Now, Octavia is near-sighted, but I am not, and her hopes for “Evelyn Marchmont” were evidently more absorbing than my humbler ones. She gave herself no further concern about the yellow head and the black one, while I followed with my eyes through the crowd every girl who bore the least resemblance to those two, and could not rid myself of the impression that Estelle was in the city, nor of the wonder why she had come.
I thought I had seen a portfolio under yellow-head’s arm, but I did not mention that to Octavia. I scarcely knew why I did not, for it might have gone far toward inducing her to share my opinion that the young woman was our sister, Estelle. I suppose I hesitated to share with her my vague suspicion that Estelle had come to the city to sell her pictures. It was a pitifully hopeless undertaking, I was sure, and yet I shrunk from hearing Octavia’s frankly-expressed scorn. Octavia thought that my crystallized grasses were a more desirable ornament for the guest chamber mantel than any picture that Estelle could paint.
We went to a boarding-house where Parson Grover stayed when he came to the city in Anniversary week. It would be quite safe and proper for us, he said, and in any case we had too little money to think of hotels.
We arrived late in the afternoon, and Octavia proposed that we should spend the whole of the next day in taking a survey of the battle-field, so to speak, and in composing our minds. Now, for my part, I felt all fit for the fray, but I recognized the fact that Octavia had a right to greater sensitiveness about the child of her brain than I had about my domestic commodities, although I will say that in my opinion there are other children of one’s brain than works of literature or art.
But, of course, it is natural that I should wish to think so, and all that is neither here nor there. What concerns this story is the fact that we prowled about the city all the next day, finding out all that we could about the different publishing houses, and trying to decide which one was the worthiest to introduce “Evelyn Marchmont” to the world, and the most likely to do it successfully. As Octavia said, it was just as well to begin in that way, and then if we were finally forced to let any publisher take it who would, why, then, we could make up our minds to that.
She was not interested in the fine grocery stores and markets, or even in The Delicatessen Shop, where I purposed to offer my wares, but she was very patient.
She said, very often, that we might have to try and try. Did I remember how the Bronte sisters had tried and tried? She had been reminded of them ever since we started. I could not remember that the Bronte sisters had had a “combernation,” but, of course, I didn’t say so. I only muttered that I shouldn’t wonder if the world had changed considerably since their day, and perhaps things were even harder now.
Octavia scarcely listened to me—she was never much in the habit of listening to me—she was saying just then, as we came out of the book-store that appertained to the great publishing house, which she had finally decided should have the first chance to bring out “Evelyn Marchmont,” that she hoped she was not indulging a wholly selfish ambition. Didn’t I think that “Evelyn Marchmont” was a moral and helpful story?
“Well,” I said, reflectively, “you have certainly punished the bad people and rewarded the good.”
But Octavia looked at me doubtfully.