Lestrange had been thinking how to have the binder
under his eye, and yet not seem to watch a fellow
so much above his notion of a working man; the family
made very little use of the library, and Richard’s
proposal seemed just the thing. He would be sure
to stick to his work where some one might any moment
be coming in!
“I don’t see any difficulty,” he
answered.
“I should want a little fire for my glue-pot
and polishing-iron. There will be gilding and
lettering too, though I hope not much—title-pieces
to replace, and a touch here and there to give to the
tooling! No man with any reverence in him would
meddle much with such delicate, lovely old things
as many of these gildings! He would not dare more
than just touch them!”
The little lady sat eating her toast, but losing no
word that was said. She knew from his voice the
young man was the same to whom she had called out
of the beech-tree; but now she seemed to recognize
him as the blacksmith whose hand she had bound up:
what could a blacksmith do in a library? She
was puzzled.
Richard noted that she was dressed in some green stuff,
which perhaps was the cause of his having been unable
to discover her in the tree! Her great eyes—they
were bigger than those of the tall lady—every
now and then looked up at him with a renewed question,
to which they seemed to find no answer. They
were big blue eyes—very dark for blue, and
rather too round for perfection; but their roundness
was at one with the prevailing expression of her face,
which was innocent daring, inquiry, and confidence.
The paleness of it was a healthy paleness, with just
an inclination to freckle. Her dark, half-scorched-looking
hair was so abundant and rebellious, that it had to
be all over compelled with gold pins. Its manipulation
had neither beginning, middle, nor end. She ate
daintily enough, but as if she meant to have a breakfast
that should last her till luncheon—when
plainly the active little furnace of her life would
want fresh fuel. But it was of another kind of
fuel she was thinking now. In the man who stood
there, so independent, yet so free from self-assertion,
she saw a prospect of learning something. She
was hungry after knowing, but, though fond of reading,
was very ignorant of books. She thought like
a poet, but had never read a real poem. She was
full of imagination, but very imperfectly knew what
the word meant. She had never in her life read
a work of genuine imagination—not even
Undine, not even The Ugly Duckling.
THE LIBRARY.
After some talk, it was settled that Richard should
work in the large oriel of the library. Mrs.
Locke was called, and the necessary orders were given.
Employer and workman were both anxious, the one to
see, the other to make a commencement. In a few
minutes Richard had looked out as many of the books
in most need of attention as would keep him, turning
from the one to the other, as each required time in
the press or to dry, thoroughly employed.
