Chapter VIII: 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.