There was a regular flutter in the boarding-house of Miss Scrimp
when the bindery girls got in that Friday evening; for they brought
the news that Hattie Butler had been promoted in the bindery, a new
position given her, and her wages raised to ten dollars a week. Some
of the girls were really glad, for Hattie had ever been so gentle, so
quiet, so kind when any of them were sick, that she had few enemies.
But others were envious of her good fortune, as they ever had been of
her beauty, so there were a few to sneer and hint that Mr. Jones, the
foreman, or Mr. W----, one of the proprietors, had only promoted her
because she was handsome, and they wanted her off by herself where they
could talk to her and say things the other girls couldn’t hear.
The object of the flutter, the laudation, and the envy, seemed all this
time to care the least for her promotion of any that knew it. She did
not speak of it, even to Miss Scrimp, at whose right hand her chair at
table was always placed; but the latter had heard of it before Hattie
got home, and was ready with her congratulations the instant Hattie sat
down.
“I’m awful glad to hear you’ve been set up in the bindery, and get so
much better wages, dear,” she said.
And she screwed her sallow cheeks and thin lips into a picture of a
smile which Nast would glory to copy, if he could only have seen it.
“Thank you, Miss Scrimp; but I do not know as it will be much better
for me. My former work was very easy. It only exercised my fingers.
This will tax both fingers and brain. My head aches over it already.”
“Dear, dear! Well, I’ll have Biddy Lanigan make you a real strong cup
of tea and some toast.”
“No, thank you, Miss Scrimp, I do not wish it. The food which is good
enough for the rest always satisfies me.”
“I know it, dear. You never find fault, and that makes me so much the
more ready to better your fare when I can. And that reminds me--Miss
Dolhear has got sick and gone home to the country; she that came
here, poor thing, to learn dress-making; and her room, on the second
floor, front, is empty now, and you shall have it for only one dollar
more than you pay now, though I charged her two. Her folks were well
off: they used to write and send her money, and I guess she got sick
a-eatin’ too much cake and candy. Her room is all stuck up with it. But
I’ll have Little Jess clean it out for you, if you’ll take it.”
“Thank you, Miss Scrimp, I do not wish to change. I feel very much at
home in my little chamber, and the higher one gets in the city the
purer is the air they breathe.”
“Dear, dear! I thought you’d like to change. But you know what you like
best. Do let me call Biddy and have some toast made for you.”
“No, thank you, Miss Scrimp. There is plenty before me, I am sure.”
“Dear! dear! That’s just your own nice way always. I never heard a
complaint from your lips, and there’s some that are never satisfied.”
And here Miss Scrimp sent a scornful, cross eyed glance down the
table. But no one could tell exactly at whom she was looking, so the
look didn’t hurt anybody.
As Hattie made no further remark, the usual clatter of knives and forks
on slenderly-filled plates was alone heard for a time.
But when Hattie, as usual, arose earliest of all, and went to her room,
quite an unusual rush of conversation, and all about her, commenced.
“Such luck! From four dollars a week to ten, and all because she can
talk Dutch!” said one--a very plain and a very ignorant girl.
“Ten dollars? How she’ll shine out in silk on Sundays, I’ll bet, and
look for a beau as fast as the best of us,” said another. “She couldn’t
do it in ten-cent calico. Oh, no, the proud thing!”
“She is not a girl of that kind,” cried another, warmly. “She is the
prettiest girl in this house to-night, and you all know it.”
“Yes, stick up for her, Sally Perkins. We know why. When you had the
measles so bad she lost three days work sitting up with you and waiting
on you.”
“Thank Heaven she did,” cried Sally, earnestly. “I might have died
before one of you would have done as much for me. She is a living angel
if ever there was one. So there now. I’ll never speak to a girl that
breathes a word against her so long as I live.”
“Good for Sally Perkins,” cried a dozen in a breath, for more than one
in that crowd of girls had received kindness from Hattie Butler when
kindness was so much needed.
And the battle of tongues grew less and less, and soon tea was over,
and the girls scattered as usual. Some to their rooms, weary enough to
go right to rest--others to linger a little while in the old parlor and
get others to fix up their scanty wardrobe so as to be ready for their
only day of rest or pleasure--the blessed Sunday so near at hand--but
one day of toil to intervene.
Our heroine--where was she? In her little chamber thanking her Heavenly
Father that at last the stern strife for daily bread was made easier to
her, and that a glimmer of light could be seen through the dark clouds
of poverty.
Pure-hearted and innocent, she did not dream that any one could so
envy her good fortune as to hate her for it. If she had she would have
prayed God to forgive them.