NEW EAGLE SERIES No. 1156
The Man She Hated
_By Mrs. Alex.
McVeigh Miller_
[Illustration]
The Man She Hated
OR,
WON BY STRATEGY
BY
MRS. ALEX. McVEIGH MILLER
Author of “A Married Flirt,” “Loyal Unto Death,” “Only
a Kiss,” “My Pretty Maid,” etc. Published in the New
Eagle Series.
[Illustration]
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York
Copyright, 1888
NORMAN L. MUNRO
Renewal for 28 years, from August
23, 1916, granted to Mrs. Alex.
McVeigh Miller
The Man She Hated
(Printed in the United States of America)
THE MAN SHE HATED.
CHAPTER I.
THE FACTORY GIRLS.
“Fair Fielding, I heard something about you last night,” said one
of the sewing girls in an uptown factory in New York to her nearest
neighbor, a very young girl, whose red-brown head was bent over a
sewing machine as she deftly guided her work, a heap of fine white
muslin, beneath the shining needle.
“What?” asked Fairfax Fielding, lifting her sparkling brown eyes--they
were the brightest, softest, loveliest brown eyes, although their owner
was only a little sewing girl--a garment maker. You would not find in a
day’s journey a prettier face than hers, with its complexion as smooth
and clear as the petals of a creamy tea rose, its piquant dimples
whenever she smiled, its well-shaped features, and broad, intelligent,
white brow, shaded by babyish, curling locks of hair that the girls
teasingly called red, but which in reality was beautiful, dusky, red
gold, with such warm glints of light in its dark waves that it made
other colors appear tame and common by contrast. With that shining
hair, those liquid brown eyes, and that expression of gentleness and
purity marking the fair brow and rosebud lips, Fair was more than
pretty.
Sadie Allen smiled roguishly, and said:
“I heard you were going to get married, that’s what!”
There was a little feminine titter from every girl in the range of
hearing, and Fair’s dainty wild-rose bloom deepened to angry scarlet.
“It’s not true, and I don’t believe you ever heard it, Sadie Allen.
You’re only trying to tease me, for you know I have no beaus; and,
what’s more, don’t want any,” she retorted spiritedly.
“You forget Waverley Osborne,” said a teasing voice on the other side
of Fair’s machine.
There was a double row of sewing machines in the large room, all
fastened to two long, narrow tables, with small round niches cut on the
sides, in which the operators sat at their machines.
In this factory a large number of women and girls were employed, and
Fairfax Fielding, who had come here at twelve years old, as an errand
girl, at three dollars per week, was in her apprenticeship to the
business now, and earning her seven dollars per week at the sewing
machine. She was seventeen years old, and if she stayed until she was
twenty she would earn double that sum. In this establishment were many
women and girls who had been here from childhood, and the employees
were mostly well known to each other, and, with few exceptions, on
amiable terms.
One of the exceptions in the present case was a new girl, a handsome
blonde, who was an expert worker, and commanded the highest wages paid
to a machine embroiderer. She had left another factory to apply at this
one for work, and it was whispered among the girls that the cause was
that her beau was a clerk in the warerooms below.
Whether this report was true or not, it is very certain that Miss Platt
lifted her large, cold blue eyes with a stare of angry surprise when
the name of Waverley Osborne was mentioned, and listened intently for
the answer.
It was not long in coming, for Fair Fielding tossed her head
petulantly, and exclaimed:
“Now, girls, please don’t plague me about him. You know I hate him.”
“Anyhow, he sent you flowers once, and walked home with you twice last
week,” laughed Sadie Allen, who was fond of teasing Fair.
“No, he only walked with me once,” corrected Fair quickly. Her
eyes flashed as she continued: “I told him then I didn’t want
his company, but I couldn’t get rid of him. He would go, and
insisted on calling on my mother, too, but,” emphatically, “I
guess--she--made--him--understand.”
Miss Platt looked up quickly from the silken lilies she was
embroidering on white cashmere.
“What did your mother make him understand?” she asked, in a voice thick
with suppressed excitement.
Fair was not in the secret as to the cause of Miss Platt’s interest.
The girls had decided that it would be a pity to spoil sport, and mar
Mr. Osborne’s chances with Fair by telling her the truth.
So they listened eagerly for her answer, and, turning her bright eyes
on the speaker’s face, she replied unhesitatingly:
“She told him she didn’t want him to walk home with me, call on me, nor
show me any attention.”
“Why? Wasn’t he good enough?” sneeringly.
Fair looked at her in surprise.
“I don’t know why you should talk so snappish about it, Miss Platt,”
she said resentfully. “If my mother doesn’t wish me to keep company
with gentlemen, it isn’t any business of yours, is it?”
The greenish fire of a jealous hate leaped into the blue eyes regarding
Fair so keenly, but, forcing a mirthless laugh, the embroiderer
retorted:
“Oh, so she don’t want you to keep company with gentlemen at all--is
that it? A strange notion. Why, I should think she would be glad to
have you marry and get off her hands.”
Fair’s temper was rapidly rising under the sneering remarks of the new
girl, and, with flashing eyes, she replied saucily:
“Glad to have me married and off her hands, indeed, when I am her only
support! No, I thank you, Miss Platt. Besides, mother tells me often
that she would rather see me in my grave than the wife of a poor man.”
“Wants you to marry a rich man, eh?” Miss Platt exclaimed bitterly, and
Fair responded impudently:
“Yes, indeed, if I could get one, thank you.”
A peal of laughter followed the sally, for all the girls thought it
very ridiculous, the idea of a poor little sewing girl aspiring to
a rich husband. Fair colored high at their mirth, for she had been
jesting, and now she said tartly:
“You needn’t any of you think I am expecting or hoping to get a rich
husband, for I don’t desire it. I mean, I don’t want to marry anybody,
rich or poor; but I may as well say what I think, and that is that I
wouldn’t marry a poor man--no, not even if I loved him to distraction,
for my mother says that when poverty comes in at the door love flies
out at the window; and she ought to know, for her experience was hard
enough.”
Fair had quoted “my mother” so often on this same subject that the
girls were all familiar with her story, which was that of a pampered
rich girl who had married beneath her own station in life, been
disinherited, and then driven her impecunious husband to drink by her
repinings after the luxuries she had lost, and reproaches because she
had so hard a life. He was dead now, and his widow, battling for long
years with the grim fiends of poverty and ill health, had industriously
instilled into Fair’s pliant mind her own theories regarding marriage.
But the gray-haired, matronly forewoman of the room, who secretly
despised Fair’s mother and openly loved the sweet young girl, now came
forward, and said gently, but with latent sternness:
“My dear girl, I’ve heard you quote your mother so often on this
subject that I feel like telling you a few plain facts. Will you listen
to me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” answered Fair obediently, and looking a little bit
frightened at this arraignment by this dignified forewoman, who smiled
at her kindly, and said:
“The experience of your mother is not universal, my dear. She was
unhappy with her poor husband because she did not adapt herself to
circumstances, and was dissatisfied and unreasonable. But other women
have married poor men and led happy lives with them. I married a
poor man myself, and, as I had been raised to work, I did not grumble
because I had to help to keep our simple home, but was happy in seeing
the neat and comfortable home we kept up by our united labors--he at
his trade of carpenter, I at my sewing machine. He is dead now, but I
never cast a stone at his memory by advising my young daughters not to
marry any one who is not rich, and I will offer you the same advice
that I do them.
“If you are asked to marry a poor man, whose only fault is his poverty,
take him, if you love him, and do your part toward getting along and
making a happy home for your husband. Besides, Fair, it would be easier
for you to be happy as a poor man’s wife than it was for your mother,
as she had been raised in luxury and did not know how to labor. But
as you are a working girl, you would not expect anything else than to
help your husband get along. Excuse me for speaking so plainly, but it
is for your own good, as I can’t bear to see your little head filled
with foolish fancies about getting a rich husband. You are very pretty,
I own, but rich men do not often marry factory girls, no matter how
pretty they are,” and, so saying, she turned away, followed by a murmur
of approbation from everybody except Sadie Allen, who remained very
silent, because she saw that Fair’s eyes were full of tears.