Miss Billy's Decision

by Eleanor H. Porter

  CHAPTER XVI. A GIRL AND A BIT OF LOWESTOFT

  Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Billy was summoned to thetelephone.

  "Oh, good morning, Uncle William," she called, in answer to themasculine voice that replied to her "Hullo."

  "Billy, are you very busy this morning?"

  "No, indeed--not if you want me."

  "Well, I do, my dear." Uncle William's voice was troubled. "I want youto go with me, if you can, to see a Mrs. Greggory. She's got a teapot Iwant. It's a genuine Lowestoft, Harlow says. Will you go?"

  "Of course I will! What time?"

  "Eleven if you can, at Park Street. She's at the West End. I don't dareto put it off for fear I'll lose it. Harlow says others will have toknow of it, of course. You see, she's just made up her mind to sell it,and asked him to find a customer. I wouldn't trouble you, but he saysthey're peculiar--the daughter, especially--and may need some carefulhandling. That's why I wanted you--though I wanted you to see thetea-pot, too,--it'll be yours some day, you know."

  Billy, all alone at her end of the line, blushed. That she was one dayto be mistress of the Strata and all it contained was still anything but"common" to her.

  "I'd love to see it, and I'll come gladly; but I'm afraid I won't bemuch help, Uncle William," she worried.

  "I'll take the risk of that. You see, Harlow says that about half thetime she isn't sure she wants to sell it, after all."

  "Why, how funny! Well, I'll come. At eleven, you say, at Park Street?"

  "Yes; and thank you, my dear. I tried to get Kate to go, too; but shewouldn't. By the way, I'm going to bring you home to luncheon. Kateleaves this afternoon, you know, and it's been so snowy she hasn'tthought best to try to get over to the house. Maybe Aunt Hannah wouldcome, too, for luncheon. Would she?"

  "I'm afraid not," returned Billy, with a rueful laugh. "She's got_three_ shawls on this morning, and you know that always means thatshe's felt a draft somewhere--poor dear. I'll tell her, though, and I'llsee you at eleven," finished Billy, as she hung up the receiver.

  Promptly at the appointed time Billy met Uncle William at Park Street,and together they set out for the West End street named on the paper inhis pocket. But when the shabby house on the narrow little street wasreached, the man looked about him with a troubled frown.

  "I declare, Billy, I'm not sure but we'd better turn back," he fretted."I didn't mean to take you to such a place as this."

  Billy shivered a little; but after one glance at the man's disappointedface she lifted a determined chin.

  "Nonsense, Uncle William! Of course you won't turn back. I don'tmind--for myself; but only think of the people whose _homes_ are here,"she finished, just above her breath.

  Mrs. Greggory was found to be living in two back rooms at the top offour flights of stairs, up which William Henshaw toiled with increasingweariness and dismay, punctuating each flight with a despairing: "Billy,really, I think we should turn back!"

  But Billy would not turn back, and at last they found themselves in thepresence of a white-haired, sweet-faced woman who said yes, she wasMrs. Greggory; yes, she was. Even as she uttered the words, however,she looked fearfully over her shoulders as if expecting to hear from thehall behind them a voice denying her assertion.

  Mrs. Greggory was a cripple. Her slender little body was poised on twoonce-costly crutches. Both the worn places on the crutches, and theskill with which the little woman swung herself about the room testifiedthat the crippled condition was not a new one.

  Billy's eyes were brimming with pity and dismay. Mechanically she hadtaken the chair toward which Mrs. Greggory had motioned her. She hadtried not to seem to look about her; but there was not one detail ofthe bare little room, from its faded rug to the patched but spotlesstablecloth, that was not stamped on her brain.

  Mrs. Greggory had seated herself now, and William Henshaw had clearedhis throat nervously. Billy did not know whether she herself were themore distressed or the more relieved to hear him stammer:

  "We--er--I came from Harlow, Mrs. Greggory. He gave me to understandyou had an--er--teapot that--er--" With his eyes on the cracked whitecrockery pitcher on the table, William Henshaw came to a helpless pause.

  A curious expression, or rather, series of expressions crossed Mrs.Greggory's face. Terror, joy, dismay, and relief seemed, one after theother to fight for supremacy. Relief in the end conquered, though evenyet there was a second hurriedly apprehensive glance toward the doorbefore she spoke.

  "The Lowestoft! Yes, I'm so glad!--that is, of course I must be glad.I'll get it." Her voice broke as she pulled herself from her chair.There was only despairing sorrow on her face now.

  The man rose at once.

  "But, madam, perhaps--don't let me--" I he began stammeringly. "Ofcourse--Billy!" he broke off in an entirely different voice. "Jove! Whata beauty!"

  Mrs. Greggory had thrown open the door of a small cupboard near thecollector's chair, disclosing on one of the shelves a beautifully shapedteapot, creamy in tint, and exquisitely decorated in a rose design. Nearit set a tray-like plate of the same ware and decoration.

  "If you'll lift it down, please, yourself," motioned Mrs. Greggory. "Idon't like to--with these," she explained, tapping the crutches at herside.

  With fingers that were almost reverent in their appreciation, thecollector reached for the teapot. His eyes sparkled.

  "Billy, look, what a beauty! And it's a Lowestoft, too, the realthing--the genuine, true soft paste! And there's the tray--did younotice?" he exulted, turning back to the shelf. "You _don't_ see thatevery day! They get separated, most generally, you know."

  "These pieces have been in our family for generations," said Mrs.Greggory with an accent of pride. "You'll find them quite perfect, Ithink."

  "Perfect! I should say they were," cried the man.

  "They are, then--valuable?" Mrs. Greggory's voice shook.

  "Indeed they are! But you must know that."

  "I have been told so. Yet to me their chief value, of course, lies intheir association. My mother and my grandmother owned that teapot, sir."Again her voice broke.

  William Henshaw cleared his throat.

  "But, madam, if you do not wish to sell--" He stopped abruptly. Hislonging eyes had gone back to the enticing bit of china.

  Mrs. Greggory gave a low cry.

  "But I do--that is, I must. Mr. Harlow says that it is valuable, andthat it will bring in money; and we need--money." She threw a quickglance toward the hall door, though she did not pause in her remarks. "Ican't do much at work that pays. I sew"--she nodded toward the machineby the window--"but with only one foot to make it go--You see, theother is--is inclined to shirk a little," she finished with a wistfulwhimsicality.

  Billy turned away sharply. There was a lump in her throat and a smart inher eyes. She was conscious suddenly of a fierce anger against--she didnot know what, exactly; but she fancied it was against the teapot,or against Uncle William for wanting the teapot, or for _not_ wantingit--if he did not buy it.

  "And so you see, I do very much wish to sell."

  Mrs. Greggory said then. "Perhaps you will tell me what it would beworth to you," she concluded tremulously.

  The collector's eyes glowed. He picked up the teapot with carefulrapture and examined it. Then he turned to the tray. After a moment hespoke.

  "I have only one other in my collection as rare," he said. "I paid ahundred dollars for that. I shall be glad to give you the same for this,madam."

  Mrs. Greggory started visibly.

  "A hundred dollars? So much as that?" she cried almost joyously. "Why,nothing else that we've had has brought--Of course, if it's worth thatto you--" She paused suddenly. A quick step had sounded in the halloutside. The next moment the door flew open and a young woman, wholooked to be about twenty-three or twenty-four years old, burst into theroom.

  "Mother, only think, I've--" She stopped, and drew back a little.Her startled eyes went from one face to another, then dropped to theLowestoft teapot in the m
an's hands. Her expression changed at once. Sheshut the door quickly and hurried forward.

  "Mother, what is it? Who are these people?" she asked sharply.

  Billy lifted her chin the least bit. She was conscious of a feelingwhich she could not name: Billy was not used to being called "thesepeople" in precisely that tone of voice. William Henshaw, too, raisedhis chin. He, also, was not in the habit of being referred to as "thesepeople."

  "My name is Henshaw, Miss--Greggory, I presume," he said quietly. "I wassent here by Mr. Harlow."

  "About the teapot, my dear, you know," stammered Mrs. Greggory,wetting her lips with an air of hurried apology and conciliation. "Thisgentleman says he will be glad to buy it. Er--my daughter, Alice, Mr.Henshaw," she hastened on, in embarrassed introduction; "and Miss--"

  "Neilson," supplied the man, as she looked at Billy, and hesitated.

  A swift red stained Alice Greggory's face. With barely an acknowledgmentof the introductions she turned to her mother.

  "Yes, dear, but that won't be necessary now. As I started to tell youwhen I came in, I have two new pupils; and so"--turning to the man again"I thank you for your offer, but we have decided not to sell the teapotat present." As she finished her sentence she stepped one side as if tomake room for the strangers to reach the door.

  William Henshaw frowned angrily--that was the man; but his eyes--thecollector's eyes--sought the teapot longingly. Before either the man orthe collector could speak, however; Mrs. Greggory interposed quick wordsof remonstrance.

  "But, Alice, my dear," she almost sobbed. "You didn't wait to let metell you. Mr. Henshaw says it is worth a hundred dollars to him. He willgive us--a hundred dollars."

  "A hundred dollars!" echoed the girl, faintly.

  It was plain to be seen that she was wavering. Billy, watching thelittle scene, with mingled emotions, saw the glance with which the girlswept the bare little room; and she knew that there was not a patch ordarn or poverty spot in sight, or out of sight, which that glance didnot encompass.

  Billy was wondering which she herself desired more--that Uncle Williamshould buy the Lowestoft, or that he should not. She knew she wishedMrs. Greggory to have the hundred dollars. There was no doubt onthat point. Then Uncle William spoke. His words carried the righteousindignation of the man who thinks he has been unjustly treated, and thefinal plea of the collector who sees a coveted treasure slipping fromhis grasp.

  "I am very sorry, of course, if my offer has annoyed you," he saidstiffly. "I certainly should not have made it had I not had Mrs.Greggory's assurance that she wished to sell the teapot."

  Alice Greggory turned as if stung.

  "_Wished to sell!_" She repeated the words with superb disdain. She wasplainly very angry. Her blue-gray eyes gleamed with scorn, and her wholeface was suffused with a red that had swept to the roots of hersoft hair. "Do you think a woman _wishes_ to sell a thing that she'streasured all her life, a thing that is perhaps the last visiblereminder of the days when she was living--not merely existing?"

  "Alice, Alice, my love!" protested the sweet-faced cripple, agitatedly.

  "I can't help it," stormed the girl, hotly. "I know how much you thinkof that teapot that was grandmother's. I know what it cost you to makeup your mind to sell it at all. And then to hear these people talk aboutyour _wishing_ to sell it! Perhaps they think, too, we _wish_ to livein a place like this; that we _wish_ to have rugs that are darned,and chairs that are broken, and garments that are patches instead ofclothes!"

  "Alice!" gasped Mrs. Greggory in dismayed horror.

  With a little outward fling of her two hands Alice Greggory steppedback. Her face had grown white again.

  "I beg your pardon, of course," she said in a voice that was bitterlyquiet. "I should not have spoken so. You are very kind, Mr. Henshaw, butI do not think we care to sell the Lowestoft to-day."

  Both words and manner were obviously a dismissal; and with a puzzledsigh William Henshaw picked up his hat. His face showed very clearlythat he did not know what to do, or what to say; but it showed, too, asclearly, that he longed to do something, or say something. During thebrief minute that he hesitated, however, Billy sprang forward.

  "Mrs. Greggory, please, won't you let _me_ buy the teapot? Andthen--won't you keep it for me--here? I haven't the hundred dollars withme, but I'll send it right away. You will let me do it, won't you?"

  It was an impulsive speech, and a foolish one, of course, from thestandpoint of sense and logic and reasonableness; but it was one thatmight be expected, perhaps, from Billy.

  Mrs. Greggory must have divined, in a way, the spirit that prompted it,for her eyes grew wet, and with a choking "Dear child!" she reached outand caught Billy's hand in both her own--even while she shook her headin denial.

  Not so her daughter. Alice Greggory flushed scarlet. She drew herselfproudly erect.

  "Thank you," she said with crisp coldness; "but, distasteful as darnsand patches are to us, we prefer them, infinitely, to--charity!"

  "Oh, but, please, I didn't mean--you didn't understand," faltered Billy.

  For answer Alice Greggory walked deliberately to the door and held itopen.

  "Oh, Alice, my dear," pleaded Mrs. Greggory again, feebly.

  "Come, Billy! We'll bid you good morning, ladies," said WilliamHenshaw then, decisively. And Billy, with a little wistful pat on Mrs.Greggory's clasped hands, went.

  Once down the long four flights of stairs and out on the sidewalk,William Henshaw drew a long breath.

  "Well, by Jove! Billy, the next time I take you curio hunting, it won'tbe to this place," he fumed.

  "Wasn't it awful!" choked Billy.

  "Awful! The girl was the most stubborn, unreasonable, vixenish littlepuss I ever saw. I didn't want her old Lowestoft if she didn't wantto sell it! But to practically invite me there, and then treat me likethat!" scolded the collector, his face growing red with anger. "Still, Iwas sorry for the poor little old lady. I wish, somehow, she could havethat hundred dollars!" It was the man who said this, not the collector.

  "So do I," rejoined Billy, dolefully. "But that girl was so--so queer!"she sighed, with a frown. Billy was puzzled. For the first time,perhaps, in her life, she knew what it was to have her proffered "icecream" disdainfully refused.