THE STARRS HOLD A FAMILY COUNCIL.
PETER STARR was the only boy among four sisters. Had he been questioned
closely upon the subject, he probably would have replied, “Yes, and there
are four too many!” This is what he would have said, perhaps, but it is
doubtful if such a reply would have been altogether truthful. Peter’s
sisters were very useful to him, at times, although there were occasions
when it would have been pleasant to do exactly that which he, and he
alone, wished to do, instead of being dragged in four different
directions by the conflicting opinions of his four sisters.
Sophy he could manage, it was true, and Victoria he thought he managed,
though sometimes it occurred to him to wonder if Vic were not in reality
managing him, unknown to himself. But Honor and Katherine openly defied
him, and were fond of ordering him about in a manner which was annoying,
to say the least. Peter spent the greater part of his time in endeavoring
to frustrate the plans made by Honor and Katherine in his behalf.
To-day, fortunately for him, Honor’s cold prevented her from being aware
of the odor of the barn which accompanied him into the room, and
Katherine was too much absorbed in the conversation to remark upon it.
Victoria and Sophy did not notice those things.
“Has the ancient war-horse gone?” asked Peter.
“My dear boy, you oughtn’t!” remonstrated Honor; “indeed you shouldn’t
call her that.”
“Why not? I am sure she is ancient, and she is a war-horse, for she loves
a battle and the sound of prancings. She’s always arguing about something
or other. What was it to-day? I heard her talking, so I stayed in the
kitchen till she had gone.”
Honor tried to look shocked, but the others laughed audibly and then
quickly became silent.
“We had better send for Mr. Abbott,” said Victoria, “and find out just
what Aunt Sophia means. If she only could have taken time to explain to
us a little!”
“That is a good idea,” said Honor and Katherine together.
“We will telegraph him this morning and ask him to come out as soon as
possible,” added Honor. “Perhaps he will come this afternoon.”
“In all this storm?” asked Victoria, glancing at the weather.
The rain was descending in torrents, pattering on the tin roof of the
piazza, and pouring in a steady stream from the water-spout.
“Why not?” said Honor. “Aunt Sophia came, and Mr. Abbott doesn’t mind
weather. You know he told us to send for him whenever we needed him, and
I am sure we need him now. Probably he will come out this afternoon.
Peter, put on your rubber coat, please, and be sure to wear your rubber
boots.”
“What for?” asked Peter, calmly. “I am very comfortable as I am.”
“To go to the station with a telegram, child, of course! Vic, give me a
pencil and paper, please, and I will write it. I wish you would get some
telegraph blanks, Peter. Do bring some home with you, for they are such a
convenience. Now, let me see. ‘Mr. Dickinson Abbott,—State Street,
Boston. Aunt Sophia has been here and has told us’—dear me, that is nine
words before I began to tell him what she has told us,” said Honor,
biting the end of her pencil.
“Oh, there is ever so much you can scratch out,” said Katherine, taking
the paper. “‘Sophia,’ for one. He knows we have only one aunt—for which
blessing let us be thankful! ‘Aunt has been here and says—’ no, ‘Aunt
here and says we must go there to live because—’”
“Will it do to put all that in a telegram?” queried Victoria. “Why not
just say, ‘Please come and see us; we want to talk to you on matters of
importance.’”
“That will do very well,” said Katherine, writing it, “and only fifteen
words. Those extra five won’t cost much more.”
“We could leave out ‘please,’” said Victoria.
“That wouldn’t be polite.”
“It isn’t necessary to be so very polite in a telegram,” remarked Honor,
as she erased the word, “and if it is true that we have no money, we had
better begin at once to be economical. And we could say ‘important
matters,’ instead of ‘matters of importance.’ That would bring it down.”
“And save five cents, I suppose,” laughed Katherine, derisively.
“However, far be it from me to frustrate your good intentions.”
“There,” said Honor, laying down her pencil and reading the amended
message; “‘Come see us. We want to talk on important matters.’ Exactly
ten words, and now my name—‘Honor Starr.’ Peter, are you ready? Why, you
haven’t stirred! Peter!”
And all his sisters with one voice exclaimed reproachfully, “Peter!”
“Well, what’s the matter with Peter?” inquired that youth as he extended
first one foot and then the other to the genial warmth of the blaze. He
was sitting in an arm-chair before the fire. He was leaning back, and his
hands were in his pockets. Peter was tall for his age, which was
thirteen, and well developed. His hair and eyes were brown, as were those
of all the family but Victoria, and he looked very much like Katherine.
“Why are you not ready? You know we want you to go to the telegraph
office. There is no time to be lost, for Mr. Abbott will have gone home.
It is Saturday, and you know he always leaves the office early on
Saturday. _Do_ hurry, Peter!”
All the sisters were talking at once, even Sophy adding her voice to the
clamor.
“Keep cool! keep cool!” remarked Peter, continuing to warm his feet;
“who’s the telegram to?”
“Mr. Abbott, you _know_, Peter!”
“What for?”
“To ask him to come. You have heard us talking, Peter! Surely you are not
deaf. Do hurry!”
“What’s the use? You needn’t telegraph him.”
“Why not? Oh, don’t stop to argue, you dreadful boy!” cried Katherine.
“Just go at once. We want Mr. Abbott.”
“Well, you’re going to get him, and I’m not going out in this storm when
there’s no reason for it. Mr. Abbott is coming this afternoon.”
“Why, Peter, how do you know?”
“A telegram came from him this morning. I was at the station when it
came, and the operator read it off to me while it was coming, as he said
it was to us. I’m going to learn telegraphy some day. It must be lots of
fun to read all the messages and know what everybody is telegraphing
about.”
He was searching in his pockets as he spoke.
“I must have left it down at the barn, but it was only to say he was
coming on the two-twenty train. I’ll get it when I go down to give the
rabbits their dinner.”
“I don’t think there ever was such a provoking boy as you!” exclaimed
Honor, lying back upon the sofa, quite exhausted by her brief moment of
activity in writing the telegram. “If you only could have told us this
before!”
“You didn’t ask me, and you didn’t give me a chance, either,” responded
Peter. “And now I wish you’d tell me something. What is all this fuss
about, and what do you want Mr. Abbott for? What kind of a shindy has the
war-horse been cutting up?”
“She says that you children are to go to boarding-school, and that Honor
and I are to go live with her,” replied Katherine.
Peter gave a long, low whistle and stared at the fire.
“Are you going to?” asked he.
“Not if we can help it,” was the reply.
“Good for you! Neither am I. Go to boarding-school! Live with Aunt
Sophia! Whew!”
And the five sat there in silence for a few moments, while the wind blew
and the rain poured down without, and their Aunt Sophia was being borne
rapidly back to Boston in the train, satisfied that she had accomplished
her object and had done her duty, and that even now her nieces had begun
to make ready for their flight from the old home.
The Starrs had lived at Glen Arden all their lives. They were all born in
the old house, as had been also their father and their grandfather. So
had their Aunt Sophia, as to that matter; but apparently her early
marriage had counteracted the effect of old associations. She had no time
to give to sentiment, and she considered that a home on Beacon Street
would amply compensate her brother’s children for whatever they should be
forced to forego.
She was sorry for them, it is true, but her sympathy was somewhat diluted
by the reflection that she had always said that her brother and her
brother’s wife were extravagant. The state of the family finances at
present only went to prove the truth of this statement, and she was more
than convinced that Katherine had inherited the expensive tastes of her
parents. Fifteen dollars for a handglass! Mrs. Wentworth Ward bristled
with indignation at the thought of it.
It was three months now since Mr. Peter Starr had died. His wife had been
dead for some years, and the children might be said to have brought
themselves up. There had been no one to go there to take charge when
their mother died, and though there had been an occasional governess, she
had been granted but little authority, and affairs went more smoothly
when there was no one.
The girls adored their father, and his slightest word was law when he
chose to speak it; but as a rule he refrained from directing his family
in the smaller matters of life. He was an indolent, dreamy man, who since
his wife’s death had spent the greater part of his time among his books.
Mrs. Wentworth Ward had frequently remonstrated with him upon the laxity
of his management of his children, but he had acquired the habit of
thinking that Sophia was unduly particular, and therefore he paid but
little attention to her criticisms. Honor kept house very well, he always
said, and the children never gave him any trouble. He liked them to be
natural.
It was in August that Mr. Starr died, so suddenly that it was many weeks
before his family could realize the fact that the gentle, kindly presence
was no longer among them. They missed their father sadly, and Honor
sometimes felt overburdened with a sense of the responsibility which was
now hers. To be sure, she had kept house for years, and had practically
brought up the younger children; but there had always been her father to
turn to in matters of importance, there had always been his smile to
encourage her, his few words of appreciation to cheer her when the
children had been troublesome, or household affairs had gone wrong.
Mr. Dickinson Abbott, an old friend of Mr. Starr’s, had, according to his
will, been appointed guardian of the family and trustee of the estate.
There had always been plenty of money, and Honor had supposed that there
always would be. She could not imagine what her Aunt Sophia had meant by
her remarks that morning.
Katherine had finished school, but intended to devote herself to her
music this winter, going to Boston several times a week for the purpose,
and practising with great regularity and industry. Katherine, though
inclined to be flighty and unmanageable at times, was wholly devoted to
music. Victoria, Sophy, and Peter went to private schools in Fordham,
upon the outskirts of which suburban town Glen Arden was situated.
Glen Arden itself was a beautiful old place on the banks of the Charles
River. A pine grove hid the view of the river from the house, but the
gentle, winding stream was there within a stone’s throw of the barn, and
at the foot of the steep bank with which the grove terminated. A small
branch railroad crossed the river at the Starrs’ place, and a tiny
station was situated near the entrance to their grounds. The main station
was half a mile away in “the village,” as the Starrs continued to
designate it, although it had long ago been incorporated into the city of
Fordham.
Shortly after twelve o’clock of this eventful Saturday in November the
rain abated somewhat, and at three, when the train arrived upon which Mr.
Abbott was expected, it had actually ceased for the time being at least.
The girls were in the parlor, Katherine at the piano, and Honor with a
bit of work in her hands. She had revived somewhat, and sat curled up in
a corner of the divan which occupied the western window. There was never
much light in the parlor of Glen Arden even on a clear day, for the trees
grew so thick near the house. Mr. Starr and his father before him had
loved each individual tree, and many of them had been planted with their
own hands, usually upon some occasion for family rejoicing. The love of
their trees was a family heritage.
Victoria was on her knees before the hearth, coaxing into a blaze the
logs which had been heaped there. With each puff of the bellows a small
flame leaped up, lighting her face and dancing before her intently gazing
brown eyes. Vic was not considered to be as pretty as Honor or Katherine,
but already a fair amount of character was depicted in her face. Her
features were too irregular for beauty, but her hair was pretty. There
was not much of it, for it was so curly that it had never grown beyond
her shoulders, but its color of reddish gold was very striking, and in
the firelight this afternoon it looked like a golden halo which framed
her flushed face.
No one knew yet in just which direction Victoria’s character would
develop, but her family had a latent conviction that she would “be
something,” for in many ways she was so unlike other people.
Peter and Sophy had gone to the train to meet Mr. Abbott, who was a prime
favorite with them all, and presently they were seen coming along the
grassy path, which led under the trees across the lawn directly from the
little station, and was a much shorter course than to follow the road.
“Well, here you all are!” said Mr. Abbott, when he had divested himself
of his mackintosh in the hall and had come into the parlor. “Every one of
you; and Vic has made a grand fire to cheer the wanderer and the wayfarer
this rainy day. Nasty weather, this! Honor, how did you get such a cold?
You must take care of it, child. I don’t like those pale cheeks.”
“How good you are to come out such a day, Mr. Abbott!” said Honor, as she
drew forward an arm-chair for her guest. “Just as good as you can be. We
want to see you so much, and were on the point of telegraphing to you
when we heard of your message to us.”
“Ah, that is good!” said he, leaning forward and warming his hands at the
blaze. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man of about sixty-five, with gray
hair and beard, and kindly eyes. The Starrs all loved him dearly, and he
had been their father’s most valued friend.
“I like to come where I am wanted,” he continued, “and I am always glad
to come here. Dear me, though, I can’t get used to it without your
father.”
“Neither can we,” said Honor, her eyes filling with tears as she spoke.
“Everything is changed without him, and Aunt Sophia has been here to-day
and wants to make more changes.”
“Ah, your aunt has been here, has she?” exclaimed Mr. Abbott, quickly.
“And what plan did she suggest?”
“Why, do you know about it, and is it really true, then?” asked Honor,
wonderingly. “And have you come to tell us the same thing?”
“How do I know, my dear, until I hear what she has told you?” said he,
with an attempt at lightness.
“The most absurd thing you ever heard of,” said Katherine. “She says we
must go there to live. Just fancy us living with Aunt Sophia!”
“And that we are to go to boarding-school,” put in Sophy, who had seated
herself on the arm of her guardian’s chair.
“And that we must rent the place,” continued Honor. “Rent this place
where no one has ever lived but Starrs! Just imagine what father’s
feelings would have been if it had ever been suggested to him that
strangers should have Glen Arden!”
“Catch me going to Boston to live,” remarked Peter. “I could stand
boarding-school on a pinch, but Boston, never!”
Victoria said nothing, but she watched Mr. Abbott’s face. She noticed
that it had become very grave.
“And you wouldn’t like it?” said he.
“Like it! Why, Mr. Abbott, why should we do it? Of course we don’t like
it. The very idea is absurd.” They were all talking together.
“Why should Aunt Sophia suggest such a preposterous arrangement?”
continued Honor. “We are very much alone, it is true; but we can’t help
that. I have always been in the habit of keeping house; father really had
very little to do with it. Of course it is very hard to be without him,
but we must make up our minds to that, and get along as best we can. We
can do that better here, where every corner of the house and place is
associated with him, and which he loved, than we could if we went to live
with Aunt Sophia. Why, Mr. Abbott, it would simply kill us all to live
with Aunt Sophia.”
“Indeed it would,” added the others, with conviction.
“For all that,” said their guardian, gravely, “your Aunt Sophia is very
good to offer to do all this for you. I didn’t know whether she would or
not. But I have known her for forty years or more, and I have always
found that she did what she considered to be her duty. Trust a New
England woman for that.”
“But what do you mean?” asked Honor, in alarm. “Why is it her duty, Mr.
Abbott? Father intended that we should live here. He left it so in his
will, didn’t he? Why should Aunt Sophia suggest anything different?”
“My dear,” said Mr. Abbott, rising as he spoke, and standing with his
back to the fire, “I may as well tell you plainly. It is what I came this
afternoon to do. There is very little money for you to live on. Your
father’s affairs were—well, were somewhat involved. An investment which
he thought very highly of, and in which he put about all he owned, has
gone to pieces since his death. I am glad he never knew it. There is all
this real estate, to be sure; but that means nothing in the present state
of the market. You have,—I must speak plainly, my dear children,—you have
practically nothing to live upon at present. Your aunt is very good to
offer you a home and your education. I went to see her a week ago, to
tell her the state of affairs, and since then I have been thinking over
how it was best to tell you, and what had better be done. I could not put
it off any longer.”
“Do you mean that we are really poor?” asked Honor, in a quiet voice,
when he had finished speaking.
“Very poor, indeed. You have scarcely anything.”
“Exactly what do you mean by ‘scarcely anything’?”
“You have the place, which is an expensive one to keep up, and a very few
hundred dollars a year, upon which to live and be educated and clothed.
Your aunt’s offer is a relief to me. I am glad she made it, but, as I
say, I thought she would. Sophia Ward may be peculiar, and perhaps a
trifle aggravating, but she is certainly conscientious.”
The Starrs gazed at one another blankly. An unkind fate appeared to be
descending upon them, in a great black cloud. They did not realize yet
the fact that they were poor. This knowledge was entirely swallowed up by
the deplorable prospect of carrying out the views of their Aunt Sophia,
by going to live with her. They had counted upon their guardian’s support
in declining her invitation, and now to their surprise he declared that
they were fortunate to have received it. They were too ignorant of
poverty to know what other significance his words might have.
It was Victoria who reverted to this part of the subject.
“Do you really mean,” said she, “that we haven’t got enough money to live
on? That if we stay here, we—it really seems absurd to say it, but I want
to know exactly, Mr. Abbott—we shan’t have enough to eat, perhaps?”
“I really mean it,” replied her guardian.
He did not tell them that there was actually no money which they could
call their own. The “few hundreds” of which he had vaguely spoken, he
intended to give them from his own income, and he was far from being a
rich man.