Mr. W---- went directly home after his interview with Hattie Butler,
and in the presence of his sisters, Flotie and Anna, he opened the
portfolio, and together they examined the sketches--not less than
thirty or forty in number. They were on all kinds of subjects--some
landscapes and others figures. Some few caricatures were exquisitely
done--one was the figure of a fashionable belle, looking through an
eye-glass at a poor ragged girl sweeping a street crossing.
The two girls laughed over this till they cried--the upturned nose
of the belle fairly speaking her scorn for the poor little sister of
sorrow who was trying to make the crossing passable for the lady’s
dainty feet.
“Why, Brother Edward, here you are!” cried Flotie, as she took up a
new sketch; “and you seem to be scolding Mr. Jones, for it is his very
picture, standing as I saw him once, with a paste-pot in one hand and a
brush in the other.”
Mr. W---- looked at the sketch, and laughed as heartily as his sisters
had done.
“I remember that very scene,” he said. “I came in one noon-time, when
most of the hands were out, and the rest at their noon lunches, and
asked him about some bank work--check-books, which were to have been
delivered that morning. He had mislaid the order, the work was not
done, and I was very angry. I wonder if I did look as cross as she
has made out in the sketch? Mr. Legare will never see that sketch. I
wouldn’t take a hundred dollars in cash for it and give it up.”
“How she has hit you. It is charming; even to the twist on the right
mustache, which you always finger when you are out of sorts,” said Anna.
“Yes, it is a perfect picture. I don’t believe Nast could make my face
out more correctly. What are you looking at so intently, Flotie?”
“A sketch by a bolder hand, far different, and marked ‘My Home.’ Heaven
save me from ever living in such a home.”
“Let me look at it.”
And Mr. W---- held a sketch beneath the gas-light, which had creases
in it, as if it had been folded in a letter. It was drawn on poorer,
thinner paper than the rest also.
He saw a bold outline of mountains, ragged, cliffy, and pine-covered,
in the background. In front there was a deep, rugged, shadowy ravine,
through which a foaming river rushed in fury. On a small, level spot,
almost backed up against a huge rock, was a small log cabin, with smoke
curling up from the chimney of rough stones, which rose from the ground
at one end of the cabin.
In front of the open door of the cabin a young man, bare-headed, was
kneeling, his hands clasped, and such a piteous, imploring look on the
face that it almost seemed to speak a prayer.
“There is a whole romance in that picture,” exclaimed Mr. W----. “I do
not believe Miss Butler meant it should go with the rest to Mr. Legare.
I will keep it, at any rate, with this other sketch of myself, till I
know her wishes. The rest I will send to Mr. Legare in the morning.”
“Oh, brother, who can this be? Such a nose, such a chin! Why, she is
cross-eyed, too, and as thin as a shadow, a very lean shadow at that,”
cried Flotie, over a new discovery.
“That is Miss Scrimp, the landlady where Miss Butler boards,” said Mr.
W----, laughing as heartily as his sister did. “It is an excellent
portrait. I presume she is taken at the moment when she is laying down
the law to the poor creatures who are scrimped at her board. It is a
pity so much talent should have been so long hidden over a sewing-bench
in our bindery.”
“And so much beauty, Edward. You don’t say a word about that now.”
“What is the use, Anna. She is beautiful, but she is poor, and only a
book-bindery girl, after all. If she had accepted the offer of adoption
into a wealthy lady’s family, as I hoped she would, you could have met
her as a lady, and loved her as a woman.”
“As I’m afraid my brother does already,” said Flotie, gravely. “It
would never do, Edward, for you to marry one of your own shop-girls,
and hope to introduce her to our circle.”
A sigh was his only response, and he arose from the table and went
to the window to hide his feelings. For every hour, every moment, he
thought of that beautiful but poor girl--every instant when he recalled
her estimable pride and independence, the modesty which had so long
concealed talents which left every female of his acquaintance far
behind, he loved her more and more.
“He has got it, and got it hard,” said Flotie to Anna, looking at
Edward as he stood there in gloom, with his back toward them.
“Got what, Flotie?”
“The disease called love, Anna. And he must be cured in some way, or
farewell to the opera, ball, and theaters for us. What fools men are to
fall in love anyway. For my part, I don’t want one ever to grow sickish
over me.”
“What does this mean?” cried Anna. “The girl who drew these sketches is
named Hattie Butler, yet the monogram on the portfolio is ‘G. E. L.’”
“Oh, most likely she is working under an assumed name. Perhaps she
has fallen in fortune, and did not want to be known by any former
acquaintance. I don’t understand these things, and don’t want to. There
is no romance about a shop-girl, in my mind.”
Edward W---- heard this and sighed.