Hattie was bending over an old edition of Don Quixote, in Spanish,
which had been brought up for binding--almost worn out, the cover gone,
and the leaves misplaced, when two hands, soft and small, were placed
over her eyes, and a voice, disguised, cried out:
“Who am I?”
“Lizzie--I knew you by your rings,” said Hattie, laughing.
“Oh, I stole up so still I thought you’d think it was some bindery
girl,” said Lizzie, bending over and kissing her friend.
“No bindery girl would presume to take liberties with me, dear Lizzie.
I never mingle with them, though I always treat them with courtesy when
chance throws them in my way.”
“I might have known it, darling Hattie. You are not like them, or
any one else that I know. I do believe you are a fine lady, just
masquerading at work for a secret cause of your own.”
“Time will tell, Lizzie.”
“Well, I only wish it would be in a hurry about it. But come, dear,
I saw Mr. W----, bless his heart, when I came in, and he said he had
already told you to take time to come to our house whenever you wanted
to. And, dear little Jessie, with dressmakers and milliners all around
her, happier than anything else alive, only asks for her dear Miss
Hattie to come. She has told us how you fed her when almost starved,
and how you gave her clothes when she was in rags, and her mother says
she’ll pay you in love if she can do nothing else.”
“The love of true friends is very precious,” said Hattie.
“And we are your true friends, and we will be always,” said Lizzie,
earnestly. “But come, dear Hattie, they will wait for us. Frank is out
in the carriage. He would come along; but when he got here, the lazy
fellow wanted to stay in the carriage instead of coming up. He said Mr.
W---- was laughing at him for something that happened last night at the
club-room, but will not tell me what.”
“Most likely your brother was boasting over his new cousin,” said
Hattie, putting on her things to go.
“Yes, he did tell him about her.”
The two girls now went out, and in a few moments were in the carriage,
and on their way up town. They stopped but once, then it was by order
of Frank, who went into a florist’s to get four large bouquets for
those in the carriage and at home.
“Oh, my Hattie! my Hattie!” cried Jessie Albemarle, when our heroine
went into the sitting-room, where, with her mother, and surrounded by
busy cutters and sewers, she was being made presentable.
And she showered kisses on the only true friend she had known in her
many days of sorrow.
As lunch had been kept waiting for the arrival of the carriage and its
occupants, the family, as Mr. Legare jovially termed them all, so as to
include Hattie, left the sewers and their work, and adjourned to the
dining-room.
Jessie, who seemed to come naturally into the ways of a lady, was
almost too happy to eat, but Cousin Frank told her she would never grow
large, stately, and beautiful like Miss Butler unless she ate heartily.
It was a roundabout way to compliment Hattie, but Frank, in his
innocence, didn’t know how else to do it. Some men are so awkward, you
know.
“Did Miss Scrimp carry on much after I came away?” asked Jessie.
“She commenced it, but I very promptly hushed it. She said she would
like to kill me.”
“And so she would if she dared. But she is an old coward, Miss Hattie.
No one but a coward would beat a helpless girl as she used to beat me.”
“That is true, and were it not for publicity, I would make her suffer
for it to the full extent of the law,” said Mrs. Emory. “But, Miss
Hattie, you ought not to stay another day in that house. Do come here
to stay with us. You need never work again. If you will only come and
be Jessie’s sister you will overflow the cup of joy already full.”
“It cannot be at present, Mrs. Emory, though I thank you from my heart.
Three years ago I laid out a certain course, for good reasons, which
I hope yet to be able to explain to you all, my kind friends, and I
cannot change that course until an event, which I hope and pray for,
takes place. Then, perhaps, you will think all the more of me for the
course I have taken.”
“We have no right to ask more, Miss Hattie,” said Mr. Legare. “I, for
one, have every faith in the purity of your motives in all things.”
Hattie could but be pleased with all these attentions.
After lunch the ladies adjourned to the sitting-room, while Mr. Legare
went to his library. Frank, with his new ideas of diplomacy, asked
Lizzie if she and Miss Hattie wouldn’t take just a little dash with him
in his phaeton behind his thoroughbreds.
Lizzie had been out with him once or twice, been choked with dust or
covered with mud, and she felt no desire to try it again. She said she
preferred the family coach and steady driving.
As Frank would not go alone, he hung about the sitting-room, and got
well covered with lint while he dodged about among the dry goods.
Jessie, who had never possessed a nice dress, was in ecstasy with
everything they showed her, and Mrs. Emory had a double joy in seeing
her dear child so appreciative of everything done for her. And the girl
told such funny stories about Miss Scrimp and Biddy Lanigan, mimicking
them so drolly, that she “brought down the house,” as the critics say.
Hattie spent a very happy afternoon, dined with the family, and was
then sent home in the carriage as usual. It was just supper-time at
Miss Scrimp’s when she got to the boarding-house, but the old spinster
was at the door when the carriage stopped, her eyes fairly green with
hate and envy.
Had not Saturday night been so close at hand, and the money for the
silk dress expected, there is small room to doubt she would have had a
“pick” at Hattie in spite of the fear in which she held her. As it was,
she said, as Hattie passed her:
“Some folks ought to feel terrible proud to ride in other folks’
carriages. For me, I’d rather go afoot, when it’s my own shoes I walk
in.”
Hattie made no reply, but she paused to say a kind word to some of the
girls who were coming in. At the same moment her eyes fell on the new
servant whom Miss Scrimp had hired to replace Jessie, for she could not
get another girl from the asylum. Her record was already against her
there.
This girl had just come over from the “Faderland” far away. She was
young and small, but stout-built, and she thundered around on wooden
shoes, much to the amusement of the girls, as they came in. She had not
a very good idea of American ways, spoke no English, and Miss Scrimp
and Biddy Lanigan had to manage her by signs.
The secret of her employment was this: She was got from an intelligence
office on a quarter of the going wages, because she wanted to learn the
English language, and how to act as a waitress.
Hattie, having dined so late, did not care for supper, so she did not
stay to see Marguerite essay her first trials at carrying round tea to
the boarders, nor did she know until after supper that the new girl,
stumbling as she carried two cups of hot tea in her hands, deposited
the contents of both down the scrawny neck and bosom of Miss Scrimp,
who, screaming with pain, attempted to box her ears, but got the worst
of it in the struggle, for the girl tore off all of Miss Scrimp’s false
hair, and left her almost bald-headed, besides damaging the arrangement
of the pads, which made up the best part of her form. So Miss Scrimp
learned that she had not poor, helpless Jessie Albemarle to deal with
now. And as she had engaged this girl for a month, she dared not
discharge her without paying her wages, so she drew off to her room to
repair damages, and left the new girl and Biddy to wait on the table.
And they managed better without her, for the girl was willing and
good-natured, and, after her first mishap, was more careful. Biddy,
who had got a hint from the girls that she was to have a dress out of
the proceeds of the subscription, bustled around, and between her and
Germany, as she called the new girl, the supper ended pleasantly.
There was enough on the table, and the food was good. Miss Scrimp had
got started in it, and did not dare to advance backward.