UNEXPECTED GENEROSITY.
BUT this was no time in which to give way to embarrassment. Having
undertaken the expedition in search of funds, Victoria felt that she must
carry it bravely through, come what would. With fingers that trembled
conspicuously she untied the cord and removed the wrappings, and
presently disclosed to the view of the three men four etchings of such
rare merit that they exclaimed with admiration.
“Ah, artist’s proofs!” said the gentleman who had been looking at
pictures. “And a signature worth having,” he added, as he glanced at the
name written beneath the etching he held in his hand. “May I ask what the
price of this one is?”
“I—I don’t exactly know,” faltered Victoria. “I thought they could tell
me here what they are worth. You see my father bought them and—”
She stopped abruptly. She did not wish to take these strangers into her
confidence, but the three men saw her black dress and imagined the rest.
And yet she did not look as if she were in need of money.
“I should think they were worth twenty-five dollars apiece, should not
you?” said the gentleman, turning to the clerks.
They were unwilling to mention any price, and one of them went in search
of the owner of the store. Victoria could scarcely repress a little gasp
of surprise. She had no idea that the pictures were worth so much, for
they were small ones. If she succeeded in selling all of them in addition
to the gold which she had left with the jeweller, she would go home with
a large fortune in her pocket, and the unpaid bills could be settled at
once.
She glanced at the young man, who appeared to be absorbed in examination
of the etchings while he waited to hear their value. He was very tall and
slight, with straight features, and neither beard nor moustache, which
made him look younger than perhaps he really was. Victoria decided that
he was nice looking, and was probably about twenty-five. He seemed to be
well known at the shop, for the clerks treated him with marked attention
and called him by name, but Victoria could not hear it distinctly enough
to know what it was.
Again she told herself that he was very nice looking, and that he had the
most charming manners she had ever seen, though perhaps she was
influenced by his interest in her pictures and his evident desire to buy
one. Presently the picture-dealer himself came forward and examined
critically the four etchings.
“They are genuine artist’s proofs,” said he, “and I shall try to sell
them myself at twenty dollars each. Probably they cost more than that,
but in the present state of business they will not bring as much as they
did. I will give you fifteen apiece for them and take the four.”
“And I will give you twenty-five for this one,” said the young man,
holding up the one that he had first looked at. “It is a gem, and I will
get you to frame it for me,” he added, turning to the dealer. “Do it for
me as soon as you can, for I want to give it away for a Christmas
present.”
He took out a roll of bills from his pocket, and counting out twenty-five
dollars he handed the money to Victoria, taking off his hat as he did so.
[Picture: “‘It is a gem’”]
“Thank you very much for giving me the opportunity of securing such a
prize,” he said.
Victoria hesitated and blushed scarlet.
“I don’t exactly like to take it,” she said simply, as she looked up at
him. “You are giving me too much. You could buy it of the shop for twenty
dollars. Please don’t give me more than that.”
“I prefer to pay five dollars more for the privilege of—of having first
choice,” he said, abruptly changing the termination of his sentence.
Victoria said no more, but took the money, and at the same time one of
the clerks brought her forty-five dollars for the remaining three. She
thanked them all and hurried from the shop.
“Rather an odd case,” said the picture-dealer to the young man. “The man
who bought those etchings in the first place knew what he was about. I
daresay I shan’t sell them, but I didn’t want to let such good things go;
and besides, she seemed like a nice little girl. I have a daughter just
about her age and—well, no matter. Now, sir, what kind of a frame do you
wish, and how about those other pictures you were looking at?”
The young man turned to look at samples of frames, but his mind was more
occupied with the incident which had just taken place than with his
purchases. He, too, felt sorry for the girl. She was unmistakably a lady,
and it must have been a trying position for her. He would not care to
have his sister in such a predicament, he said to himself.
He was a man of somewhat old-fashioned notions, one who believed that the
men of the family should take care of the women. He wondered if there was
no one to look out for this young girl, who seemed to be not more than
fifteen,—no older person who could have come with her. Then dismissing
the subject from his thoughts for the time being, he devoted his whole
attention to the choice of a frame.
Victoria, when she left the shop, felt that all their difficulties were
at an end. She had a roll of bills in her pocket,—she put her hand in
more than once as she walked, to make sure that the money was safe,—and
if all went as smoothly as she hoped, she would have more before the day
was over. She had left home that morning with her railroad ticket and
twenty-five cents for emergencies; she expected to return in affluence,
and it had all been done without the intervention of Aunt Sophia. How
fortunate it was that Aunt Sophia had elected to go to Providence on this
day of all others! What would she say to such a proceeding if she ever
happened to hear of it?
Victoria smiled to herself at the idea. Very probably Aunt Sophia dealt
at that picture store herself. How little the dealer suspected that she
was the niece of Mrs. Wentworth Ward of Beacon Street,—or the young man
who had given her twenty-five dollars. Then in a flash the other side of
the occurrence presented itself. Should she have taken so much from him?
Was the etching worth that much? Why should she have calmly allowed
herself to accept twenty-five dollars from him and only fifteen from the
dealer? Had she made herself an object of charity?
She had walked across the Common, and was about to cross Tremont Street
when she reached this point in her reflections, and so absorbed was she
in the subject that she barely escaped being run over by one of the
innumerable electric cars which were passing in long succession,
interspersed with dashing herdics and hurrying cabs. All the world seemed
to be in haste this sharp winter morning, and a motorman shouted angrily
to her as she attempted to cross in front of his car.
She reached the other side of the street in safety, and then she wondered
what she should do next. She had no Christmas shopping to consume her
time, for their gifts to one another were to be very simple this year and
were to be made at home. The stores on Temple Place were packed with
people, and as she walked she was jostled and almost bruised by the
inevitable handbags, without which Boston shoppers are rarely seen. It
was now only half-past ten, and she must stay in town until after three,
the hour of her appointment with the jeweller. She determined to go back
to her aunt’s, and remain there until the afternoon, and there she could
think quietly of the events of the morning.
She did this, and was shown by the maid into the library and told to make
herself at home. Although Mrs. Wentworth Ward was their own aunt, the
Starrs had never felt for her the affection which is so common in that
relationship. It had always been more or less of an effort for them to go
to her house, and their calls there were unmistakably “duty visits.” Mrs.
Ward was without doubt very trying at times, and the girls were in her
opinion absurdly independent.
There were faults on both sides, perhaps, as there usually are in such
cases. Victoria, sitting in the luxurious library, thought it all over.
“If Aunt Sophia were only like some aunts,” she said to herself, “how
nice it would have been to come and live with her! Think of this big
house and no one in it but herself; but oh, I hope we shall never have to
do it! I do wonder what the girls will say about my sales this morning. I
felt exactly like a book agent or a pedler. Dear me, I only hope I shall
never see that young man again! He was just as nice as he could be, but I
don’t want ever to meet him! He really made me a present of ten dollars,
you might say. What will Honor think of it all?”
Three o’clock came at last, and as the hands of the clock on the steeple
of the Old South Church pointed to the hour, Victoria entered the shop
where she had left her gold that morning. She knew little of the value of
watches, but she fancied that when new they cost not less than one
hundred dollars, and often very much more; therefore she hoped for at
least fifty for hers. Her disappointment was consequently very great when
she learned that it was worth exactly thirteen dollars and seventy-five
cents, while the other trinkets would bring but seven and a half.
“The chain and the earrings are hollow,” said the man, “and the works of
the watch are good for nothing. You may be glad to get this much.”
She thanked him and left the store feeling somewhat crestfallen, although
twenty-one dollars and a quarter made a sum not to be despised.
The girls were eagerly awaiting her return, and when she displayed her
roll of bills and informed them that she had brought them ninety-one
dollars and twenty-five cents, they could scarcely believe her. Honor
looked grave over the account of the young man’s generosity, as Victoria
had supposed that she would, and she also expressed the hope that they
might never see him again.
“It would be simply unendurable to feel that we were under obligations to
him,” said she; “but it isn’t at all likely that we shall ever meet him.
We don’t see many people but those who live in Fordham, and if he lived
anywhere in this neighborhood, you would have known him by sight. You are
sure you never saw him before, Vic?”
“Perfectly sure. He was probably some Boston swell, but he was an awfully
nice one, and if it were not for that ten dollars, I should really like
to know him.”
“You may as well say if it were not for that whole ninety-one dollars and
twenty-five cents,” said Honor. “I am glad enough to get the money, but I
can’t bear to think of your having to go to those shops by yourself and
sell things. I ought to have gone with you, Vic. Indeed, I ought! It was
very cowardly and selfish for me to let you go alone—a young thing like
you. Some one might have been impertinent to you, and then I should never
have forgiven myself.”
“Oh, nonsense, Honor!” laughed her young sister. “You are not so very
much older yourself, and I went to such respectable places that of course
no one would be impertinent. And, besides, I wanted to surprise you about
the gold. I wanted to go alone.”
But Honor shook her head. She knew that she had been remiss, and that her
father would not have approved of Victoria’s solitary expedition. If the
young man whom she had met was truly a gentleman, as Vic declared that he
was, what could he have thought of such a proceeding? He certainly must
suppose that her relatives were very careless and very peculiar people,
to say the least, and Honor hoped with all her heart that he would never
cross her path again.
But it was a great source of comfort to feel that their bills could now
be paid; and the girls went to bed that night feeling comparatively
happy, for the consciousness of their debts had weighed upon them all.
Katherine—though she would not acknowledge it—had felt particularly
uncomfortable, for the unused typewriter continued to stare her in the
face. Now she felt quite relieved about it, and she had serious thoughts
of running into Boston Monday afternoon to buy Christmas presents for the
family. It would be such a surprise to them, and she should of course use
her own money.
Within half an hour she had fully made up her mind to do this, and was
already planning what she should bestow upon each one, when a remark of
Honor’s warned her that it would be wiser not to carry out her
intentions.
“I hope,” said the eldest sister, “that we shall not lose our heads over
our unexpected good fortune. We mustn’t spend a bit more than we can
possibly help. Remember, we don’t want any more bills!”
The winter days passed quickly, filled as they were with things of
importance to do. The first planting of mushrooms was successful; and
Peter, upon his return from the Boston market, to which he took them,
proudly added his earnings to the family purse. He pretended that he felt
it but a small thing to do, and that the future would prove that he was
considering deeds of far greater moment than the cultivation of
mushrooms; but in reality he was becoming immensely interested in the
pursuit.
Victoria’s violets bloomed in February, and they also were taken to
Boston, and disposed of to a florist. Dave Carney attended to this part
of the business for her, and was indeed most useful in every way. The
Starrs had never been able to discover anything about the antecedents of
this member of the household, and in fact they had not made any great
effort to do so. They liked the boy, and they found him both obliging and
dependable. Peter knew that he had a brother, for he saw one day in
Fordham a young man who so closely resembled Dave that he was on the
point of speaking to him; and when he questioned Dave upon the subject,
the boy told him briefly that it was his brother, and that he was a few
years older than himself. He said nothing more, and Peter did not ask for
further information, as was characteristic of him.
It was a mild winter, and although there were frequent falls of snow,
they were always succeeded by days of such springlike warmth that there
was neither sleighing nor coasting, and scarcely any skating.
His sisters suspected that Peter was not particularly happy in his school
life, but he did not tell them so. He was a boy who did not make friends
easily, and the mere knowledge that he was looked upon as an interloper
by the boys at the school which he attended, drove him still farther into
his shell, as it were. He had little to do with them, and usually came
home as soon as the day’s session was over.
Sophy and Sirius together always watched eagerly for his return, both
consumed with the same hope and desire that Peter would invite them to
join him in whatever he intended to do—a hope which was more apt to be
fulfilled in the case of Sirius than of Sophy. An eight-year-old sister
is by no means so interesting a companion, Peter thought, as an active
and particularly intelligent dog.
There were occasions, however, when Sophy was bidden to bear him company;
and, on a certain afternoon, the little girl was made happy by the
announcement that Peter was going for a walk, and if she wanted to go,
and would promise not to get tired, and not to make a fuss if they came
across any muskrats or field mice, and, in fact, to show no signs of fear
about anything which they might meet, she should be allowed to accompany
her brother and his dog.
Sophy, transported with delight, and ready to promise anything in the way
of courage, ran for her hat and jacket and quickly followed Peter to the
barn, whither he gone to inspect the mushroom bed. It was a mild day in
early spring. The young leaves had just burst forth upon the trees, and
the smell of earth, and the gentle murmurings of the little brooks in
pasture and woods, and the soft freshness of the breeze, showed that
another winter had passed. Many of the birds had returned to their summer
homes and were busily engaged in nest-building, and little chipmunks
darted about in a ceaseless game of tag, pausing for a moment to peer
inquisitively at Sophy with their bright eyes, and then vanishing from
sight. Peter, having attended to his affairs at the barn, took his way
across the pasture. Sirius scampered on in advance, nosing here and there
along the path, stopping to investigate every hole and barking noisily at
a gray squirrel, which climbed the trunk of a tree at his approach, and
then sat on a branch in safety, but extreme indignation. “Do squirrels go
to sleep in winter, Peter?” asked Sophy, as she trudged along close to
his side.
“They do usually, but it was so warm this winter I guess they didn’t get
so sound asleep. I’ll tell you something, Soph. Carney and I both think
the same thing. You know people always say that when there are a lot of
nuts, it means that we are going to have a cold winter and the squirrels
will have plenty to eat. Well, you know there were plenty of nuts last
fall, and look at the winter we’ve had! As warm as toast. I think, and
Carney thinks so, too, that it means a warm winter to have so many nuts.
The squirrels are not going to sleep so much, and so they will need more
food. And look at last year; scarcely any nuts in the fall and an awfully
cold winter. I’m going to write to the _Transcript_ about it sometime,
and see what people say. Other people will answer, and it will be lots of
fun. Sophy, I’ll tell you something if you’ll promise never to tell. Will
you?”
“Do you mean _never_?”
“Yes, never, until I’ve done it. Then I’ll tell it myself.”
“All right, Peter, I’ll promise,” said the little sister. The absence of
the front teeth made her lisp slightly, and Peter was alarmingly apt to
make fun of this defect when she used the letter “s”; but he was too much
engrossed with his subject at present to remark upon it, greatly to
Sophy’s relief. A wave of gratification filled her heart, both because of
this and because her brother was apparently about to make a confidante of
her.
“I’ll promise,” she repeated solemnly. “What is it?”
“When I grow up,” said Peter, “in a very few years, I’m going to write a
book.”
“Peter! A real printed book?”
“Of course, child. What other kind of a book could it be?”
“And what will it be about? A story like _Alice in Wonderland_ or _Little
Women_?”
“_Little Women_! A girl’s story! No indeed. There won’t be a girl in the
book, that is one thing certain. But it is to be about everything else.
You know I really know a lot about all sorts of things, and I intend to
write about everything that I know the least thing about.”
“Goody me!” exclaimed the astonished Sophy. “It will be an awful big
book, Peter!”
“Of course it will. It will probably be in a great many volumes, all
bound alike. It will be a regular Encyclopedia, and people will probably
look into it when they want to find out about anything. I’m going to tell
about squirrels and birds and mushrooms and muskrats and ants and bees
and boys’ games and schools—I’m going to tell a lot about schools, how to
keep them, and all that—and travels—I mean to travel as soon as I get
enough money and have made enough for you girls to live on, and I shall
write about every place I visit, and oh, everything!”
“I should think you would have a little room in so many volumes to say
something about girls,” murmured Sophy.
“But what for?” demanded Peter. “Why should I waste my time writing about
them? You know very well, Sophy, that girls aren’t at all interesting, as
ants or birds are, for instance. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes,” said Sophy, humbly; “I know that because you have often told me
so, but then, Peter, you can talk to a girl, but you can’t talk to an ant
or a bird. Doesn’t that make some difference?”
“Not much,” he replied. “I would rather watch a colony of ants any day
than talk to a girl. Now mind, Sophy, you don’t tell any one about my
book.”
“Indeed I won’t, Peter, and I think it’s going to be a splendid book,
even if there are no girls in it. I wish it was all made, though.”
“So do I,” said he; “but it won’t take long when I once get started on
it. Hark! What’s that?”
A strange wild cry rang through the woods. Sirius stopped short in the
path, with ears erect and motionless tail, while Sophy gave a little
shriek and clung to her brother’s arm.