“Oh, it is not that—not that, sir,” said Ruth, with a sudden moistening of the eye, “it is because it will be bread for my children.”
Mr. Lescom checked his mirthful mood, and said, “Well, here is something good for me, too; a letter from Missouri, in which the writer says, that if “Floy” (a pretty nom-de-plume that of yours, Mrs. Hall) is to be a contributor for the coming year, I may put him down as a subscriber, as well as S. Jones, E. May, and J. Noyes, all of the same place. That’s good news for me, you see,” said Mr. Lescom, with one of his pleasant, beaming smiles.
“Yes,” replied Ruth, abstractedly. She was wondering if her articles were to be the means of swelling Mr. Lescom’s subscription list, whether she ought not to profit by it as well as himself, and whether she should not ask him to increase her pay. She pulled her gloves off and on, and finally mustered courage to clothe her thought in words.
“Now that’s just like a woman,” replied Mr. Lescom, turning it off with a joke; “give them the least foot-hold, and they will want the whole territory. Had I not shown you that letter, you would have been quite contented with your present pay. Ah! I see it won’t do to talk so unprofessionally to you; and you needn’t expect,” said he, smiling, “that I shall ever speak of letters containing new subscribers on your account. I could easily get you the offer of a handsome salary by publishing such things. No—no, I have been foolish enough to lose two or three valuable contributors in that way; I have learned better than that, ‘Floy’;” and taking out his purse, he paid Ruth the usual sum for her articles.
Ruth bowed courteously, and put the money in her purse; but she sighed as she went down the office stairs. Mr. Lescom’s view of the case was a business one, undoubtedly; and the same view that almost any other business man would have taken, viz.: to retain her at her present low rate of compensation, till he was necessitated to raise it by a higher bid from a rival quarter. And so she must plod wearily on till that time came, and poor Katy must still be an exile; for she had not enough to feed her, her landlady having raised the rent of her room two shillings, and Ruth being unable to find cheaper accommodations. It was hard, but what could be done? Ruth believed she had exhausted all the offices she knew of. Oh! there was one, “The Pilgrim;” she had not tried there. She would call at the office on her way home.
The editor of “The Pilgrim” talked largely. He had, now, plenty of contributors; he didn’t know about employing a new one. Had she ever written? and what had she written? Ruth showed him her article in the last number of “The Standard.”
“Oh—hum—hum!” said Mr. Tibbetts, changing his tone; “so you are ‘Floy,’ are you?” (casting his eyes on her.) “What pay do they give you over there?”
Ruth was a novice in business-matters, but she had strong common sense, and that common sense said, he has no right to ask you that question; don’t you tell him; so she replied with dignity, “My bargain, sir, with Mr. Lescom was a private one, I believe.”
“Hum,” said the foiled Mr. Tibbetts; adding in an under-tone to his partner, “sharp that!”