When Hattie Butler went down to her breakfast next morning she studied
the features of little Jessie Albemarle as closely as she could while
the girl was flitting to and fro, carrying coffee to the boarders and
attending to her duties. And once, when she was close to her, she spoke
to Jessie, and got a fair look into her bright, brown, or hazel eyes.
She was almost startled when she did so, for she saw, sure she saw,
there a resemblance, a very marked and strong resemblance, to the kind,
loving eyes which had greeted her the evening before at the house of
Mr. Legare, and which had closed so suddenly in that death-like swoon
when the name of “Jessie Albemarle” was spoken.
While she was thinking of this, and what possibilities might yet be
in store for the poor, ill-treated bound girl, Miss Scrimp opened her
batteries on our heroine.
“Miss Hattie,” she said, “I’ve been thinking of changing my room down
to this floor. There’s the little alcove off the parlor, plenty large
enough for a bed for me, and my room has such a good light from the
east, you can almost feel day when it dawns, and it would save you such
a long journey up stairs. I’ll only charge you a dollar a week more if
you take it. What do you say about it?”
“Only this, Miss Scrimp, that I am very well contented where I am, and
that I would much rather pay my extra dollar toward getting you the
silk dress which Miss Kate spoke of yesterday, and which I am sure you
deserve for the great improvements you have made in your table.”
“That’s the talk,” cried Kate, from her seat. “I’ll pay my dollar
Saturday night.”
“And I--and I!” echoed along the table.
Miss Scrimp was quite disarmed by the turn that Hattie Butler had given
to her proposition. She had been all ready to sneer out that “the
richer some folks grew the meaner they got,” but our heroine killed the
thought before it could be spoken.
And so Hattie got off to her work at her usual hour without a change of
rooms or a quarrel on the subject, though Miss Scrimp had set her mind
on having one or the other.
The letter she had written in reply to Mr. W----, his own inclosed
in the same envelope to show him that she would never keep such a
missive for others to see, even by chance, as she explained in a few
well-chosen words on the back of it, was in her pocket, and she had
made up her mind to give it to him, unseen in his office, when she
could make some excuse for going there.
She arrived at the bindery at her usual hour, and went at once to her
table, hardly daring to look around, lest he should cast his inquiring
gaze upon her.
She had left work unfinished there the night before, and with a feeling
of relief that she had not seen him when coming in--for Mr. W---- had,
with manly delicacy, kept back--she went to work.
A step startled her soon after, and a flush was on her face as it
came near her, but the good-natured voice of Mr. Jones, the foreman,
reassured her, and she answered a question of his in regard to the
title on some finished work promptly and pleasantly.
“The boss,” thus he always alluded to Mr. W----, “don’t look well this
morning. He was here very early--stood at the door when I came to
unlock it,” continued Mr. Jones. “I suppose, like most young single men
nowadays, he keeps late hours, and they don’t agree with him. For my
part, home is dear to me with what is in it, the blessed wife and baby;
so my hours are regular, my sleep sound, and my appetite just what it
ought to be.”
Having thus relieved his mind, Mr. Jones went on about his business,
little thinking that Hattie Butler knew better than he why Mr. W----
did not look well that morning.
For anxiety and suspense are death to sleep.
And Hattie thought, sorrowfully, if suspense made him feel and look
so ill, the keen arrow of hopeless disappointment might work even a
greater change in his usually cheerful and happy face. Therefore she
dreaded to hand to him the letter containing her decision, while she
knew that the sooner it was in his hands the better it would be for
both of them.
Several times she looked around to see if he was making his usual
morning tour through the shop, but she did not see him. In fact it was
almost noon when she saw him come out of his office and go around among
the work people. And she saw at a glance that, as Mr. Jones had said,
he looked pale and low-spirited.
Feeling sure that he would come to her table before long, Hattie took
the letter addressed to him from her pocket, and laid it upon the
corner of the table, where his eye would be sure to fall upon it the
first thing when he approached.
And then, with more tremor than she liked, but which she could not for
her life restrain, she went on with her task.
It lacked but a little of the noon hour when she heard his well-known
step close to her table. And she trembled when she replied to his kind
salutation, “Good-morning, Miss Hattie.”
At that instant his eye caught sight of the letter, and his face
flushed as he said, in a low tone: “Heaven bless you for this quick
reply,” snatched it up, thrust it inside his vest over his beating
heart, and went as fast as he could go to his office.
Hattie never was so glad to hear the signal to knock off work for
dinner as she was then. For she could not keep her eyes on her work.
She was thinking how he must feel when he read her letter, for she had
known what love was, and what disappointment was, too, and she pitied
him from the inmost depth of her woman’s heart.
And he? Locking himself in his private office, he quickly opened the
letter on which he felt all his future life depended. With pallor on
his face he read those words, written so kindly, yet blasting the
brightest hope he had ever cherished.
“It is even as I feared,” he murmured. “The flush in her face when I
returned that sketch which she said had been sent to her by a dear
friend, should have told me not to hope, had I not been too blind. The
occupant of that wild mountain home--he who is pictured as kneeling
there above that rushing river--is the happy man, and I--I have nothing
on earth to hope for.”
He folded her letter in his own, pressed it to his lips, and placed it
in an inner pocket over his heart. And he sat there, silent and still,
while tears came in his blue eyes, and yet he made no complaint. To
him she was an angel, but, alas! not his angel.
He appreciated her delicacy and her noble sense of honor in returning
his letter, and he felt the full value of the friendship she offered.
“But,” he said, “how can I, loving her as I do, and must--how can I
see her here day after day, and refrain from pushing a suit which,
under the circumstances, would be almost an insult to her? I cannot
do it. I will go away. Father has been anxious for me to establish
a branch of our business in California, and I will do it. Perhaps
absence, and the excitement and novelty of travel, will help me to bear
my disappointment better, if it does not heal the wound inflicted so
unwillingly by the noblest hand on earth.”
For two hours or more he remained there in his office, laying his plans
and thinking what to do, and trying to so tone down his feelings as not
to pain her when he went out, by a look of sorrow; and he had regained
entire command of himself when there came a hasty knock on his office
door.
He opened it to receive Frank and Lizzie Legare, who stood there
smiling, and who entered his office when he as cheerfully saluted and
asked them in.