GILBERT MAKES A NEW ACQUAINTANCE.
Having arranged about his trunk, Gilbert took one of the
University-Place cars at the Astor House, and rode up-town. Mrs. Briggs
might not know of his coming, and the trunk might be refused.
The house was a four-story brown-stone front, with English basement,
differing in no wise from the thousands of fashionable mansions to be
seen in the upper part of the city.
Gilbert rang the bell.
“Is Mrs. Briggs at home?” he inquired of the servant, who answered the
bell.
“I don’t know, sir. I’ll see. Will you send your name?”
Gilbert drew out a neat visiting-card bearing his name. The servant took
it, and carried it to her mistress.
“Take a seat in the parlor, sir,” she said, on her return. “Mrs. Briggs
will be down directly.”
The large parlor was showily furnished, in the regulation style. There
was a chilly splendor about it that carried with it no idea of comfort
or home feeling. Gilbert’s attention was drawn to a family portrait near
the front windows. There were three figures,—Mr. Briggs, Randolph, and a
lady, who was probably Mrs. Briggs. She had a high forehead, a thin
face, cold blue eyes, and pinched lips. Gilbert privately decided that
he should not like the original of that portrait.
While he was examining it Mrs. Briggs entered.
“Mr. Greyson?” she asked, in a chilly way.
“Yes, madam.”
“I believe I have not met you before. You are Mr. Briggs’ ward or
protégé?”
“Yes, madam.”
“I thought you were at a boarding-school somewhere in the country.”
“So I have been, madam; but the term is at an end, and Mr. Briggs sent
for me to come to the city.”
“Indeed! Have you seen Mr. Briggs this morning?”
“Yes, madam. It is by his direction that I have ordered my trunk brought
here.”
The lady arched her eyebrows slightly.
“Then you propose to favor us with a visit,” she said.
There was a slight emphasis on the word favor, which Gilbert felt to be
a sneer.
“I am at Mr. Briggs’ disposal,” he answered. “He ordered me to come here
first. I hope I may not give you any trouble.”
“Oh, no; you will excuse my remaining with you—I have an engagement. I
will tell the servants to receive your trunk, and put it in your room.
Our lunch will be ready at one o’clock.”
“Thank you,” said Gilbert, hastily; “I think I shall not be here at
lunch. I want to go about the city.”
It was eleven o’clock; and he was sure he could not kill the time in
that frigid parlor for two hours.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Briggs; “then we shall see you at dinner. Our
dinner-hour is six.”
“Thank you, madam.”
“If you come earlier, you can ask to be shown to your room.”
Gilbert thanked her again.
“Now I must leave you. Good-morning.”
Mrs. Briggs sailed out of the room, and Gilbert, following her, let
himself out into the street.
“So that’s what they call a city mansion,” he said to himself. “I’d ten
times rather be in my room at Dr. Burton’s. I felt as if I was in danger
of stifling in that showy parlor. I hope I am not going to live there.”
Gilbert had nowhere to go; but the city was a novelty, and he wandered
about the streets, looking about him with the keen interest of a country
visitor.
A short walk brought him to the Fifth Avenue Hotel. He had heard of it
often, but never seen the interior. Attracted by curiosity he went in.
He took a seat near the door, and idly watched the people who were
continually going out and coming in. Among the latter he soon saw a
familiar face. Randolph Briggs lounged in, swinging a light cane.
“Hallo!” he said, noticing Gilbert, “you here!”
“So it seems,” said Gilbert.
“You aint going to stop here, are you?”
“For the present, I am staying at your house.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot. Been up there?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see mother?”
“For a few minutes.”
“Didn’t she invite you to lunch?”
“Yes; but I thought I should like to look round the city a little.”
“What do you expect to do?”
“I suppose I must get a place. As I have no property, I must do
something to earn my living.”
“You don’t expect to stay at our house, do you?”
“I don’t expect anything. I feel bound to be guided by your father.”
“You see it would be awkward to have an office-boy at our table, meeting
our friends.”
“I suppose so,” said Gilbert, his lip curling.
“It wouldn’t be proper.”
“I suppose you know best.”
“Probably father will find you some cheap boarding-house. That will be
better for you, you know.”
“It’s a pity you were not my guardian,” said Gilbert.
“Why?”
“Because you seem to understand so well what is best for me.”
Randolph looked puzzled. Was this penniless boy chaffing him, or was he
in earnest? Randolph’s vanity led him to think the latter.
“Yes, of course I do. I’ve lived in the city all my life. I ought to
know what’s what. Do you play billiards?”
“No; I never learned.”
“There’s a billiard-room below. I thought we might have a game.”
“I never played a game in my life.”
“Then there would be no fun for me. I guess I’ll go in and get a drink.
Are you thirsty?”
“No, thank you.”
“I’m going to the theatre afterwards—a matinée. I’ve only got one
ticket, but you can buy one at the door.”
“Thank you; I would rather walk about the streets this afternoon.”
Randolph lounged into the bar-room, ordered his drink, then lounged out
again.
He nodded carelessly to Gilbert as he went out.
“See you by and by,” he said.
Gilbert bowed.
“It doesn’t strike me I shall like that boy,” he said to himself. “I
wonder if his father knows about his drinking.”
Gilbert amused himself for a little while longer watching those who
entered and departed from the great hotel. Then he went out into the
street, and proceeded down Broadway. He made slow progress, for there
was much to interest a stranger like himself in the busy life of the
street. At length it occurred to him that he would go to Central Park,
of which he had heard a great deal. By this time he had strayed to Sixth
Avenue and Fourteenth Street.
At the same time with Gilbert a young girl of thirteen entered the car,
and, as chance would have it, she and our hero were seated side by side.
Presently the conductor made his rounds.
First he presented his hand for the young girl’s fare. She felt in her
pocket, but apparently in vain. Her face flushed, and she looked very
much embarrassed.
“I think I forgot to bring my money,” she murmured. “I will get out.”
“By no means,” said Gilbert, promptly. “Permit me to pay your fare. For
two,” he said, handing a ten-cent stamp to the conductor.
“You are very kind,” said the young girl, looking relieved. “I live in
Forty-eighth Street, and should not have liked to walk so far. I am sure
I can’t tell how I happened to forget my money; I am ever so much
obliged to you.”
“Oh, don’t mention it,” said Gilbert, privately thinking his new
acquaintance one of the prettiest girls he had ever met.
“Will you give me your name and residence,” she asked, “that I may send
you the money?”
“With pleasure, on condition that you won’t think of repaying such a
trifle,” said Gilbert.
He drew out a card, added his guardian’s residence, and passed it to his
companion.
“At any rate,” said the young girl, “you must call, and let mamma thank
you for your politeness to me. This is mine.”
She handed Gilbert a petite card, with the name of
“LAURA VIVIAN,
“No. — West 48th Street.”
“Thank you,” said Gilbert. “I will call with pleasure, but not to
receive thanks.”
After this the two young people continued to converse with a freedom
upon which they would not have ventured if older and more conventional;
and Gilbert was really sorry when his fair companion arrived at her
street and got out.