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.”
[39]
“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[40] 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[41] 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.”
