CHAPTER XXII.
THE FIRST FRUITS OF GENIUS.
Ruth Laurence kept her secret. An idea had entered her head which she was resolved to carry out, unaided and alone. At first she longed to tell her good fortune to her mother; but Mrs. Laurence was never sympathetic or impulsive enough to win that loving confidence which Ruth longed to give. She had thought her own thoughts, and suppressed her natural impulses so long, that this precious secret became as gold to a miser, after she had dwelt upon it, unspoken for a few hours.
One thing was certain: Eva should go to this party dressed like the lady she was. Enough of the money under her pillow should be used for that. Her own frail fingers had earned this great happiness for her sister.
Tears came into those soft eyes as Ruth thought of it: tender, sweet tears, such as the good and unselfish alone can shed. She murmured to herself: “Yes, it shall be snow-white, and fleecy as foam. I have the idea in my mind, with a contrast—something brilliant and rich. Still, she does not need that to make her the most beautiful of them all. Dear Eva! what a surprise it will be! Here she comes, looking so tired!”
Eva came into the little parlor weary and sad; for the duties of her position were frequently galling to the pride of a high-spirited girl; and every hour some painful contrast was forced upon her which disturbed her sense of justice. While the family had been in absolute want, this feeling was held in abeyance by all those active sympathies that trample down minor causes of grief under great afflictions, but now the proud nature of the girl asserted itself, and strongly cynical and bitter feelings were rooting themselves in her young heart.
Eva took off her bonnet, and, kneeling down by her sister’s couch, kissed her tenderly.
“Why, Ruthy, how warm your cheek is! How your arms cling to me! What is the matter? It seems like joy—but how can that come here?”
“A pleasant thing has happened, Eva, dear. You are invited to a splendid party in the Fifth Avenue. Look here!”
Eva caught her breath. An invitation to her! She took the square fold of paper, and, dazzled by the monogram, began to examine it with that nervous curiosity which makes so many people hesitate to learn the truth at once.
“It is from Mrs. Carter, the sister of that gentleman who looked over my drawings. Such a cheerful, kind woman! She brought it herself, that there might be no mistake, and will send her own carriage for you. Isn’t it delightful?”