A Fancy of Hers

by Horatio Alger, Jr.

  "Do you ever give lessons in painting, Mr, Thorpe?"

  "I did at one time, but I found that it interfered with my work."

  "Then I cannot hope to secure you as a teacher. It would be so nice to go out in the fields, and take lessons from so competent an instructor."

  "You flatter me, Miss Raymond."

  "You only say so because of your modesty, Mr. Thorpe. I have a high opinion of your talent, and I shall take every opportunity of mentioning you in my set."

  "Thank you."

  Allan Thorpe was clear sighted enough to estimate Miss Raymond's sudden interest in him at its right value. He also had a suspicion that her set was not one likely to care much for arts or artists. But it amused him to watch Clementina's jealousy, and to penetrate her motives in turning her attention to him.

  "If I can help her to secure a husband," he thought, "she is quite welcome to make use of me."

  It did not seem, however, that she had accomplished much. Mr. Chester was chatting contentedly with Mabel, glad that Clementina was otherwise occupied than in teasing him.

  "Then you are not sure that you will remain in Granville after the summer, Miss Frost? " he inquired.

  "My plans are quite undecided," answered Mabel.

  "I suppose you will continue to teach?"

  "Even that is not certain. Perhaps I might obtain a situation as companion to an elderly lady. Do you know of any likely to want my services, Mr. Chester?"

  Mr. Chester would have liked to suggest that the position of companion to a gentleman was open to her acceptance; but the occasion was too public.

  "I may hear of such a position, Miss Frost," he said; "and if you will leave me your address, in case you do not remain in Granville, I will ,certainly let you know."

  "Thank you, Mr. Chester."

  At this point there was a startling interruption. Miss Raymond had been sitting for five minutes silent and incensed. Her little flirtation with Mr. Thorpe had not ruffled Mr. Chester's serenity nor interrupted his devotion to the school mistress. She rose from her seat, lost her balance, and fell against the side of the boat, upsetting it, and precipitating the four who occupied it into the water.

  Fortunately they were not far from shore. Still, the water was six feet deep, and of course there was danger. Mr. Chester could swim a little, and, without a thought of his companions, he struck out for the shore. Allan Thorpe could swim also. Fortunately he was cool in the moment of peril. His first thought was for Mabel.

  "Cling to me, Mabel," he said, forgetting ceremony at this moment. "I will help you."

  Clementina, wild with terror, had grasped him by the coat, and this hampered his movements; but with a great effort, he succeeded in conveying both girls to more shallow water. Had the distance been greater, it is doubtful if he would have succeeded.

  "You are out of danger," he said. "The water is not deep here. We can walk ashore."

  Randolph Chester, still a little pale, was dripping on the bank when Allan and the two girls joined him.

  "I am so glad you are safe, ladies," he said a little sheepishly, for he was conscious that he had not played a heroic part.

  "Small thanks to you, Mr. Chester!" retorted Clementina sharply. "We might have drowned, so far as you were concerned."

  "I cannot swim much," said Mr. Chester uneasily. "I never regretted it so much as now."

  "You could swim well enough to save yourself. Mr. Thorpe, you are my preserver!" exclaimed Clementina gushingly.

  "Do not magnify my service, Miss Raymond. We were very near shoal water."

  "But you saved my life," persisted Clementina. "I shall never forget it."

  Mabel said nothing, but she impulsively extended, her hand. Allan Thorpe was better pleased than with Miss Raymond's demonstrative expressions of gratitude.

  "Now, young ladies," said the artist, "though I am no physician, you must allow me to prescribe an immediate return home. Otherwise you'll run a great risk of catching cold. Mr. Chester, if you will take charge of Miss Raymond, I will accompany Miss Frost. For your own sake, you will find it best to go at once."

  Miss Raymond was rather sulky, but, though irritated with her escort, policy prevailed, and she forced herself into a good humor. She had made up her mind to marry Mr. Chester, and he required delicate management. So she accepted the lame apology he offered for leaving her to her fate, and by the time they reached the hotel they were outwardly on good terms.

  On the day after the picnic, Allan Thorpe wrote the following letter to his friend and fellow artist John Fleming, who was spending the summer at Bethlehem

  DEAR JACK -- You wonder why I prefer to spend the summer at Granville, and refuse to join you at Bethlehem. Your surprise is natural. I admit that between Granville and Bethlehem there is no comparison. The latter is certainly far more attractive to an artist who has only his art in view. But, Jack, there is another reason. You were always my father confessor -- at least you have been since the happy day when our friendship begin -- and I am willing to confess to you that I have lost my heart. There is a charming school mistress in Granville, to whom I have transferred it wholly and unconditionally.

  Not an ordinary school mistress, mind you; Miss Frost is not only charming in person, but thoroughly accomplished. I know you will be incredulous; but when I explain the mystery which environs her you will lose your skepticism. Let me tell you, then, in confidence, that last winter, at an artists' reception in New York, I was introduced to a girl whose name I knew as that of an acknowledged queen of society. A little conversation convinced me that she was more than that; that she had a genuine and discriminating love of art; that she despised the frivolous nothings which are dignified as conversations by the butterflies of fashion, and that she regarded life as something more than a succession of parties and receptions. I was strongly attracted; but I learned that she was the possessor of a large fortune, and this precluded the thought of any intimate friendship with her on the part of a penniless artist.

  Well, Jack, on the second day after my arrival in Granville, I met this same girl again. Imagine my astonishment at discovering that she was teaching the grammar school in the village, on the splendid stipend of seven dollars a week. Of course she has lost her fortune -- how, I have been unable to learn. She is reticent on this subject; but the loss does not seem to affect her spirits. She is devoting herself earnestly to the work she has chosen, and is succeeding admirably. I declare to you that I yield Miss Frost higher respect now that she is a plain country school teacher than when she was a social leader. That she should give up, uncomplainingly, the gay delights her fortune has procured for her and devote herself to a useful but contracted and perhaps monotonous routine of work, indicates; a nobility of nature of which previously I had no assurance.

  You will ask to what all this tends. It means, Jack, that I have made up my mind to win her if possible. Between the struggling artist and the wealthy heiress there was a distance too great to be spanned even by love, but now that her estate is on a level with my own I need not hesitate. The same spirit that has enabled her to meet and conquer adversity will sustain her in the self denial and self sacrifice to which she may be called as the wife of a poor man. I have resolved to put my fortune to the test before the close of her school term calls her from Granville. I have some reason to believe that she esteems me, at least. If I am not too precipitate, I hope that esteem may pave the way for a deeper and warmer sentiment. I hope the time may come when I can ask you to congratulate me, as I am sure you will do most heartily, my dear Jack. Ever yours, ALLAN THORPE.

  P.S. -- Lest you should waste your valuable time in exploring back numbers of the newspapers for some mention of Miss Frost in their society gossip, I may as well tell you that this is not her real name. In giving up her fashionable career she has, for a time at least, left behind the name which was associated with it, and taken a new one with the new vocation she has adopted. This might lead to embarrassment; but that will be obviated if she will only conse
nt to accept my name, which has never had any fashionable associations.

  P.S. -- There is another girl spending the summer here, a Miss Clementina Raymond, of Brooklyn, who assumes airs and graces, enough for two. Perhaps it is well that you are not here for you might be smitten, and she is after higher game. She has "set her cap" for Mr. Randolph Chester, a wealthy bachelor of fifty or more, also a summer resident; but I suspect that he prefers Miss Frost. I do not give myself any trouble on that score. Miss Frost may reject me, but she certainly will not accept Mr. Chester.

  Chapter 11

  "Theophilus," said Mrs. Wilson, "the flour is out, and we have but half a pound of sugar left."

  The minister looked grave.

  "My dear," he answered, "it seems to me that something is always out."

  "Then," said his wife, smiling faintly, "I suppose you are out of money also."

  I have a dollar and thirty seven cents in my pocket book, and I do not know when I shall get any more."

  "Doesn't the parish owe you something?"

  "Yes, but the treasurer told me yesterday, when I spoke to him on the subject, that we must give them time to pay it; that it would create dissatisfaction if I pressed the matter."

  "How do they expect us to live?" demanded Mrs. Wilson, as nearly indignant as so meek a woman could be.

  "They think we can get along somehow. Besides, the donation party takes place tomorrow. Mr. Stiles told me that I couldn't expect to collect anything till that was over."

  "I wish it were over."

  "So do I."

  "I suppose it will amount to about as much as the others did. People will bring provisions, most of which they will eat themselves. When it is over we'll be the richer by a dozen pincushions, half a dozen pies, a bushel of potatoes, and a few knick-knacks for which we have no earthly use."

  "I am afraid, my dear, you are getting satirical."

  There is more truth than satire in it, Theophilus, as you know very well. The worst of it is that we are expected to be grateful for what is only an additional burden."

  "Well, my dear, you are certainly right; but perhaps we may be more fortunate tomorrow."

  At this point Ralph Wilson, the minister's oldest son, came into the room to recite a lesson in the Iliad, and the conversation took a turn.

  "I am afraid Ralph will never be able to go to college after all," said his mother.

  "I don't see any way at present," said the minister; "but I hope it may be arranged. I wrote last week to my classmate, Professor Ames, of Dartmouth, to inquire what aid Ralph could depend upon from the beneficiary funds."

  "Have you had an answer?"

  "I received a letter this morning. From what he writes me, I judge that his necessary expenses will be at least four hundred dollars a year -- -- "

  "Nearly the amount of your salary."

  "And that he can probably procure aid to the amount of two hundred from the beneficiary funds."

  "Then it is hopeless. You cannot make up the balance."

  "I'm afraid you're right. I think, though, that Ralph should continue his preparation, since, even if he is only prepared to enter, that insures him a good education."

  "I might defray a part of my expenses by teaching school in winter," suggested Ralph, who had listened intently to a conversation that so nearly concerned his future.

  "You could teach during the junior and senior years," said his father. "I did so myself. During the first two years you would be too young, and it would, besides, be a disadvantage."

  Since the donation visit had been decided upon at the sewing circle, it had been a prominent topic of conversation in the village. Though designed to give substantial assistance to the minister's family, it was also to be a festive occasion -- a sort of ministerial party -- and thus was regarded as a social event.

  Fair fingers had been busily at work in the minister's service, and it is safe to say that at least ten pincushions were in process of manufacture. Chief among the fair workers was Clarissa Bassett, who had a just pride in the superior size and more elaborate workmanship of her pincushions, of which four or five were already on exhibition in the Wilson household.

  "I suppose you are going to the donation party, Miss Frost," said Miss Bassett complacently, for she had that morning set the last stitch in what she regarded as the handsomest pincushion she had ever made.

  "Yes, I intend to go."

  "Have You got your gift ready? asked Miss Bassett, with natural curiosity.

  "I hope to have it ready in time," said Mabel.

  "I wish you could see my pincushion," said Clarissa, with subdued enthusiasm. "I think it is the best I ever made."

  "Is Mr. Wilson's family in particular need of pincushions?" asked Mabel.

  Miss Bassett did not deign to notice the question suggested by Mabel, considering it quite irrelevant.

  "I always give pincushions," she said. "People say I have a talent for making them."

  Mabel smiled.

  "I have no talent at all for that kind of work," she returned. "I should not venture to compete with you. But probably yours will be all that will be required."

  "Oh, there are several others who are making them," said Miss Bassett; "but," she added complacently, "I am not afraid to compare mine with any that'll be brought. Old Mrs. Pulsifer showed me hers yesterday -- such a looking thing! Made up of odds and ends from her scrap bag. It isn't fit for the kitchen."

  "So Mrs. Pulsifer is going to give a pincushion, also?"

  "She always does; but if I didn't know how to make one better than she I'd give up altogether."

  "Does Mrs. Wilson use a great many pins?" asked Mabel.

  Miss Bassett stared.

  "I don't know as she uses any more than anybody else," she answered.

  "How, then, can she use so many pincushions? Wouldn't some other gift be more acceptable?" Mabel inquired.

  "Oh, they'll have other things -- cake and pies and such things. It wouldn't be appropriate for me to give anything of that kind."

  The next was the eventful day. At four o'clock in the afternoon people began to arrive. The parsonage had just been put in order, and the minister and his wife awaited their visitors.

  "Is it necessary for me to be here?" asked Ralph.

  "It would hardly look well for you to be away, my son."

  I will stay if you wish it, of course, father; but it always humiliates me. It looks as if we were receiving charity."

  "I confess I can't quite rid myself of the same impression," said his father; "but it may be a feeling of worldly pride. We must try to look upon it differently."

  "Why can't they give you the value of their presents in money, or by adding to your salary, father?" suggested Ralph.

  "They would not be willing. We must accept what they choose to give, and in the form in which they choose to give it."

  "I hope, father, I shall some time be able to relieve you from such dependence."

  "I wish, for your own sake, you might have the ability, my son, even if I did not require it."

  The first to arrive was old Mrs. Pulsifer. She carried in her hand a hideous pincushion, answering the description which Miss Bassett had given of it.

  "I made it with my own hands, Mrs. Wilson," she said complacently. "As the apostle says, `Silver and gold have I none, but such as I have give I unto thee.'"

  "Thank you, Mrs. Pulsifer," said the minister's wife, trying to look pleased, and failing.

  The next visitor was Mrs. Slocum, who brought a couple of dyspeptic looking pies and a loaf of bread.

  "I thought you might need 'em for the company" she said.

  "You are very kind, Mrs. Slocum," said Mrs. Wilson. She was quite resigned to the immediate use of Mrs. Slocum's gift.

  Next came Mrs. Breck. She, too, contributed some pies and cake, but of a better quality than her predecessor. Close upon her followed Clarissa Bassett, bearing aloft the gorgeous pincushion, which she presented with a complacent flourish to Mrs. Wilson.


  "It'll do for your best room, Mrs. Wilson," she said. "I see you've got one pincushion already," eying Mrs. Pulsifer's offering disdainfully.

  "I expect several more," said Mrs. Wilson, smiling faintly. "We are generally well remembered in that way."

  Next Mrs. and Miss Raymond sailed into the room and made their way to where the minister was.

  "Mr. Wilson," said Clementina, with a charming air of patronage, "we do not belong to your flock, but we crave the privilege of participating in this pleasant visit and showing our appreciation of your ministrations. I hope you will accept this small testimonial from my mother and myself."

  She left in the minister's hands a bottle of cologne, which she had purchased at the village store that morning for fifty cents.

  "Thank you, Miss Raymond," said Mr. Wilson gravely, "quite as much for your words as for your gift."

  Was there conscious satire in this speech? If so, neither Miss Raymond nor her mother understood it. They made way for Mr. Randolph Chester, who, indeed, had escorted them to the parsonage.

  "Reverend sir," said Mr. Chester with elaborate formality, "I hardly knew what to bring you, but I am sure that books are always welcome to literary men. May I hope that you will give this volume a place in your library?"

  As he spoke he handed the minister a small edition of Scott's poems, complete in one volume, and in such fine print as to make it perilous for a person of any except the strongest eyesight to undertake its perusal. Mr. Chester admitted that he was in independent circumstances, and Mr. Wilson had hoped for a present of some real value, but he felt compelled to accept this paltry gift with an appearance of gratitude.

  The next half dozen arrivals were laden down with provisions. A committee of ladies took charge of these, and spread a large table, on which all the articles that were cooked were at once placed.

  While this was going on, Mrs. Squire Hadley arrived with a dress pattern for Mrs. Wilson. It was a cheap calico of large figure, very repugnant to the taste of the minister's wife, whose heart sank within her as she accepted it, for she knew that Mrs. Hadley would never forgive her if she did not have it made up. Mrs. Hadley had got it at a bargain at the store, where it had lain on the shelves for several seasons without finding a purchaser.