Mr. W---- echoed the sigh which left his visitor’s lips when the
latter departed. And the wealthy binder looked toward the screens
which hid fair Hattie Butler from general view--looked longingly in
that direction, as if there was a wish in his heart he hardly dared to
utter--perhaps a wish that she was not his employee, but a member of
the circle in which his own pretty and fashionable sisters moved.
He looked around to note that every one was busy, even his foreman
attending in person to a difficult job of gilding on Turkey morocco.
Then he moved very quietly toward the little screened-off space where
our heroine was at work, and approached her so silently that not until
he spoke was she aware of his close vicinity.
“Is this work difficult, Miss Hattie?” he asked, in a low, kind tone.
A start, a blush, which made her generally pale face almost glorious in
color, showed her surprise, but her dark eyes were calm and steady as
she looked up at him, and replied:
“Not difficult, but a little perplexing, Mr. W----, in consequence of
the scattered condition of the pages. Those old magazines, all torn
apart, were mixed up without regard to number or date, and you must
excuse me if I seem to work slow. I have to read sometimes half a page
before I can decide where it belongs.”
“Take your own time, Miss Hattie, and make no more haste than justice
to your work demands. You have never found me a very hard task-master,
I hope.”
“On the contrary, sir. I believe all in the bindery look upon you as a
kind employer.”
“Thank you, Miss Hattie. I trust they will long continue to consider
me so. By the way, are you sufficiently isolated here to pursue your
difficult duties--or would you prefer a corner in the office?”
“I would prefer to remain here, Mr. W----. Any extra kindness to me
will only cause others to feel envious, and I do not wish to make
enemies.”
“Enemies! Just as if it were possible for you to make enemies. Have no
fear on that score, Miss Hattie. But when I can in any way render your
position more comfortable, Miss Hattie, please inform me.”
“Thank you, sir,” she said, bending again to her work.
He cast one long, lingering look at that graceful form bowed forward
over those old musty pages, and turned away with a half-smothered sigh.
“It is a wonder that I never noticed before how exquisitely beautiful
she is,” he murmured to himself, as he passed on and into his office.
“Her voice is music mellowed down. Her language so chaste and well
chosen. Ah, me! I do not wonder young Legare feared his father might
fall in love with such a prodigy. I fear I shall myself. And if I did,
what would my sisters say?”
Yes, that is a man’s question all over. They see a lovely face and
form--all the heart they have is moved by it. But they ask not “is
she good? Is her disposition sweet? Is she pure and stainless?” Only
this--“is she rich in worldly lucre? Is she one who can move a star in
the fashionable world? Will she be an ornament in my circle of society?”
What ganders men are. There, I’ve said it, and I mean it.
Hattie paused over her work when the footsteps of her employer died
away on her ear. He had not before spoken to her a dozen times in the
two years or more of her employment there. His orders and directions
always came through the foreman hitherto; and when he spoke to a
hand he was not in the habit of using a prefix to the name of that
hand. To her he had said Miss Hattie. The foreman always called her
Hattie--nothing more--and she was used to it. Some girls would have
been pleased at this mark of preference. Not so our heroine. She knew
enough of the cold heartlessness of the world to look with distrust
upon any advances made by those who were above her in position or
fortune.
A sigh broke from her lips, and she almost wished she was back at her
sewing-bench at four dollars a week, with no one aware of her talents
as a linguist; though her advanced wages would add much to her comfort
and enable her to add to her small savings.
She bent again to her labor, and sought in it and its perplexities,
refuge from all other thoughts, and she had indeed enough to think
of in setting those mixed up pages right. No one else in the bindery
could have done it. It was a job which the foreman had laid aside as
hopeless, until the late discovery of her talent.
And now he came to her to see how she was getting forward. In reply to
his question she said:
“One volume is there, sir, with every page in its place, and ready for
the sewing-bench. It is slow work, for the pages are badly mixed and
torn up. But I am doing it as fast as I can.”
“Fast enough, in all reason, Hattie,” said Mr. Jones. “You are on
wages--or salary, rather, now, and not on piece work. So you need not
drive yourself.”
“Salary will make no difference in my industry, Mr. Jones. I shall ever
strive my best to devote every moment of working time to the benefit of
my employers.”
“It’s a good principle, Hattie, and I know you live up to it, which
is more than can be said of a great many in the shop. I’ll put this
volume in the sewer’s hands. Do the rest in your own time. It is a job
I never expected to carry through. It has been laying here over a year
untouched. When you get it done, I have three or four more almost as
bad.”
Hattie bowed her head, but made no reply. The foreman had never been
quite so talkative or complacent before. He was generally stern, sharp,
and imperative with all under him.
When he went away she murmured to herself:
“What can all this mean? Mr. Jones has softened in his tone. It used to
be ‘hurry up, Hattie, hurry up; we can’t have no lazing ’round in this
shop!’ Now, when my wages are nearly treble, and it should be expected
I should exert myself all the more, I am told to take my time. Ah, me!
I hope no clouds will come to cover this sudden gleam of sunshine.”