Читать книгу Zula - H. Esselstyn Lindley - Страница 14

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Scott Wilmer sat in his office surrounded by books and papers, which were lying about on tables and desk in great disorder. His brow was clouded, and, leaning his head on his hand, he looked from one pile of papers to another, and taking up his pen he wrote:

“Wanted—Boy. A good steady boy to work in law office. Must be active and willing to work; neat in appearance and of good behavior. Scott Wilmer, 173 —— Street, Detroit.”

The advertisement was inserted in the evening papers and the next morning a score or more of boys appeared. There was one among them who impressed Scott more than all the rest, and whom Scott requested to step into his office. He was a fine looking boy of perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age, scrupulously neat in appearance and possessing a manner which quite captivated Scott.

“My name is Paul Leroy,” he said, as he gracefully 71 accepted the chair Scott offered. “I thought perhaps I might fill the place of errand boy, if you will only let me try, and if you did not like me——”

“That is always understood,” said Scott. “The duties which I wish you to perform are not at all arduous, and I think you can fill the place without trouble.

“Would you like a chance to study?”

“Indeed I would, sir.”

“Very well. I will give you eight dollars per week and allow you the privilege of attending evening school, and studying at home when you can. Are you satisfied with that?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

“Have you any recommendations?”

“No, sir; I have none, and I can only promise you that I will be honest and do my work as near right as I can.”

“Where in this city have you worked?”

“I have not been here long. My mother does not live here, and my father is dead.”

“You may stay; I think we shall manage very well; and if I find you capable we will make a permanent bargain. Come! I will show you to your room.”

Scott led the way across the hall, and opening the door of a room next to his own private one, he said:

“This will be your room. You see there is a door that opens into my room, so that in case I should need you at any time you can step in without going through the hall.”

“It is a very pretty little place,” Paul said, looking around.

72

“You may wait in the library until the dinner hour. After dinner you may begin your work.”

June thought Paul looked rather pale, and wondered if he were not homesick. She really pitied him, she said to Scott, when she found her brother alone. Mrs. Wilmer gave him a half friendly welcome as he took his seat by Scott’s side at the table, but she did think Scott had a little more regard for caste than to allow his valet to eat at the table with the family. She thought it would be almost as reasonable to think of allowing one of her servant girls to sit with them. She did not dare to say a word of disapproval, for Scott said the boy was lonely, and he had taken such a fancy to him, too, and he would, no doubt, argue her out of all reason and do as he thought right.

The room which he occupied was a tastily furnished apartment, with a broad, low window facing the east. A tall maple tree stretching its branches out toward the window made a lovely shade, and by the window June hung her pretty mocking bird, Ned. For she said that Paul had no other company, and Ned would cheer him so much when he became homesick.

Paul began his work the next day with so much interest and activity that Scott concluded that if he continued as he had begun he had secured a prize. As time wore on Paul conducted himself with so much modesty and natural refinement that Mrs. Wilmer, with all her ideas of caste, could but admire him, and though she had cautioned June to ignore his society altogether, she now consented to allow her to sit in the library with him, always cautioning her not to forget 73 that he was her brother’s hired help, and in no way her equal. June always promised, but some way June always forgot. She did not mean to break her word, but there was a charm in the very atmosphere which surrounded Paul. Every moment that his services were not required for work was spent in useful and careful study. He took advantage of the evening school, and these hours were well improved.

The Wilmer library was a large, airy and beautifully furnished room, well filled with finely bound and instructive volumes. Scott was an extensive reader, and a great portion of his time was spent among his books. He had been studying law, and two years before the present time was admitted to the bar. His keen intellect and the remarkably sound judgment which he possessed for one of his years gave great promise of a brilliant future. His dignified bearing, without ostentation, his eloquence, to which none could listen without feeling the weight of its influence, his honor and strict morality, together with a generous nature, commanded admiration and respect from all. His face, though not strikingly handsome, was very attractive. His hair, a dark auburn, curled loosely around a broad, white brow. His hazel eyes and classical features were of the type that always caused one to take a second look, and the general comment was, “What a fine looking man.” Paul thought so, too, and he was much surprised when he discovered the generosity of his nature, and when told that he could have free access to the library it seemed too much of a treat to be true. He had so often longed for books of the kind which he found there, and he 74 tried to thank Scott, but that gentleman waved his hand in a way that thanks was entirely out of the question.

Paul and June were becoming firmer friends as the days wore on. They sat one day, several weeks after his arrival, in the library. June had entered and found Paul reading, and seeing the book he held in his hand, she said, as she took a seat near him:

“Oh, Paul, I should think you would just suit mama.”

“Why,” he asked.

“Because you are always reading poetry. I see you are reading ‘Lady of the Lake.’ Do you like it?”

“Like it? Indeed, I do; it is beautiful.”

“Well, I like poetry, but mama almost goes wild over it. She thinks anyone who can write poetry is wonderful. Mama is real funny; you’ll never tell anyone if I tell you in what way, will you?”

“No.”

“Well, you know mama often takes books to her room; she hardly ever comes here to read; she likes to be by herself, and I will tell you why. She would like to be a poet herself, and if you liked to write it as well as you like to read it, she would think you were just splendid.”

“I cannot write poetry; I wish I could.”

“Why don’t you try?”

“How can I when I do not know anything about it?”

“Oh, just make up something that rhymes.”

“I would not want to make poetry just for the sake of a rhyme; I would want some beauty in it—some—well, some soul. But is that what you were going to tell me?”