The Palace Beautiful: A Story for Girls by L. T. Meade (free reads .TXT) 📕

shall be able to sell some of them. I have no doubt Mrs. Dredge would buy a couple if Poppy asked her and perhaps Mrs. Mortlock and Miss Slowcum would also like to see my first story in print. Yes, of course, I can sell a few copies. Bridget said she would buy one, and she said she had two cronies who would be sure to take a copy each. Yes, I expect I shall make a few shillings by the sale of The Joy-bell to-day, and that will keep me going fine. Oh, dear! the very moment I have earned a little money by them I must send a copy down to Daisy. Won't the darling like to show my words of genius to Primrose? I'll run downstairs this minute, and ask Bridget if she has not got a parcel for me."

But alas! no Joy-bells had arrived for Jasmine, and after the little girl had wondered a great deal, and talked the matter over with Bridget she determined to put on her hat and go off to consult with Poppy.

She was not long finding her way to Penelope Mansion, and Poppy opened the door for her, but greeted her in a sad voice, and looked decidedly depressed.

"I have come about The Joy-bell" began Jasmine at once, in an excited voice. "It ought to have come—my hundred copies, you know, and they haven't. I must go to inquire about it at once; and, Poppy, dear, could you come with me?"

Poppy turned very red.

"No, Miss Jasmine, darling, I couldn't," she said, in the meekest voice.

Poppy's tones were so unlike those she usually employed that Jasmine glanced at her in some surprise.

"Why, Poppy, how funny you are!" she exclaimed. "Is anything the matter?"

"Don't you notice it, Miss Jasmine, but I'm a bit low-like," said Poppy. "I has my low fits and my high fits same as t'other folks, and this is a low fit day—that's all, miss."

"Oh! I am so sorry. Poor Poppy! And is the swimming in your head as bad as ever?"

"It's continual, Miss Jasmine. It seems to have become a kind of habit, same as the smuts and the Sarah Janes. A swimming head is most certain the London style of head for a girl like me. Yes, I am sorry I can't go with you, Miss Jasmine, darling, but I can't this morning. I hope you will get safe to the City, miss, and that you will see the editor, and give it to him sharp for not sending you your Joy-bells. Oh, my, Miss Jasmine! to think that your beautiful words is in print at last! Most likely the whole of London is flooded by them now, and the editor will be asking you for more of your words of beauty and wisdom. You make a sharp bargain with him, Miss Jasmine, and before you put pen to paper again for him, you get your money down. There's nothing so safe in clinching a bargain as money down. Oh, dear! I wish I could go with you. And, Miss Jasmine, if you could find it convenient to pay me back say one and sixpence of the little loan, I'll be for ever obliged, darling."

At this moment Mrs. Flint's voice was heard calling Poppy, and demanding who she was standing gossiping with. Mrs. Flint's voice sounded quite sharp, and Jasmine guessed that something unusual must have occurred to disturb her, for Mrs. Flint was known on principle never to excite herself.

"What is the matter with her?" she inquired of Poppy, who flushed up at her tones.

"Oh, nothing, miss. She's only a bit put out about the broken boots. There, I must run."

Poppy almost shut the door in Jasmine's face. She was certainly very unlike her usual self.

Jasmine walked down the steps of the Mansion, and slowly, very slowly, went up the street to meet the omnibus which was to convey her Citywards.

She was quite a clever little Londoner now, and knew which were the right omnibuses to take, and, in short, how to find her way about town. She hailed the City omnibus, and hastily and humbly took her place amongst its crowded passengers. She was the unlucky twelfth, and her advent was certainly not hailed with delight. The bright morning had turned to rain, and the passengers, most of them women, were wrapped up in waterproof cloaks. Jasmine, when she entered the omnibus, looked so small, so timid, and unimportant, that no one thought it worth while even to move for her, and at last she was thankful to get a little pin-point of room between two very buxom ladies, who both almost in the same breath desired her not to crowd them, and both also fiercely requested her to keep her wet dress from touching their waterproofs.

At another time Jasmine would have been quite spirited enough to resent the unfriendly behavior of the inmates of the City 'bus; but her interview with Poppy had depressed her greatly, and she had a kind of terrified little fear that she knew the reason of Mrs. Flint's sharp tones, that she could guess why Poppy's bright face should look so dismal, and why she was obliged so earnestly to beg of her to return her one and sixpence.

"She wants her own money—her wages, that she earned with a swimming head and all," thought poor Jasmine. "How selfish of me not to remember before that of course, poor Poppy would want her wages; it is perfectly dreadful to think of her doing without them. Why, of course, Mrs. Flint would be likely to scold her if she went about with her ragged boots when she earns such good wages. Poor, dear, brave Poppy! she would never tell what she did with her money. Well, she must have it all back to-day. Yes, I am determined about that, she shall have it back, to-day."

Jasmine was thinking so hard, and so absorbing was her theme, that she leaned unconsciously against the fat neighbor on her right. This good person immediately pushed her with some vigor into the arms of the portly neighbor on her left, who exclaimed, in a cross voice—

"Lor' sakes! my dear, sit upright, do."

"I hope the young person will soon get out," exclaimed the other neighbor. "I call it downright unconscionable to crowd up Christian women like this. Might I make bold to inquire, miss, when you are thinking of alighting?"

"I am going to Paternoster Row," said Jasmine, in a meek voice. "I do not think I am very far from there now."

"Oh, no, miss! we have only to go down Newgate Street, and there you are. It's a queer place, is Paternoster Row, not that I knows much about it."

"A mighty bookish place," took up the other neighbor "they say they are all bookworms that live there, and that they are as dry as bits of parchment. I shouldn't say that a bright little miss like you had any call to go near such a place."

Jasmine drew herself up, and her face became sunshiny once more.

"You would not think," she began, with an air of modest pride, "that I belong to the booky and the parchmenty people, but I do. I am going down the Row to inquire about one of my publications, perhaps I ought to say my first, so I am anxious about it."

"Lor', who would have thought it!" exclaimed both the ladies, but they instantly fell back and seemed to think it better to leave so alarmedly learned a little girl alone. For the remainder of the ride they talked across Jasmine about the price of onions, and where the cheapest bacon was to be purchased, and they both breathed a sigh of relief when she stepped out into the rain and they could once more expand themselves in the space which she had occupied.

Meanwhile the forlorn little adventurer walked down the narrow path of this celebrated Row. It was still raining heavily, and Jasmine's umbrella had several rents in its canopy. Now that she was so close to her destination she began to feel strangely nervous, and many fears hitherto unknown beset her. Suppose, after all, The Joy-bell which contained the first portion of her story had not had a large success; suppose, after all, the public were not so delighted with her flowing words. Perhaps the editor would receive her very coldly, and would tell her what a loss her story had been, and how indisposed he felt to go on with it. If this was the case she never, never would have courage to ask him to give her Poppy's wages. If the editor scolded her she felt that she would be incapable of saying a word in her own defence. Nay, she thought it extremely probable that then and there she would burst into tears. Undoubtedly, she was in a very low frame of mind to-day. She, as well as Poppy, had her low fit on, and she greatly trembled for the result of the coming interview. Since that pathetic little last speech of Poppy's about her broken boots Jasmine had quite forgotten how sorely she needed money for herself. Her one and only desire just now was to restore Poppy's money.

"I must do it," she said to herself; "I must do it, and I will. I have made up my mind, and I really need not be so frightened. After all, Poppy and Daisy are both quite sure that I am a genius. Daisy says that I have got the face of a genius, and Poppy was in such great, great delight at my story. It is not likely that they would both be wrong, and Poppy is a person of great discernment. I must cheer up and believe what they told me. I daresay Poppy is right, and London is half-flooded with my story. Ah, here I am at the entrance of the court where the editor of The Joy-bell lives. How funny it is to be here all alone. I really feel quite like a heroine. Now I am at the office—how queer, how very queer—I do not see any Joy-bells pressed up against the window. No, not a single one; there are lots of other books and papers, but no Joy-bells. Dear, dear! my heart does beat, for I am thinking that perhaps Poppy is right, and that all the copies of The Joy-bells are bought up; that, of course, is on account of my story." Then Jasmine entered the house, and went into a little office where a red-haired boy was sitting on a high stool before a dirty-looking desk. The boy had a facetious and rather unpleasant face, and was certainly not remarkable for good manners.

"I want to see the editor of The Joy-bell," asked Jasmine, in as firm a tone as she could command.

The red-haired boy raised his eyes from a huge ledger which he was pretending to occupy himself over, and said, "Can't see him," in a laconic tone, and dropped his eyes again.

"But why?" asked Jasmine, somewhat indignantly. "I have particular business with him; it is most necessary that I should see him. Pray, let him know that I am here."

"Very sorry," replied the boy, "but can't."

"Why not?"

"'Cause he ain't in town."

"Oh!"

Poor Jasmine fell back a pace or two; then she resumed in a different tone—

"I am very much disappointed; there is a story of mine in The Joy-bell, and I wanted to speak to him about it. It was very important, indeed," she added, in so sad a voice that the red-haired boy gazed at her in some astonishment.

"My word," he said, "then you do not know?"

"Don't know what?"

"Why, we has had a funeral here."

"A funeral—oh, dear! oh, dear! is the editor of The Joy-bell dead?"

Here the red-haired boy burst into a peal of irrepressible laughter.

"Dead! he ain't dead, but The Joy-bell is; we had her funeral last week."

Poor Jasmine staggered against the wall, and her pretty face became ghastly white.

"Oh, boy," she said, "do tell me about it; how can The Joy-bell be dead, and have a funeral? Oh, please, don't jest with me, for it's so important."

The genuine distress in her tones touched at last some vulnerable point in the facetious office-boy's breast.

"I'm real sorry for you, miss," he said, "particular as you seems so cut up; but what I tell you is true, and you had better know it. That editor has gone, and The Joy-bell is decently interred. I was at her birth, and I was at her funeral. She had a short life, and was never up to much. I never guessed she'd hold out as long as she did; but the editor was a cute one, and for a time he bamboozled his authors, and managed to live on them. Yes, The Joy-bell is in her quiet grave at last, and can't do no more harm