Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Billy was summoned to the
telephone.
“Oh, good morning, Uncle William,” she called, in answer to the
masculine voice that replied to her “Hullo.”
“Billy, are you very busy this morning?”
“No, indeed--not if you want me.”
“Well, I do, my dear.” Uncle William's voice was troubled. “I want you
to go with me, if you can, to see a Mrs. Greggory. She's got a teapot I
want. It's a genuine Lowestoft, Harlow says. Will you go?”
“Of course I will! What time?”
“Eleven if you can, at Park Street. She's at the West End. I don't dare
to put it off for fear I'll lose it. Harlow says others will have to
know of it, of course. You see, she's just made up her mind to sell it,
and asked him to find a customer. I wouldn't trouble you, but he says
they're peculiar--the daughter, especially--and may need some careful
handling. That's why I wanted you--though I wanted you to see the
tea-pot, too,--it'll be yours some day, you know.”
Billy, all alone at her end of the line, blushed. That she was one day
to be mistress of the Strata and all it contained was still anything but
“common” to her.
“I'd love to see it, and I'll come gladly; but I'm afraid I won't be
much help, Uncle William,” she worried.
“I'll take the risk of that. You see, Harlow says that about half the
time she isn't sure she wants to sell it, after all.”
“Why, how funny! Well, I'll come. At eleven, you say, at Park Street?”
“Yes; and thank you, my dear. I tried to get Kate to go, too; but she
wouldn't. By the way, I'm going to bring you home to luncheon. Kate
leaves this afternoon, you know, and it's been so snowy she hasn't
thought best to try to get over to the house. Maybe Aunt Hannah would
come, too, for luncheon. Would she?”
“I'm afraid not,” returned Billy, with a rueful laugh. “She's got
_three_ shawls on this morning, and you know that always means that
she's felt a draft somewhere--poor dear. I'll tell her, though, and I'll
see you at eleven,” finished Billy, as she hung up the receiver.
Promptly at the appointed time Billy met Uncle William at Park Street,
and together they set out for the West End street named on the paper in
his pocket. But when the shabby house on the narrow little street was
reached, the man looked about him with a troubled frown.
“I declare, Billy, I'm not sure but we'd better turn back,” he fretted.
“I didn't mean to take you to such a place as this.”
Billy shivered a little; but after one glance at the man's disappointed
face she lifted a determined chin.
“Nonsense, Uncle William! Of course you won't turn back. I don't
mind--for myself; but only think of the people whose _homes_ are here,”
she finished, just above her breath.
Mrs. Greggory was found to be living in two back rooms at the top of
four flights of stairs, up which William Henshaw toiled with increasing
weariness and dismay, punctuating each flight with a despairing: “Billy,
really, I think we should turn back!”
But Billy would not turn back, and at last they found themselves in the
presence of a white-haired, sweet-faced woman who said yes, she was
Mrs. Greggory; yes, she was. Even as she uttered the words, however,
she looked fearfully over her shoulders as if expecting to hear from the
hall behind them a voice denying her assertion.
Mrs. Greggory was a cripple. Her slender little body was poised on two
once-costly crutches. Both the worn places on the crutches, and the
skill with which the little woman swung herself about the room testified
that the crippled condition was not a new one.
Billy's eyes were brimming with pity and dismay. Mechanically she had
taken the chair toward which Mrs. Greggory had motioned her. She had
tried not to seem to look about her; but there was not one detail of
the bare little room, from its faded rug to the patched but spotless
tablecloth, that was not stamped on her brain.
Mrs. Greggory had seated herself now, and William Henshaw had cleared
his throat nervously. Billy did not know whether she herself were the
more distressed or the more relieved to hear him stammer:
“We--er--I came from Harlow, Mrs. Greggory. He gave me to understand
you had an--er--teapot that--er--” With his eyes on the cracked white
crockery pitcher on the table, William Henshaw came to a helpless pause.
A curious expression, or rather, series of expressions crossed Mrs.
Greggory's face. Terror, joy, dismay, and relief seemed, one after the
other to fight for supremacy. Relief in the end conquered, though even
yet there was a second hurriedly apprehensive glance toward the door
before she spoke.
“The Lowestoft! Yes, I'm so glad!--that is, of course I must be glad.
I'll get it.” Her voice broke as she pulled herself from her chair.
There was only despairing sorrow on her face now.
The man rose at once.
“But, madam, perhaps--don't let me--” I he began stammeringly. “Of
course--Billy!” he broke off in an entirely different voice. “Jove! What
a beauty!”
Mrs. Greggory had thrown open the door of a small cupboard near the
collector's chair, disclosing on one of the shelves a beautifully shaped
teapot, creamy in tint, and exquisitely decorated in a rose design. Near
it set a tray-like plate of the same ware and decoration.
“If you'll lift it down, please, yourself,” motioned Mrs. Greggory. “I
don't like to--with these,” she explained, tapping the crutches at her
side.
With fingers that were almost reverent in their appreciation, the
collector reached for the teapot. His eyes sparkled.
“Billy, look, what a beauty! And it's a Lowestoft, too, the real
thing--the genuine, true soft paste! And there's the tray--did you
notice?” he exulted, turning back to the shelf. “You _don't_ see that
every day! They get separated, most generally, you know.”
“These pieces have been in our family for generations,” said Mrs.
Greggory with an accent of pride. “You'll find them quite perfect, I
think.”
“Perfect! I should say they were,” cried the man.
“They are, then--valuable?” Mrs. Greggory's voice shook.
“Indeed they are! But you must know that.”
“I have been told so. Yet to me their chief value, of course, lies in
their association. My mother and my grandmother owned that teapot, sir.”
Again her voice broke.
William Henshaw cleared his throat.
“But, madam, if you do not wish to sell--” He stopped abruptly. His
longing eyes had gone back to the enticing bit of china.
Mrs. Greggory gave a low cry.
“But I do--that is, I must. Mr. Harlow says that it is valuable, and
that it will bring in money; and we need--money.” She threw a quick
glance toward the hall door, though she did not pause in her remarks. “I
can't do much at work that pays. I sew”--she nodded toward the machine
by the window--“but with only one foot to make it go--You see, the
other is--is inclined to shirk a little,” she finished with a wistful
whimsicality.
Billy turned away sharply. There was a lump in her throat and a smart in
her eyes. She was conscious suddenly of a fierce anger against--she did
not know what, exactly; but she fancied it was against the teapot,
or against Uncle William for wanting the teapot, or for _not_ wanting
it--if he did not buy it.
“And so you see, I do very much wish to sell.”
Mrs. Greggory said then. “Perhaps you will tell me what it would be
worth to you,” she concluded tremulously.
The collector's eyes glowed. He picked up the teapot with careful
rapture and examined it. Then he turned to the tray. After a moment he
spoke.
“I have only one other in my collection as rare,” he said. “I paid a
hundred dollars for that. I shall be glad to give you the same for this,
madam.”
Mrs. Greggory started visibly.
“A hundred dollars? So much as that?” she cried almost joyously. “Why,
nothing else that we've had has brought--Of course, if it's worth that
to you--” She paused suddenly. A quick step had sounded in the hall
outside. The next moment the door flew open and a young woman, who
looked to be about twenty-three or twenty-four years old, burst into the
room.
“Mother, only think, I've--” She stopped, and drew back a little.
Her startled eyes went from one face to another, then dropped to the
Lowestoft teapot in the man's hands. Her expression changed at once. She
shut the door quickly and hurried forward.
“Mother, what is it? Who are these people?” she asked sharply.
Billy lifted her chin the least bit. She was conscious of a feeling
which she could not name: Billy was not used to being called “these
people” in precisely that tone of voice. William Henshaw, too, raised
his chin. He, also, was not in the habit of being referred to as “these
people.”
“My name is Henshaw, Miss--Greggory, I presume,” he said quietly. “I was
sent here by Mr. Harlow.”
“About the teapot, my dear, you know,” stammered Mrs. Greggory,
wetting her lips with an air of hurried apology and conciliation. “This
gentleman says he will be glad to buy it. Er--my daughter, Alice, Mr.
Henshaw,” she hastened on, in embarrassed introduction; “and Miss--”
“Neilson,” supplied the man, as she looked at Billy, and hesitated.
A swift red stained Alice Greggory's face. With barely an acknowledgment
of the introductions she turned to her mother.
“Yes, dear, but that won't be necessary now. As I started to tell you
when I came in, I have two new pupils; and so”--turning to the man again
“I thank you for your offer, but we have decided not to sell the teapot
at present.” As she finished her sentence she stepped one side as if to
make room for the strangers to reach the door.
William Henshaw frowned angrily--that was the man; but his eyes--the
collector's eyes--sought the teapot longingly. Before either the man or
the collector could speak, however; Mrs. Greggory interposed quick words
of remonstrance.
“But, Alice, my dear,” she almost sobbed. “You didn't wait to let me
tell you. Mr. Henshaw says it is worth a hundred dollars to him. He will
give us--a hundred dollars.”
“A hundred dollars!” echoed the girl, faintly.
It was plain to be seen that she was wavering. Billy, watching the
little scene, with mingled emotions, saw the glance with which the girl
swept the bare little room; and she knew that there was not a patch or
darn or poverty spot in sight, or out of sight, which that glance did
not encompass.
Billy was wondering which she herself desired more--that Uncle William
should buy the Lowestoft, or that he should not. She knew she wished
Mrs. Greggory to have the hundred dollars. There was no doubt on
that point. Then Uncle William spoke. His words carried the righteous
indignation of the man who thinks he has been unjustly treated, and the
final plea of the collector who sees a coveted treasure slipping from
his grasp.
“I am very sorry, of course, if my offer has annoyed you,” he said
stiffly. “I certainly should not have made it had I not had Mrs.
Greggory's assurance that she wished to sell the teapot.”
Alice Greggory turned as if stung.
“_Wished to sell!_” She repeated the words with superb disdain. She was
plainly very angry. Her blue-gray eyes gleamed with scorn, and her whole
face was suffused with a red that had swept to the roots of her
soft hair. “Do you think a woman _wishes_ to sell a thing that she's
treasured all her life, a thing that is perhaps the last visible
reminder of the days when she was living--not merely existing?”
“Alice, Alice, my love!” protested the sweet-faced cripple, agitatedly.
“I can't help it,” stormed the girl, hotly. “I know how much you think
of that teapot that was grandmother's. I know what it cost you to make
up your mind to sell it at all. And then to hear these people talk about
your _wishing_ to sell it! Perhaps they think, too, we _wish_ to live
in a place like this; that we _wish_ to have rugs that are darned,
and chairs that are broken, and garments that are patches instead of
clothes!”
“Alice!” gasped Mrs. Greggory in dismayed horror.
With a little outward fling of her two hands Alice Greggory stepped
back. Her face had grown white again.
“I beg your pardon, of course,” she said in a voice that was bitterly
quiet. “I should not have spoken so. You are very kind, Mr. Henshaw, but
I do not think we care to sell the Lowestoft to-day.”
Both words and manner were obviously a dismissal; and with a puzzled
sigh William Henshaw picked up his hat. His face showed very clearly
that he did not know what to do, or what to say; but it showed, too, as
clearly, that he longed to do something, or say something. During the
brief minute that he hesitated, however, Billy sprang forward.
“Mrs. Greggory, please, won't you let _me_ buy the teapot? And
then--won't you keep it for me--here? I haven't the hundred dollars with
me, but I'll send it right away. You will let me do it, won't you?”
It was an impulsive speech, and a foolish one, of course, from the
standpoint of sense and logic and reasonableness; but it was one that
might be expected, perhaps, from Billy.
Mrs. Greggory must have divined, in a way, the spirit that prompted it,
for her eyes grew wet, and with a choking “Dear child!” she reached out
and caught Billy's hand in both her own--even while she shook her head
in denial.
Not so her daughter. Alice Greggory flushed scarlet. She drew herself
proudly erect.
“Thank you,” she said with crisp coldness; “but, distasteful as darns
and patches are to us, we prefer them, infinitely, to--charity!”
“Oh, but, please, I didn't mean--you didn't understand,” faltered Billy.
For answer Alice Greggory walked deliberately to the door and held it
open.
“Oh, Alice, my dear,” pleaded Mrs. Greggory again, feebly.
“Come, Billy! We'll bid you good morning, ladies,” said William
Henshaw then, decisively. And Billy, with a little wistful pat on Mrs.
Greggory's clasped hands, went.
Once down the long four flights of stairs and out on the sidewalk,
William Henshaw drew a long breath.
“Well, by Jove! Billy, the next time I take you curio hunting, it won't
be to this place,” he fumed.
“Wasn't it awful!” choked Billy.
“Awful! The girl was the most stubborn, unreasonable, vixenish little
puss I ever saw. I didn't want her old Lowestoft if she didn't want
to sell it! But to practically invite me there, and then treat me like
that!” scolded the collector, his face growing red with anger. “Still, I
was sorry for the poor little old lady. I wish, somehow, she could have
that hundred dollars!” It was the man who said this, not the collector.
“So do I,” rejoined Billy, dolefully. “But that girl was so--so queer!”
she sighed, with a frown. Billy was puzzled. For the first time,
perhaps, in her life, she knew what it was to have her proffered “ice
cream” disdainfully refused.