“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 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 . 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.
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 . “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 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 with increasing weariness and dismay, 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 on two once-costly . 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 , that was not stamped on her brain.
Mrs. Greggory had seated herself now, and William Henshaw had cleared his throat . Billy did not know whether she herself were the more or the more relieved to hear him :
“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 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 . Relief in the end conquered, though even yet there was a second hurriedly glance toward the door before she .
“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 . “Of course—Billy!” he broke off in an 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 , and decorated in a rose design. Near it set a tray-like plate of the same 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 in their , 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 , 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 . His eyes had gone back to the 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.
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CHAPTER XV. “MR. BILLY” AND “MISS MARY JANE”
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