Chapter XI: Victoria Decides to Keep It Secret

WHAT would Honor say? This was Victoria’s chief thought as she rushed headlong down the hill, not pausing until she had reached the safe shelter of their own place. There beneath one of the old trees she found a rustic bench, and sinking down upon it, quite breathless from her run, she tried to consider calmly the situation.

What would Honor say? She who had hoped that they might never see the young man again because in her eyes the affair had been so mortifying! And so it had been, Victoria said to herself. What would Mr. Madison himself think when he learned that one of his new neighbors was actually the girl whom he had encountered in a Boston picture store peddling her wares, and of whom he had bought something purely as an act of charity?

Victoria, looking back at the occurrence, felt perfectly confident that it was chiefly owing to his good nature that he had bought the etching.

[Picture: “There, beneath one of the old trees, she found a rustic
bench”]

He was sorry, probably, for a girl who was forced to do such a thing, and had given her an extra five or ten dollars merely out of charity. Victoria writhed in spirit.

She did not regret her expedition to Boston, for they had been in sore need of the money, and to part with the pictures and the jewelry had been a perfectly honorable means of getting it. She did not feel in the least degree ashamed of having sold the etchings, but she was deeply mortified when she remembered that she had allowed herself to accept the higher price from one who was a complete stranger to her, and one who certainly did appear to be sorry for her.

The Starr family pride—of which this daughter of the house had no small share—was up in arms. She felt that she could never look Roger Madison in the face. That he would remember her as clearly as she remembered him, she had not the smallest doubt.

And then again, what would Honor say? She would probably flatly refuse to have anything more to do with the Madisons, which would be unfortunate, for Katherine had set her heart upon the anticipated music that she was to enjoy with Miss Madison. Katherine was of an ardent temperament, and her likings were as strong and unchangeable as her dislikes. Already she loved and admired Miss Madison with all the enthusiasm at her command, and it would be a bitter disappointment to her if Honor should decree that the two families were to have no further intercourse. Indeed, Katherine would in all probability decline to listen to Honor, and that would make trouble. What should be done to avert these consequences?

There was but one course to pursue, and that was to keep her family in ignorance of the fact that she had ever seen Roger Madison before. Victoria fairly gasped as this solution of the difficulty presented itself. Could she keep such a secret? The sisters were in the habit of talking freely together and of telling one another all the events both large and small that came into their day. Not to make known to Honor and Katherine the fact that Victoria had met Mr. Madison before, and under the peculiar circumstances which had made the incident a matter of family history, required some determination. It meant far more to her than it would to many another girl. To Victoria it seemed like an act of deliberate deception, and she hesitated before taking the step.

“I don’t want to deceive them, I am sure,” she said to herself, as she sat under the trees this beautiful afternoon in the last week of April, looking with troubled eyes towards the house on the hill; “but it does seem a pity to deprive Katherine of the music, and if Honor knows about it, she will probably be almost rude to the Madisons, for she will be so anxious to show her pride about it, and that seems a pity, for they are so pleasant and evidently want to be friendly. I can keep out of Mr. Madison’s way, and perhaps it will be a long time before he discovers me. I wish I had some older person to ask. I wish I had a mother. It must be so lovely to have one to go to whenever anything troublesome comes up. I wonder if girls who have mothers realize how terrible it is not to have one.”

Victoria’s mind wandered from her present anxiety to the thought of the mother who had died when Sophy was a baby. She had been only seven years old herself at the time, but she remembered her perfectly, and the change which it had made in her father. He had become so grave and quiet after that, and although he was always devoted to his children, he was different, Honor always said, from what he had been before. Honor had tried so faithfully to be a mother to the younger ones, thought Victoria.

“But then Honor is really so little older than I am, that sometimes it seems as if she didn’t know a great deal more herself. If only Aunt Sophia were different! But she would be no help. No, I must decide for myself and—_I decide to keep it a secret_!”

Victoria said the last few words aloud, with slow and deliberate emphasis. Then she rose.

“What must they have thought of me, running away in that style? And what shall I say to the girls? I shall just have to tell them that I was overwhelmed with shyness just as we were going into the room. They won’t believe me, because I’m not often shy, but I am sure it was the truth. I was frightened to pieces. What a time I shall have making up excuses for not going there, or seeing Mr. Madison if he comes here—if he comes! Very probably he won’t. And I must be careful about the trains. It would be awkward enough to meet him at our little station. Dear me, what a summer it is going to be! Aunt Sophia at Glen Arden, and the man who bought the etching in the house on the hill!

“‘Jog on, jog on the footpath way,
And merrily hent the stile—a!’

I will divert my mind by working in the garden a little. Or no, I will practise on the typewriter! If I don’t learn to do it easily soon, Aunt Sophia will suspect the plot. How many secrets we’re having now. I don’t mind having them from Aunt Sophia, but I do hate to have anything on my mind that Honor and Katherine are not to know.”

She had not been long at work before she heard footsteps upon the piazza, and the voices of her two sisters.

“Where do you suppose Vic can be?” Honor was saying. “I really feel quite anxious about her. Vic, are you here?” she called, coming into the house. “Why, child, what happened to you? Here she is, Katherine, working on the typewriter. What made you run away, Vic?”

“Shy,” replied Victoria, as she slowly fingered the keys.

“Nonsense!” said Katherine. “It was something else, Vic. You never were shy in your life.”

“Frightened, then,” said Victoria.

“Frightened? What at?”

“Miss Madison’s big brother.” Which was certainly the truth.

“Vic, how absurd!” cried Katherine. “He is just as nice as he can be. Wasn’t it too ridiculous that we should have supposed that he was a small boy of Peter’s age? We had a great laugh over it, and I was really glad that we had made the mistake, for it was such a joke it quite broke the ice. I feel as if I had known them both for years, don’t you, Honor?”

“Yes, they are very nice, both of them,” replied her sister, “and I am very glad, girls, that you made me go there to call. After all, it would have been silly to hold aloof from them just because we are poor. I don’t think they are at all the kind to look down on us because we are—”

“Of course not,” said Katherine with some impatience. “They are true gentle-people, and not in the least snobbish. The mother is lovely, Vic.”

“Is she?”

Victoria bent over her machine, examining the result of her labor. She was indeed glad that she had decided not to divulge her secret, now that she heard what a pleasant impression the new neighbors had made, especially upon Honor; but she wished that she were at liberty to enjoy their society herself.

“I am doing this quite nicely,” said she, taking out the paper and showing it to her sisters.

“Why, so you are!” exclaimed Katherine. “I had no idea you would learn so quickly, though you have spelled some of these words in a new and rather remarkable way. But, Vic, how funny you are! You were wild to have us call on the Madisons, and apparently most anxious to go there yourself, and now you seem to take so little interest in them, and you rushed away after you were actually in the house. It was a frightfully rude thing to do, and they didn’t know what to make of it. Honor and I had the greatest time explaining to them.”

“What did you tell them?” asked Victoria.

“Oh, we said that you were very busy, as you were still at school, and had probably remembered some lesson, or something that you hadn’t done. We were perfectly at a loss to know what to say, weren’t we, Honor?”

“Yes. It was really rude, Vic. I think you ought to apologize to Miss Madison. You had better go there very soon and explain, though I can’t imagine what you are going to tell her. It will be rather peculiar to say that you were frightened. They are coming here very soon and perhaps you can make it right then.”

“All of them?” asked Victoria.

“No; only Miss Madison and her brother. Mrs. Madison is an invalid and doesn’t go anywhere, but they are coming.”

Victoria groaned in spirit, but she made no audible comment, and presently her sisters left her. She would now have a difficult road to travel, she said to herself. She must watch with increasing vigilance and promptly disappear if there was the slightest chance of meeting Roger Madison. She was leaning back in her chair, pondering the situation, her brow puckered by the deep thought in which she was engaged, when Peter entered the room, followed closely by Sophy and Sirius.

Since the day last week when he had deserted Sophy in the woods Peter had been unusually attentive to his small sister. He had said little upon the subject, but he had thought about it, and he undoubtedly felt some remorse for his share in the events of that afternoon. It was very stupid of Sophy to have allowed herself to lose her way, he thought, but then she was only a girl and a little one at that. What else could one expect of so benighted an individual? And he was fond of Sophy after a fashion, he said to himself with superb condescension, and was sorry that she had been frightened. Therefore he had allowed her to bear him company more constantly than usual during the past few days, and Sophy was in the seventh heaven of delight in consequence.

At the present moment they were engaged in a spirited discussion, which was not uncommon, or, to be more exact, Peter was in the act of laying down the law to Sophy, this being one of his favorite pastimes.

“You are a perfect little goose, Sophy! I can’t imagine what you are thinking of. A wheelwright! I told you the other day what I was going to do. Have you forgotten already? Your memory isn’t worth a cent. But what else can you expect of a girl?”

Sophy became visibly depressed.

“I wish I could remember, Peter,” she said, searching in the depths of her memory for Peter’s words of wisdom too precious to be lost. “Did you tell me long ago?”

“Not long ago, at all. It was the day you got scared in the woods. If you remember, don’t say anything, for Vic is here, and you know it’s a secret. Don’t you know the thing that’s going to have nothing about girls? Well, no matter. All the less chance of the secret’s getting out if you’ve forgotten it. What do you suppose Sophy wants me to be, when I’m grown up, Vic?”

“I can’t imagine,” said Victoria. “A clergyman?”

“No, indeed. The most ridiculous thing you ever heard of: a wheelwright!”

“A wheelwright?” repeated Victoria. “Where in the world did you get that idea, child?”

Sophy looked ready to cry. She felt that it was hard, indeed, that even her beloved Vic should question her sagacity.

“I only meant because it’s so safe,” she faltered. “I do want Peter to do something he won’t be killed in. I didn’t think about the clergyman. He could be that, of course, and not be killed. But my history lesson this morning was all about wars and battles, and I felt so worried about Peter, in case he should be a soldier or a sailor when he grows up. The soldiers get shot, and the sailors get drownded, and I was thinking of the safest thing he could be, and it was a wheelwright. They just have to mend wagons and carriages; and Peter likes to mend things up in the shop, you know. It is safer than a blacksmith, for a horse might kick a blacksmith, you know, and perhaps kill him.”

Peter roared with laughter, and even Victoria had to raise her hand to her mouth to hide a smile; but she saw that Sophy was very much in earnest, and she would not hurt her feelings for the world. Peter’s laugh, however, was the finishing touch. Sophy hid her face in her sister’s lap, and her small shoulders shook with sobs.

“You’re real mean!” she cried. “I only want to save your life. You’re my only brother!”

Victoria frowned fiercely at Peter while she endeavored to soothe Sophy, and Peter himself felt a little remorseful for his unfeeling mirth. He attempted to mend matters.

“I’m laughing at Sirius!” he exclaimed. “Isn’t he too absurd? Sirius, you ridiculous dog, ha! ha! ha! Oh, Sophy—I mean Sirius, how funny you are!”

Upon which Sirius in his turn was sorely offended. With lowered tail and with an appearance of great dejection, he crept under the sofa. Like the rest of his race he disliked being laughed at, and he felt that he had done nothing to subject himself to such an insult. He had been lying at his master’s feet, quite sound asleep, and no doubt enjoying the dream of an entrancing walk in the woods, when he had been recalled to real life by this extravagant burst of laughter mingled with the sound of his own name. Truly he had a right to feel aggrieved. And sitting in the most remote corner beneath the sofa he thought over his wrongs.

“After all, your idea is not such a bad one, Sophy,” said Victoria. “You are quite right about it being better for Peter to do something safe; but I don’t think wheelwrights make a great deal of money, and as Peter is the only man in our family, it is rather necessary that he should earn as much as possible. By the way, Peter, do you know where Dave is this afternoon?”

“No, I can’t find him. He must be off somewhere.”

“Where do you suppose he goes?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” said Peter, indifferently. “Perhaps he goes down to see his people in Fordham.”

“Perhaps he goes to walk with that brother,” suggested Sophy, who had dried her eyes and quickly recovered from her recent mortification. “He isn’t a nice brother, though, and he talked regular swear-words. I shouldn’t think Dave would like him to do it.”

“Neither should I,” said Victoria, “and I wish he wouldn’t go off so much. I think Honor had better speak to him. Even though we have another man at work, he needs Dave’s help if we are going to make anything out of the vegetables.”

The girls had determined to turn their garden to account this summer, and to send their vegetables and perhaps some of their fruit to the markets for sale. They had engaged a gardener for the purpose, and although his wages took a large slice of their earnings, they had decided after consulting with Mr. Abbott that it would be a wise thing to do. Mr. Abbott had been ill the greater part of the winter and had been unable to come to Glen Arden for several months, but his wards heard from him frequently, and they seldom undertook any important project without asking his advice.

“I will speak to Honor about it now,” continued Victoria. “Come, Sophy! Come with me, and then we’ll go down to the garden afterwards and see how things are going there. Fortunately it is Friday, so we have no lessons to learn.”

Leaving Peter to conciliate the offended Sirius as best he could, Victoria and Sophy went upstairs.

The following week passed quickly enough, and all too soon came the day before that on which Mrs. Wentworth Ward was to descend upon them. Katherine, in spite of the entreaties of her sisters, had deferred until the last possible moment her removal to another room. At length, however, further delay became out of the question, and on Wednesday evening she announced that she should begin to remove her effects to the third story if her family would assist in the operation.

Peter and Victoria had each offered to take the third-story apartment and give either of theirs on the second floor to Katherine if she desired, but she had finally decided that she preferred to go up herself. There were two rooms there with a square hall between, and she rather fancied the idea of having a whole suite to herself, where she would be quite free from interruption or criticism. It was not probable that her Aunt Sophia would often mount those steep stairs, she thought.

“If we get everything moved up to-night, B. Lafferty can clean my room to-morrow, and it will be all ready for our dear aunt by the time she arrives,” said Katherine. So after supper the four girls ascended and began the task of “moving” Katherine.

Peter took no part in the proceedings, but retired to the “shop,” where he had some work in which he was interested. Very soon they were all actively engaged, one carrying skirts and hats, another staggering under a pile of boxes, still another rummaging in the depths of the closet, bringing to light all sorts of things which Katherine had stowed away there in some remote period of the past, and had apparently forgotten. Occasionally Honor or Victoria would pause in dismay as some new article appeared which they did not know that Katherine possessed.

“Where did you get that, Katherine?” they asked more than once.

“Oh, I bought it a long time ago, when we had more money. Not this winter of course, girls. I really thought I needed it at the time, and it is so pretty.”

Sophy enjoyed the experience to the utmost. She had always longed to investigate Katherine’s possessions, which she knew to be more interesting than those of her other sisters, but she had never hitherto been allowed this privilege. Now that the desired opportunity had come, she determined to make the most of it. Unheeded by her busy sisters, she sat on the floor and explored box after box of ribbons, and odds and ends of finery, feeling that at last the millennium was here.

It occurred to Victoria’s frugal mind, as she glanced from the gallery to the hall below during one of her trips to the third story, that it was scarcely worth while to have so much light downstairs, as there was no one there to make use of it. Surely it was extravagant to burn so much oil unnecessarily, so without mentioning it to the others, who would have been sure to expostulate, she ran down and put out the lamps, at the same time bolting the front door and attending to the fastenings of the windows. Then she went upstairs again and continued her work.

Ten minutes later the sound of the door-bell was heard through the house. Sirius, who had been lying at the head of the stairs, broke into loud and furious barking and rushed to the front door. The girls looked at one another in consternation.

“Who can it be at this hour?” exclaimed Honor. “It must be very late.”

“It is only a little after eight,” said Victoria, “and all the lights are out downstairs! Hurry and fix yourselves up, girls! Blanch, Blanch, wait!” she exclaimed in an agitated whisper as the maid’s heavy footsteps were heard in the hall below. Victoria flew down the stairs almost as quickly as Sirius had gone.

“Don’t open the door till I light the lamps,” she said.