Transcriber’s Notes:

The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber and placed in the public domain.

Additional Transcriber’s Notes are at the end.

CONTENTS

Chapter I. Hattie’s Letter.

Chapter II. Miss Scrimp’s Disappointment.

Chapter III. The Foreman’s Discovery.

Chapter IV. Tea-table Talk.

Chapter V. Does He Love Her?

Chapter VI. Joy to Toil-worn Hearts.

Chapter VII. Who Can She Be?

Chapter VIII. What Can This Mean?

Chapter IX. “Lizzie, I’ve Seen Her!”

Chapter X. Miss Scrimp’s Curiosity.

Chapter XI. Detected.

Chapter XII. Will She Keep Her Promises?

Chapter XIII. “It Is a Gem!” He Cried.

Chapter XIV. A Marked Change.

Chapter XV. A Proposition.

Chapter XVI. Hattie’s Resolve.

Chapter XVII. The Interview.

Chapter XVIII. Criticising the Sketches.

Chapter XIX. A Task Accomplished.

Chapter XX. Good Advice.

Chapter XXI. Jessie Albemarle.

Chapter XXII. The Ride Home.

Chapter XXIII. The Offer Refused.

Chapter XXIV. Scene in the Yosemite.

Chapter XXV. Frank’s Talk With His Sister.

Chapter XXVI. “It Is As I Feared.”

Chapter XXVII. Aunt Louisa.

Chapter XXVIII. “I Am That Child’s Mother!”

Chapter XXIX. Reunited.

Chapter XXX. “Oh! I Am So Unhappy!”

Chapter XXXI. The New Help.

Chapter XXXII. “She Is Dying!”

Chapter XXXIII. “My Mother Is Dying!”

Chapter XXXIV. Hattie’s Sex Defended.

Chapter XXXV. Battling With the Storm.

Chapter XXXVI. Safe in Port.

Chapter XXXVII. How the News Was Received.

Chapter XXXVIII. An Important Dispatch.

Chapter XXXIX. Mr. Jones Promoted.

Chapter XL. Captain Smith.

Chapter XLI. Hattie’s Welcome.

Chapter XLII. Found.

Chapter XLIII. Hattie Leaves the Bindery.

Chapter XLIV. Thine Forever!

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BEAUTIFUL BUT POOR.

BY JULIA EDWARDS,

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NEW YORK: STREET & SMITH, Publishers.

Copyright, 1892,

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BEAUTIFUL BUT POOR.

CHAPTER I. HATTIE’S LETTER.

Fancy a dingy old brick house on B—— street, New York city—dusty outside and moldy in all its ragged, papered walls inside—a dreary house with small, poorly ventilated rooms—these rooms wretchedly furnished, and I have made you at home in “Miss Scrimp’s Boarding-House for ladies only—no gentlemen boarded, lodged, or admitted.”

For this was the inscription on a faded tin sign nailed over the front door.

And in this building existed—I will not say lived—most of the time, between thirty and fifty working girls, attracted there by the cheapness of board, which enabled them to make ends meet on the wretched wages due to “hard times,” or hard-hearted employers, or perhaps to a medium between the two.

Miss Scrimp, a maiden lady, who acknowledged herself to be forty-five—one of the oldest boarders said that had been her age for over ten years—only charged four dollars a week for boarders in her best, lower rooms, and it ran as low as two dollars and a[6] half in the upper story, and two attic chambers—for this was a four-story house. She had but two servants—one to cook, wash, and iron, the other a pitiful, thin little creature, as errand girl, waitress, maid of all work, and all work it was for her, from early dawn till far into the night. She did all the sweeping, set out the table, helped to wash and wipe dishes, carried Miss Scrimp’s market-basket, went to the grocery, cleaned and lighted lamps—indeed, did almost everything that had to be done outside of the kitchen, and bore the abuse of Biddy Lanigan, the cook, and that of her mistress, like a little martyr, as she in truth was.

Little Jess they called her—her full name was Jessie Albemarle—was as good as she could be to all around her, no matter how she was treated, but there was one young girl in that house whom she almost worshiped—first, because Hattie Butler was very good to her; next, because Hattie was really the most beautiful creature she had ever seen on earth.

Though Hattie lodged in the very topmost room of the house, when she came home weary from her daily toil she would find her room swept as clean as clean could be, fresh water in her pitcher, and often a bouquet of flowers, picked up at market or elsewhere, perfuming the little room. And she knew Little Jess had done all this for the love there was between them.

Hattie, I said before, was very beautiful. Just seventeen, and entering on her eighteenth year, her form was full of that slender grace so peculiar to budding womanhood—just tall enough to pass the medium, without being an approach to awkwardness. Eyes of a jet, sparkling black, shaded by[7] long, fringe-like lashes, features of the Grecian type, complexion rich, but not too brown, the expressiveness of her face a very marvel.

No one, to look at her white hands, her slim, tapering fingers, her general appearance, even in her plain dress, would have, at first glance, taken her for a working girl, though she sewed folios in a book-bindery down town for ten hours every day sure, and often much longer when there was overwork to do.

She was a quiet girl, making but few friends, and no intimates, though when I write of her she had been for nearly two years a boarder with Miss Scrimp. The latter, for a wonder, liked her, though, as a general thing, she seemed to hate pretty girls, simply because they were pretty; while she had most likely kept her state of single wretchedness because she was more than plain—she was ugly. She had a sharp, hook nose—a parrot-bill nose, if we dare insult the bird by a comparison. She was cross-eyed, and her eyes were small and greenish-gray in hue. Her cheek bones were high, her chin long and sharp. Her thin lips opened almost from ear to ear, and in her dirty morning gown, slopping around, her form looked like an old coffee-bag, half filled with paper scraps, perambulating about over a pair of old slippers—number sevens if an inch.

But Miss Scrimp really liked Hattie Butler, beautiful as she was, and this was the reason:

At supper-time, before she ate a mouthful, every Saturday night Hattie laid her board money, two dollars and a half, down at the head of the table where Miss Scrimp presided. It had been her habit ever since she came; it was a good example to others, though all did not follow it.

[8]

Again, Hattie ate what was placed before her, and never grumbled. She never found hairs in the rancid butter; or, if she did, she kept it to herself. If her bread was dry and hard she soaked it in her tea or coffee, but did not turn her nose up as others did, and threaten to go away if Miss Scrimp did not set a better table.

And, best of all, Hattie was a light eater, as Miss Scrimp often said, in hearing of her other boarders, too sensible to hurt her complexion by using too much greasy food.

Some of the homelier girls sometimes used the old “gag,” if I may use a story term, and said “she lived on love;” yet the dozen or more who worked in the same bindery with her never saw her receive attentions from any man—never saw any person approach her in a lover-like way.

Her only fault to all who knew her was that there was a mystery about her.

That she was a born lady, her manners, her quiet, dignified way, her brief conversation, ever couched in unexceptionable language, told plainly. But she never told any one about herself. She never spoke of parents or relatives—never alluded to past fortunes. But Little Jess used to look in wonder at a shelf of books in Hattie’s room. There were books in French, German, and Spanish, and on Sundays, when she sometimes stole up stairs to see her favorite among all the boarders, she found her reading these books. And she had a large portfolio of drawings, and at times she added to them with a skillful pencil.

One thing was certain. Hattie was very poor—she had no income beyond that gained by her daily labor. She washed her own clothes, and, by permission[9] of Biddy Lanigan, ironed them on Saturday evenings in the kitchen, for she had even a kind word for Biddy, and kind words are almost as precious as gold to the poor.

Hattie seldom was able to earn over four dollars a week, as wages ran, and thus she had but little to use for dress, though she was ever dressed with exceeding taste, plain though her garments were. These she cut and made, buying the patterns and goods only.

When she had overwork she made more, and she had been seen with a bank-book in her hand, so it was evident she had saved something to help along with should sickness overtake her.

She had been two years and one week boarding at Miss Scrimp’s, when one Thursday the postman, or mail-carrier, rather, delivered a letter at the door directed to her.

Hattie was down at the bindery then, and Jessie Albemarle, answering the bell, got the letter. She would have kept it till Hattie came, but her mistress demanded to see it, and took charge of it.

Little Jess had seen that it was a large letter, postmarked from somewhere in California, and that it had a singular seal in wax on the back. The impression represented two hearts pierced with an arrow.

The address was only the name, street, number, and city.

Miss Scrimp looked at it very closely. Had there been no seal, only gum as a closing medium, it is possible her examination might have been closer.

Biddy Lanigan, once when she quarreled with her mistress and employer, boldly twitted her with having[10] “stamed” letters over her “tay-kettle” and then opened them.

“This is a man’s handwrite!” muttered Miss Scrimp. “I don’t like my boarders having men to write to ’em. But this one is away off in Californy—like as not, rich as all creation. I wish I knew who he is and what he wants. I’ll hand her the letter afore all the boarders at supper to-night, and if she opens it, I’ll watch her face, and maybe I can guess from that what’s up. She’ll never tell no other way. She has just the closest little mouth I ever did see. But come to think, she mightn’t open it at the table. She wouldn’t be apt to, for all the girls would be curious to know if it was a love-letter, and plague her, maybe. And she is too good a girl to be plagued. I’ll keep it till after she has had supper and gone to her room, and then I’ll go up, friendly-like and take a chair—if there’s two in her room, which I’m not sure of—hand her the letter, and wait till she opens it. And I’ll ask her if her brother in Californy is well—make as if some one had told me she had a brother there.”

This plan, talked over to herself, satisfied Miss Scrimp, and she put the letter in one of her capacious pockets, there to remain till evening.

[11]

CHAPTER II. MISS SCRIMP’S DISAPPOINTMENT.

The cracked bell, which had done service all those long years in the establishment of Miss Scrimp, had rung its discordant call for supper. The hour was late, for many of her boarders worked till dark, and had some distance to walk to reach home, and the dining-room was dimly lighted by two hanging lamps, one over each end of the table. They served, however, to show the scattered array of thin sliced bread, still thinner slices of cold meat, and the small plates of very pale butter laid along at distant intervals. Also to show dimly a few rosy faces, but many worn and pale ones—almost all having, like Cassius, “a lean and hungry look.”

The rosy faces were new-comers, who had left good country homes to learn sad lessons in city life.

Little Jessie was hurrying to and fro, carrying the cups of hot beverage, which her mistress called tea, to the boarders, and answering the impatient cries of those not yet served as fast as she could.

Biddy Lanigan, who stood almost six feet high, was fleshy to boot, and had a face almost as red as the coals she worked over, stood with her arms akimbo at the door, which opened into the kitchen, ready for a bitter answer should any fault-finder’s voice reach her ear, and also prepared to refill the tea-urn with hot water when it ran low, on the principle that a second cup of tea should never be as strong as the first.

There was a murmur of many voices at first, but[12] the clatter of knives and forks, and cups and saucers soon drowned all this, and until the dishes were literally emptied, little other noise could be heard.

Long before the rest were done sweet Hattie Butler had finished her single slice of bread and butter, one cracker and a cup of tea, and gone to her room. Grim and silent, yet keenly overlooking the appetite of each boarder, sat Miss Scrimp, until all were through, and had gone to their rooms, or into the old dingy room, slanderously called a parlor, to chat awhile before retiring.

Then Biddy Lanigan came in with two extra cups of strong tea, one for the mistress, the other for herself—a plate of baked potatoes and a couple of nice chops.

Poor Jessie Albemarle had her supper to make from the little—the very little the hungry boarders had left.

Miss Scrimp was not long at the table. She was burning with curiosity about the letter in her pocket, and so she took a small lamp in her hand and threaded her way up the steep, narrow, uncarpeted stairs to the attic where our heroine lodged.

Knocking at the door, it was opened by Hattie quickly, who, with her wealth of jet-black hair, glossy as silk, all let down over her shoulders, looked, if possible, tenfold more beautiful than she had below, with her hair neatly bound up so as not to be in the way when she was at her work.

Hattie had been reading, for on her little stand, near the bed, was a lamp and an open book.

There were not two chairs in the room, but Hattie proffered her only one to Miss Scrimp, and waited to learn the cause of this unexpected visit, for Miss Scrimp never called on a boarder without she was[13] behindhand in her board, and then her calls were not visits of compliment or pleasure either.

“I do declare—only one chair here, Miss Hattie? It’s a shame—I’ll rate Jess soundly for her neglect!” said Miss Scrimp, looking around as if she did not know how poorly the room was furnished.