare paintings. June was entertaining Guy in the parlor and Carrie knew that he would say that ”three was a crowd,” so she had left them alone, saying significantly that if they did not care she would go to the library. She had taken a volume of travels and was soon deeply absorbed in its contents.
”Ah, good evening, Miss Horton,” Scott said, entering the room. ”I think I will follow your example.”
”Mr. Wilmer,” Carrie said at length, looking up from her book, ”will you allow me to interrupt you?”
”Certainly.”
”I have just been reading of a tribe of gypsies, and I have never yet found any information as to where they originated. I have heard of them often and seen them, too, but I never knew to what nation they belong, though I have often wondered. Can you tell me anything about them?”
”They are claimed by history as being a mysterious, vagabond race, scattered over the whole of Europe, Asia, Africa and even America.
Where they originated is still a matter of speculation, as the question has been studied by competent investigators, and is still but partially solved. No fact seems really established except that India, the cradle of many nations, was the source from which they sprang.
Their language is a corruption of many others with a loss of some of their own original language. They are a lawless race and are quick at framing a falsehood, and cunning at thieving.”
”They are, naturally, a filthy cla.s.s of people, too,” said Carrie. ”I have seen some young gypsy girls who would have been really beautiful had it not been for their slovenly attire and tangled hair.”
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