“Oh, good morning, Uncle William,” she called, in answer to the masculine 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 you to go with me, if you can, to see a Mrs. Greggory. She's got a teapot I want. 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 dare to put it off for fear I'll lose it. Harlow says others will have to know 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 says they're peculiar—the daughter, especially—and may need some careful handling. That's why I wanted you—though I wanted you to see the tea-pot, too,—it'll be yours some day, you know.”
Billy, all alone at her end of the line, blushed. That she was one day to be mistress of the Strata1 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 be much help, Uncle William,” she worried.
“I'll take the risk of that. You see, Harlow says that about half the time 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 she wouldn't. By the way, I'm going to bring you home to luncheon2. Kate leaves this afternoon, you know, and it's been so snowy she hasn't thought best to try to get over to the house. Maybe Aunt Hannah would come, 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 that she's felt a draft somewhere—poor dear. I'll tell her, though, and I'll see you at eleven,” finished Billy, as she hung up the receiver.
Promptly3 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 in his pocket. But when the shabby house on the narrow little street was reached, the man looked about him with a troubled frown.
“I declare, Billy, I'm not sure but we'd better turn back,” he fretted4. “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 disappointed face she lifted a determined5 chin.
“Nonsense, Uncle William! Of course you won't turn back. I don't mind—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 of four flights of stairs, up which William Henshaw toiled6 with increasing weariness and dismay, punctuating7 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 the presence of a white-haired, sweet-faced woman who said yes, she was Mrs. Greggory; yes, she was. Even as she uttered the words, however, she looked fearfully over her shoulders as if expecting to hear from the hall behind them a voice denying her assertion.
Mrs. Greggory was a cripple. Her slender little body was poised8 on two once-costly crutches9. Both the worn places on the crutches, and the skill with which the little woman swung herself about the room testified that the crippled condition was not a new one.
Billy's eyes were brimming with pity and dismay. Mechanically she had taken the chair toward which Mrs. Greggory had motioned her. She had tried not to seem to look about her; but there was not one detail of the bare little room, from its faded rug to the patched but spotless tablecloth10, that was not stamped on her brain.
Mrs. Greggory had seated herself now, and William Henshaw had cleared his throat nervously11. Billy did not know whether she herself were the more distressed12 or the more relieved to hear him stammer13:
“We—er—I came from Harlow, Mrs. Greggory. He gave me to understand you had an—er—teapot that—er—” With his eyes on the cracked white crockery pitcher14 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 the other to fight for supremacy15. Relief in the end conquered, though even yet there was a second hurriedly apprehensive16 glance toward the door before she spoke17.
“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 stammeringly18. “Of course—Billy!” he broke off in an entirely19 different voice. “Jove! What a beauty!”
Mrs. Greggory had thrown open the door of a small cupboard near the collector's chair, disclosing on one of the shelves a beautifully shaped teapot, creamy in tint20, and exquisitely21 decorated in a rose design. Near it set a tray-like plate of the same ware22 and decoration.
“If you'll lift it down, please, yourself,” motioned Mrs. Greggory. “I don't like to—with these,” she explained, tapping the crutches at her side.
With fingers that were almost reverent23 in their appreciation24, the collector reached for the teapot. His eyes sparkled.
“Billy, look, what a beauty! And it's a Lowestoft, too, the real thing—the genuine, true soft paste! And there's the tray—did you notice?” he exulted25, turning back to the shelf. “You don't see that every 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, I think.”
“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 in their 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 abruptly26. His longing27 eyes had gone back to the enticing28 bit of china.
Mrs. Greggory gave a low cry.
“But I do—that is, I must. Mr. Harlow says that it is valuable, and that it will bring in money; and we need—money.” She threw a quick glance toward the hall door, though she did not pause in her remarks. “I can't do much at work that pays. I sew”—she nodded toward the machine by the window—“but with only one foot to make it go—You see, the other is—is inclined to shirk a little,” she finished with a wistful whimsicality.
Billy turned away sharply. There was a lump in her throat and a smart in her eyes. She was conscious suddenly of a fierce anger against—she did not know what, exactly; but she fancied it was against the teapot, or against Uncle William for wanting the teapot, or for not wanting it—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 be worth to you,” she concluded tremulously.
The collector's eyes glowed. He picked up the teapot with careful rapture29 and examined it. Then he turned to the tray. After a moment he spoke.
“I have only one other in my collection as rare,” he said. “I paid a hundred 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 joyously30. “Why, nothing else that we've had has brought—Of course, if it's worth that to you—” She paused suddenly. A quick step had sounded in the hall outside. The next moment the door flew open and a young woman, who looked to be about twenty-three or twenty-four years old, burst into the room.
“Mother, only think, I've—” She stopped, and drew back a little. Her startled eyes went from one face to another, then dropped to the Lowestoft teapot in the man's hands. Her expression changed at once. She shut 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 feeling which she could not name: Billy was not used to being called “these people” in precisely31 that tone of voice. William Henshaw, too, raised his chin. He, also, was not in the habit of being referred to as “these people.”
“My name is Henshaw, Miss—Greggory, I presume,” he said quietly. “I was sent here by Mr. Harlow.”
“About the teapot, my dear, you know,” stammered32 Mrs. Greggory, wetting her lips with an air of hurried apology and conciliation33. “This gentleman 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 acknowledgment of the introductions she turned to her mother.
“Yes, dear, but that won't be necessary now. As I started to tell you when I came in, I have two new pupils; and so”—turning to the man again “I thank you for your offer, but we have decided34 not to sell the teapot at present.” As she finished her sentence she stepped one side as if to make room for the strangers to reach the door.
William Henshaw frowned angrily—that was the man; but his eyes—the collector's eyes—sought the teapot longingly35. Before either the man or the collector could speak, however; Mrs. Greggory interposed quick words of remonstrance36.
“But, Alice, my dear,” she almost sobbed37. “You didn't wait to let me tell you. Mr. Henshaw says it is worth a hundred dollars to him. He will give us—a hundred dollars.”
“A hundred dollars!” echoed the girl, faintly.
It was plain to be seen that she was wavering. Billy, watching the little scene, with mingled38 emotions, saw the glance with which the girl swept the bare little room; and she knew that there was not a patch or darn or poverty spot in sight, or out of sight, which that glance did not encompass39.
Billy was wondering which she herself desired more—that Uncle William should buy the Lowestoft, or that he should not. She knew she wished Mrs. Greggory to have the hundred dollars. There was no doubt on that point. Then Uncle William spoke. His words carried the righteous indignation of the man who thinks he has been unjustly treated, and the final plea of the collector who sees a coveted40 treasure slipping from his grasp.
“I am very sorry, of course, if my offer has annoyed you,” he said stiffly. “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 disdain41. She was plainly very angry. Her blue-gray eyes gleamed with scorn, and her whole face was suffused42 with a red that had swept to the roots of her soft hair. “Do you think a woman wishes to sell a thing that she's treasured all her life, a thing that is perhaps the last visible reminder43 of the days when she was living—not merely existing?”
“Alice, Alice, my love!” protested the sweet-faced cripple, agitatedly44.
“I can't help it,” stormed the girl, hotly. “I know how much you think of that teapot that was grandmother's. I know what it cost you to make up your mind to sell it at all. And then to hear these people talk about your wishing to sell it! Perhaps they think, too, we wish to live in a place like this; that we wish to have rugs that are darned, and chairs that are broken, and garments that are patches instead of clothes!”
With a little outward fling of her two hands Alice Greggory stepped back. Her face had grown white again.
“I beg your pardon, of course,” she said in a voice that was bitterly quiet. “I should not have spoken so. You are very kind, Mr. Henshaw, but I do not think we care to sell the Lowestoft to-day.”
Both words and manner were obviously a dismissal; and with a puzzled sigh William Henshaw picked up his hat. His face showed very clearly that he did not know what to do, or what to say; but it showed, too, as clearly, that he longed to do something, or say something. During the brief minute that he hesitated, however, Billy sprang forward.
“Mrs. Greggory, please, won't you let me buy the teapot? And then—won't you keep it for me—here? I haven't the hundred dollars with me, but I'll send it right away. You will let me do it, won't you?”
It was an impulsive46 speech, and a foolish one, of course, from the standpoint of sense and logic47 and reasonableness; but it was one that might 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 out and caught Billy's hand in both her own—even while she shook her head in denial.
“Thank you,” she said with crisp coldness; “but, distasteful as darns and patches are to us, we prefer them, infinitely50, to—charity!”
For answer Alice Greggory walked deliberately52 to the door and held it open.
“Oh, Alice, my dear,” pleaded Mrs. Greggory again, feebly.
“Come, Billy! We'll bid you good morning, ladies,” said William Henshaw 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't be to this place,” he fumed53.
“Wasn't it awful!” choked Billy.
“Awful! The girl was the most stubborn, unreasonable54, vixenish little puss I ever saw. I didn't want her old Lowestoft if she didn't want to sell it! But to practically invite me there, and then treat me like that!” scolded the collector, his face growing red with anger. “Still, I was sorry for the poor little old lady. I wish, somehow, she could have that 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 proffered55 “ice cream” disdainfully refused.
作者的其它作品
《Miss Billy比利小姐》
作者的其它作品
《Miss Billy比利小姐》
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1
strata
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| n.地层（复数）；社会阶层 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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fretted
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| 焦躁的，附有弦马的，腐蚀的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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punctuating
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的现在分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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poised
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| a.摆好姿势不动的 | |
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crutches
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| n.拐杖, 支柱 v.支撑 | |
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tablecloth
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| n.桌布，台布 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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stammer
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| n.结巴，口吃；v.结结巴巴地说 | |
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pitcher
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| n.(有嘴和柄的)大水罐；(棒球)投手 | |
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supremacy
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| n.至上；至高权力 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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stammeringly
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| adv.stammering（口吃的）的变形 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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ware
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| n.(常用复数)商品，货物 | |
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reverent
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| adj.恭敬的，虔诚的 | |
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appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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exulted
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| 狂喜，欢跃( exult的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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enticing
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| adj.迷人的；诱人的 | |
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rapture
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| n.狂喜；全神贯注；着迷；v.使狂喜 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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conciliation
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| n.调解，调停 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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longingly
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| adv. 渴望地 热望地 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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encompass
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| vt.围绕，包围；包含，包括；完成 | |
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coveted
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| adj.令人垂涎的；垂涎的，梦寐以求的v.贪求，觊觎(covet的过去分词)；垂涎；贪图 | |
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disdain
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| n.鄙视，轻视；v.轻视，鄙视，不屑 | |
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suffused
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| v.（指颜色、水气等）弥漫于，布满( suffuse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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agitatedly
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| 动摇，兴奋； 勃然 | |
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gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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impulsive
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| adj.冲动的，刺激的；有推动力的 | |
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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erect
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| n./v.树立，建立，使竖立；adj.直立的，垂直的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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52
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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53
fumed
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| 愤怒( fume的过去式和过去分词 )； 大怒； 发怒； 冒烟 | |
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54
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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proffered
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| v.提供，贡献，提出( proffer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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