This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler
[Picture: “I always keep my engagements”]
A
SUCCESSFUL VENTURE
* * * * *
BY
ELLEN DOUGLAS DELAND
AUTHOR OF “MALVERN,” “OAKLEIGH,” ETC.
* * * * *
“Jog on, jog on the footpath way,
And merrily hent the stile-a.
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.”
SHAKESPEARE
* * * * *
ILLUSTRATED BY
ALICE BARBER STEPHENS
[Picture: Decorative graphic]
BOSTON
W. A. WILDE & COMPANY
25 BROMFIELD STREET
* * * * *
COPYRIGHT, 1897,
BY W. A. WILDE & COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_.
* * * * *
A SUCCESSFUL VENTURE.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. MRS. WENTWORTH WARD VISITS GLEN ARDEN 9
II. THE STARRS HOLD A FAMILY COUNCIL 26
III. A DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE 44
IV. KATHERINE AS A FINANCIER 61
V. PETER SEEKS INFORMATION 81
VI. PETER’S NEW ACQUAINTANCES 99
VII. VICTORIA GOES IN SEARCH OF FUNDS 117
VIII. UNEXPECTED GENEROSITY 134
IX. SOPHY HAS AN ADVENTURE 153
X. THE NEW NEIGHBORS ON THE HILL 171
XI. VICTORIA DECIDES TO KEEP IT SECRET 188
XII. ROGER MADISON TELLS A STORY 206
XIII. PETER MEETS WITH A SERIOUS ACCIDENT 224
XIV. SOPHY WAYLAYS ROGER MADISON 242
XV. VICTORIA MEETS WITH DIFFICULTIES 261
XVI. MIDNIGHT MARAUDERS 281
XVII. ON THE RIVER 301
XVIII. MRS. WENTWORTH WARD CHANGES HER OPINION 320
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“‘I always keep my engagements’” F’piece
“The girls and Peter could see Katherine, who sat in the 79
hall below”
“‘It is a gem’” 136
“There, beneath one of the old trees, she found a rustic 188
bench”
“She found her eldest sister sitting on a rustic bench, 269
under the trees, with her work in her hands”
CHAPTER I.
MRS. WENTWORTH WARD VISITS GLEN ARDEN.
IT was raining heavily, and a strong wind from the northeast blew the
drops with relentless force against the dining-room windows. The few
leaves that remained upon the trees were fast dropping, falling in sodden
unloveliness upon the drenched lawn. It was a day for all those who could
do so to remain within doors.
The four girls were in the dining-room. It was the most cheerful place in
which to sit on a rainy day, and the fire that burned on the hearth
lighted up the room, and gave it an aspect of cosiness that was very
pleasant.
Honor Starr, the eldest of the family, was lying upon the sofa, which had
been drawn forward from its usual corner and placed within reach of the
warmth. She had a book in her hand, although she was not reading at the
moment. She also held a bottle of camphor, which she applied frequently
to her nose.
Sophy, the youngest sister, who was only eight years old, sat at a table
near the side window, brandishing first a large pair of shears, and then
a paint or a paste brush, while sheets of tissue paper, of every hue
known to a maker of paper dolls, lay about her on the floor, and were
mingled with the contents of an overflowing waste-basket which had just
been upset.
Katherine, who was eighteen, and who came next in age to Honor, had been
showing to her sisters a very handsome silver-backed handglass, which she
had bought the day before in Boston, and apparently there had been some
argument on the subject, for Katherine’s pretty face wore a perturbed
expression, and she glanced somewhat resentfully at Honor, who was then
devoting herself to the camphor bottle with conspicuous attention.
Victoria, the third sister, a girl of fifteen, knelt before the fire, to
which she energetically applied the poker. Victoria was apt to use energy
in the smallest affairs of life. The girls were all dressed in black,
which perhaps added to the effect of dreariness caused by the weather.
“Surely, she won’t come to-day!” said Katherine, laying down the mirror
and going to the window, whence a view of the drive was to be had. The
house was set low, and was at some distance from the main road. The
avenue leading to the house wound in and out among the trees, but there
was one portion of it which was open, and could be seen easily from the
windows. This open space Katherine was watching with scrupulous care.
“A dog wouldn’t put his nose out of doors to-day, if he could help it,”
she continued.
“Aunt Sophia is no dog,” observed Victoria, coming behind her and peering
over her shoulder; “she is a Woman, spelt with a capital W; therefore
wind and weather will never keep her at home. I heard the whistle of the
train, ages ago. And—yes, there she is!”
“Oh!” exclaimed the four sisters together, as a depot carriage came
rapidly into sight and was then lost again among the trees.
“Sophy, do straighten up that table! Your chips are everywhere! And pick
up the waste-basket!” cried Katherine, turning hastily from the window.
“Why did you choose to-day of all others to make paper-doll dresses?”
“Why, Kathie, you know I _always_ play paper dolls on Saturday,
especially if it is a rainy one!” exclaimed Sophy, with reproachful
emphasis; “and you told me yourself—”
“Children, don’t waste the time in useless arguments,” interrupted
Victoria. “Aunt Sophia is here, and we ought to have been ready for her,
for we might have known she would come. Honor, it will give her fifty
fits on the spot if she finds you on the sofa reading a novel at this
hour. _Do_ get up and look brisk, even if you don’t feel so!”
Victoria was flying about the room, as she spoke, moving a chair here,
and straightening a rug there, beating up a down pillow which still bore
the indentation left by the last person who had leaned against it, and
whisking out of the way the large box which was standing open upon the
table.
“Here is your bargain of a silver handglass, Katherine. I advise you to
keep that well out of Aunt Sophia’s sight,” she said; and then steps were
heard upon the piazza, the front door was opened, and there came in at
the same time and with equal force, Mrs. Wentworth Ward of Boston and a
strong gust of wind from the northeast.
“Why, Aunt Sophia!” exclaimed Honor, rising slowly from her sofa, which
was in full view of the hall. “Is it really you?”
“It is really I,” replied her aunt; “and who else should it be, or why
should it not be I? How do you all do? Honor, what is the matter that you
are lying down at this hour of the day? Victoria, take my waterproof to
the kitchen to be dried, if you please. Katherine, your hand, while I
take off my overshoes! Sophia, come here, child, and give me a kiss! You
smell of flour paste and are very sticky. What have you been doing?
There, now I am ready to sit down.”
She walked into the dining-room and placed herself in a large chair at a
discreet distance from the fire. She was a tall woman—all the Starrs were
tall—and of proportionate width. Her forehead was broad and high, and
above it the gray hair was parted and brushed smoothly back on either
side of her face. Her nose was rather large and was perfectly straight,
her teeth were exceptionally good, and her complexion might have been
called “high colored.” She was president, or vice-president, or at least
director, of no one knows how many charitable, literary, and musical
societies in Boston, and she was noted for her rare executive ability.
Among the other things which she tried to manage were her nieces the
Starrs, and she found them by no means the least difficult.
“You are brave to come to the country on such a day as this,” murmured
Honor, sinking again upon the sofa, but not actually lying down. She was
conscious that she was inviting censure both by speech and action.
“I always keep my engagements,” replied Mrs. Wentworth Ward. “If women
did not keep their engagements, what would become of mankind? Ten days
ago I wrote on my memorandum calendar for November third, ‘Glen Arden, 9
A.M. train.’ A woman should be as exact as a railroad time-table,
whatever the weather. It is the only way to accomplish anything in this
world. The 9 A.M. train has arrived, and so have I.”
She paused, but no one spoke. It was apparent that she intended to
enforce a lesson, and she gave her nieces a moment in which to digest it.
In the meantime Victoria returned from her expedition to the kitchen with
her aunt’s waterproof, and as she entered the room she glanced hastily
about.
Victoria, though only fifteen, was keenly sensitive, and it seemed to her
that the intellectual atmosphere was surcharged with a high explosive,
ready to go off with a loud report should a match be applied to it. She
was quite sure that her aunt held the match and had come to Glen Arden
this rainy day for the express purpose of striking it.
“And now to business,” said Mrs. Wentworth Ward—she preferred that the
two names should be mentioned in conjunction. “As you may suppose, I had
an especial purpose in coming out here to-day. I have come to the
conclusion, and I think your guardian will fully agree with me, that you
cannot live here any longer.”
Yes, it was just as Victoria had suspected. Aunt Sophia had struck her
match, and an explosion had promptly followed.
“And why not, may I ask?” demanded Honor, sitting upright upon the sofa.
“How perfectly absurd!” exclaimed Katherine, with a vehemence that was
scarcely respectful.
“Oh, Aunt Sophia, you are trying to frighten us!” remarked Victoria,
assuming an air of gaiety that appeared forced.
“But we don’t want to live anywhere else,” added Sophy, as if that reason
were conclusive. Sophy, being only eight, had not yet fully realized the
aunt for whom she was named.
Mrs. Wentworth Ward looked from one to the other of her four nieces. She
appeared to be quite unmoved by their excitement. There can be no
surprise for the one who strikes the match on occasions of this kind, and
Mrs. Wentworth Ward prided herself always upon being equal to an
occasion.
“I felt so at the time that your father died,” she continued, “but I said
nothing. There was no one who could come here then to live with you, and
it was not convenient for me to ask you to live with me; but in the three
months which have elapsed since then, I have reached a decision. It is my
way, as you know, to think over my plans carefully before making them
known to others. I have thought them over, and now I tell you. It is
neither seemly nor proper—and there are other reasons, too, which make it
impossible—that my nieces and nephew should continue to live here alone.
By the way, where is Peter?”
Peter’s sisters did not seem inclined to reply, until Victoria, fearing
lest the silence should exasperate her aunt, volunteered the information
that he was down at the barn.
“He went an hour ago to attend to his rabbits,” she said. “I suppose he
is there still.”
“Did he not know that I was coming?” asked her aunt. “Why rabbits when I
am expected? But, after all, that is neither here nor there. You are all
to come and live with me. In other words, my house shall be your home
henceforth. Honor shall act as my secretary. Honor, you have the ability,
and there is no reason why you should not turn it to account, instead of
spending your time on a sofa. Indeed, I have not yet been told why you
are on the sofa. Are you ill?”
“I have a cold. But, Aunt Sophia, suppose I don’t care to be your
secretary?”
“I cannot suppose anything so impossible,” returned Mrs. Wentworth Ward,
imperturbably; “for of course you will be only too glad to do something
for me in return for the many advantages which life in town will give
you. Katherine can perfect herself in music, at the same time taking
charge of the _bric-á-brac_. That shall be her duty. I have decided it
all.”
“So it appears,” observed Katherine. “I invariably break _bric-á-brac_
when I handle it. I should advise you to make a different arrangement.”
“Victoria shall continue to go to school,” continued her aunt, ignoring
this suggestion. “In fact, she and Sophy and Peter are to go to
boarding-school. I have already written and made the necessary
arrangements. They can spend their holidays with me on Beacon Street. I
shall take you into society, when our period of mourning is over. Next
winter you can begin to go out a little. In fact, you can go to concerts
this winter, and to lectures. It will be quite proper. I intend that your
minds shall be improved. Honor, what is that book which I see peeping
from beneath your pillow?”
The awkward pause which followed was broken by Victoria, who hastened to
divert her aunt’s mind.
“Poor Honor has such a cold,” said she. “I gave her some of your remedy,
Aunt Sophia, and it has worked wonders. Did you tell us to take it every
three or every four hours?”
“Every three hours, until the cold begins to mend, and after that, every
four. You did quite right, Victoria. There is nothing like it. I cured
your uncle once in less than a day and a half. And what did you say was
the name of the book, Honor?”
“I doubt if you have ever heard of it, Aunt Sophia,” said Honor, as she
drew it forth from its hiding-place. “The name of it—”
“Oh, please don’t stop to discuss books!” cried Katherine. “There is
something else far more important to be talked about. We don’t want to go
to Boston to live, Aunt Sophia. We don’t want to be your secretary and
dust your _bric-á-brac_. We don’t want to go to boarding-school.”
Mrs. Wentworth Ward looked at her calmly.
“My dear, that makes no particular difference,” said she. “We cannot
always do what we wish. I am your father’s sister, and it is proper that
you should live with me. It was very much like your father to omit making
me your legal guardian. Why he should have appointed Dickinson Abbott
instead of me, I cannot imagine, but he did, and what is done cannot be
undone. However, that is neither here nor there. I offer you a home with
me. You are too young to live here alone, and there are other reasons
against it also. It is quite out of the question.”
A profound silence followed this speech. The plan proposed by their aunt
was so appalling that the girls were unable to collect their ideas
sufficiently to reply. Mrs. Wentworth Ward took out her watch.
“I must return in the next train,” said she. “I have a charity
association meeting at half after eleven. I preferred to see you all
together and tell you this, rather than send for one of you to come to
me, or rather than write to you. This room looks rather disorderly, I
think. Honor, that is a wretched waitress of yours. When you come to
Beacon Street, I will give you lessons in housekeeping. This place had
better be rented; you cannot keep it up otherwise. Katherine, what have
you been buying?”
The lady had risen and had been walking about the room on a tour of
inspection, while she thus criticised. She was standing now in a little
recess formed by the window curtain. On a table within it was the
silversmith’s box, the lid half off, and in the paper which had wrapped
it, the address “Miss Katherine Starr” being in full view. The tissue
papers which covered the contents were ruthlessly drawn aside by Mrs.
Wentworth Ward, and the silver mirror exposed to view.
“Surely you have not been buying this!” she exclaimed, holding it up and
looking first at her own countenance reflected in the one side and then
at the large monogram of “K. R. S.” engraved upon the frosted surface of
the other.
“Why yes, Aunt Sophia! Why not?” returned her niece.
“How much did you give for it?”
“That is an awfully odd question, Aunt Sophia, but fortunately I don’t
mind telling you. It was only fifteen dollars. It is a gem, isn’t it, for
the price? And it matches the rest of my silver beautifully.”
“But where did you get the money to buy such a thing as this with?”
“Aunt Sophia! My own money, of course.”
“Your own money! Then let me tell you, Katherine, that there is very
little money for you to call your own, and none to throw away on silver
handglasses. I really don’t know what you are thinking of, nor Dickinson
Abbott, either! When you come to live with me I shall teach you economy.”
“When we do!” murmured Katherine, as she replaced the glass in its
wrappings and put it back in the box. Fortunately the rustle of the paper
rendered her remark inaudible.
“Honor, it is absurd!” continued Mrs. Wentworth Ward. “What do you mean
by allowing Katherine to spend money in this way? You are simply a parcel
of children, and it is more than time that there was some one to keep you
in order.”
“Katherine has a perfect right to spend her money as she pleases, Aunt
Sophia,” said Honor. She had been remonstrating sharply with her sister
upon this very subject before the arrival of their aunt, but now she
warmly espoused her cause in the presence of their common enemy. “It is
her money. I have nothing to say about it.”
And she again removed the stopper of the camphor bottle.
“Nonsense! you are the eldest of the family, and the responsibility lies
with you. That eternal application of camphor is bad for you, Honor. It
does not really cure you, either. The relief is only temporary.”
“It may be temporary, but is very pleasant,” said Honor; “as pleasant as
anything can be when one has a bad cold.”
“You will come to me the first of December,” continued Mrs. Ward, paying
no further attention to these matters of minor importance, but reverting
to her chief topic. “Peter and the younger girls will go next week to
school, as the term has begun, and no time should be lost. It will be
just as well to have them out of the way when you are closing up here.”
“But, Aunt Sophia,” cried Honor, “you can’t really mean all this! Why
should we do it? Why should we leave our home? Why can’t we stay on here
as our dear father intended we should? I am twenty-one, and quite capable
of looking after the others, and the children are well placed at school.
You are very kind to make all these arrangements for us, but though we
thank you very much, we don’t want to accept them. We prefer to stay as
we are.”
“Victoria, kindly see if the carriage has come back for me. I told the
man to be here without fail,” said Mrs. Wentworth Ward, snapping the lid
of her watch as she spoke. “Katherine, help me with my cloak, if you
please. Is it dry? Ah, yes, Honor, when you see Dickinson Abbott, you
will be made to understand why these arrangements have become necessary.
It is easy to talk of living on here, but it requires money to do
that—money, and you have scarcely a cent. The carriage has come,
Victoria? Very well, then, good-bye! Tell Peter he should have come in to
see me. You will hear from me again next week. In the meantime you had
better begin your packing. I will come out and help you to put the house
in order to let. I am sorry I have not time to stay longer, but after
all, further discussion is unnecessary.”
And again the front door was opened, again the northeast wind blew in,
and Mrs. Wentworth Ward of Boston went out.
The door had scarcely closed behind her when that leading from the back
of the house to the hall was carefully opened, and a boy’s face appeared
at the crack.
“Has she gone?” inquired the owner of the face in a loud whisper. “I say,
Vic, has she gone?”
But Victoria did not reply. She had hastened to rejoin her sisters in the
dining-room after bidding her aunt good-bye, and they were now looking at
one another in consternation. What did Aunt Sophia mean?
Peter, seeing for himself that the coast was clear, sauntered into the
room.