Nancy Of Paradise Cottage Part 19

"Only you should have gotten someone's advice, Miss Prescott. A man like Zeigler would swindle you outrageously, and there are plenty of reputable places which make loans on jewelry as a security. How large is the debt?" Nancy told him.

"A hundred and ten dollars? You are unwilling to ask your uncle?"

Then seeing a look of distress in her face, he went on hastily: "Well, I think I can understand. I admire your independence, Miss Prescott.

I say," he asked suddenly, with a touch of shyness, "would you mind if I should call you Nancy? It sounds so much more friendly."

"I---I'd like you to," replied Nancy, simply. "It makes me feel sort of old to be called Miss Prescott."

"Very well, and it makes me feel quite antique to be called Mr. Arnold.

I wish you'd flatter me into believing myself young once more by calling me George."

"Oh, goodness, I don't believe I could! I--I mean that sounds so dreadfully cheeky!" exclaimed Nancy.

"I suppose I must seem actually prehistoric to you," he said with a laugh that sounded just a little bit forced. "But if you practised a bit, you'd probably find that it would get easier for you, and it would please me very much. To return to business--I think that if you will let me have the ring, I can get the money on it for you this afternoon.

I know the best place to go, where you will get something really proportionate to its value, and on the best terms."

Nancy could have hugged him in her relief and grat.i.tude. She protested a little feebly against his putting himself to any trouble, but he waved her words aside, and she took the ring from her bag, and gave it to him. He looked at it curiously; inside the broad finger band was inscribed in characters almost obliterated by wear, the words, "To George, on his 21st birthday, 1891."'

"It was Father's. Uncle Thomas gave it to him," explained Nancy, simply, and at the same moment both of them were thinking of the eccentric old gentleman, whose gift to a beloved nephew was now being used to a.s.sist that nephew's daughter in a difficulty in which _his_ help was denied her.

"Now, how would you like to spend your time for three-quarters of an hour or so?" asked Mr. Arnold, as they walked out of the restaurant.

"I am going off with this ring and I'll be back with the money as soon as I possibly can. You pick some place for me to meet you."

Nancy glanced up and down the street, trying to find some spot where she could amuse herself.

"I think I'd like to look around some book-shop--is there one near here?"

"I'm an authority on the subject. I know every book-shop in New York, and if you'll follow me I'll show you my favorite haunt. Then I can be sure that you won't wander away--my only trouble will be in getting you out of the place, and if I were wise I wouldn't let you go there under any circ.u.mstances. But my generosity was always very much greater than my wisdom."

He conducted Nancy, accordingly, to this paradise, and rather lingeringly withdrew on his errand, leaving her in the quaint little shop, where perfect tidal waves of books rose on all sides of her, distracting her with alluring, familiar t.i.tles, with the sight of hundreds upon hundreds of rare old volumes, and with that peculiar smell of leather and paper and ink and mustiness which is to the nostrils of the book-lover as the scent of earth and trees is to the wanderer.

On one of the shelves her eyes caught a glimpse of a name on the back of three or four delicately bound volumes, and she quickly took one of them down to inspect it, suddenly remembering her uncle's remark about that "author-person." The name on the back of the book was "George Arnold." It was a volume of stories, finely bound, and ill.u.s.trated with pen drawings by a very famous artist and designer; and was prefaced by a foreword from the pen of one of the most celebrated of the present-day English critics.

Nancy promptly climbed up on a high stool that stood near the shelf, and with her heels hooked on the second rung and the book spread open on her lap began to read. She had time to glance only here and there; and it was with surprise and pleasure that she saw a sentence in the preface which spoke of the "writings of Mr. Arnold" as being "an example of the most delicate artistry. A talent so rare, so peculiarly sensitive, so rich in a wholly inimitable poetry, and waywardness of fancy, that one hardly hesitates to p.r.o.nounce it actual genius." And it was this "genius," this "prophet in his own country," who at the present moment was hurrying off in _her_ service. Nancy felt a positive thrill of dismay, mingled with something else that was wholly pleasant and exciting. But how in the world could she ever call him "George." Imagine calling a famous writer by his first name--it seemed impertinent, to say the least.

To tell the truth, she spent a good deal more of her time thinking about this simple, friendly gentleman than in browsing over the book-shelves which, under ordinary circ.u.mstance, would have been so fascinating to her. Why was he so very nice to _her_--insignificant her? How could she possibly be interesting to a man who had probably been intimate with many of the most celebrated men and women of the day? But, of course, it was very likely that he wasn't particularly interested in her, and was only that he had a generous disposition. He was ever so much older than she was--thirty-four anyway--and probably he thought she was a nice child.

She was pondering thus, the book still open on her lap, and her back to the door, when he returned, flushed with satisfaction, and also with haste.

"I say, I've done a marvellous stroke of business," he announced, as he came up behind her. "You seem to have found a very absorbing book, Nancy--aren't you at all interested in learning what my amazing talent for high finance has accomplished?"

"I can't tell you how good you have been to me," began Nancy, gratefully and shyly.

"I haven't been good to you a bit. It's you who have been good to _let_ me help you," he said, smiling down into her eyes. "I take it as a very high compliment that you were frank enough with me to tell me how I could serve you; because there is nothing, you know, that I would rather do. That sounds rather flowery, doesn't it? But it's quite true. Now listen--I have brought you the sum of one hundred and fifty American dollars. That's more than you expected to get on the ring, isn't it?"

"A hundred and fifty!"

"Here it is, in beautiful clean notes. I'll explain it all to you presently. Did you find anything nice? What book have you got there?"

He glanced at the volume she held, and seeing what it was, laughed, and took it away from her.

"How did you ever find _that_?" he asked, in a deprecating voice, though, at that, genuinely modest as he was, he was not ill-pleased.

"I thought you would have found something better. I'm not posing as the modest author, and all that sort of thing, but there are some wonderful books in here that you shouldn't have missed."

"I--I didn't know you were--I mean----"

"You mean you didn't know that I was all that that critic chap says I am? Well, I'm not. He's just gotten into the amiable habit of saying kind things in his old age--so that he can get into Heaven when he dies, in spite of all the damage he did in his youth. Come along--unless you want to look about you some more."

"I'll be ready in a moment," said Nancy, slipping off the stool.

"I--there's something being wrapped for me that I want to get." With that she went off to the back of the store and had the little volume tied up, and paid for it with the last cent in her pocketbook. Then she returned.

"All right now? Here is your money." He took a fat envelope out of his pocket and gave it to her, and they left the shop.

As they walked across to Fifth Avenue, he explained to her rather vaguely the proceeding by which he had raised the money for her; but while she quite failed to understand it all she rested upon her faith in his superior intelligence in business matters.

"When I want to get the ring back again, what do I do? and don't I have to pay interest?"

"Oh, no, you don't have to pay interest, that's the wonderful part of it. And when you want it back, you just tell me. I'll have to get it for you, but you won't mind that, will you?"

"Oh, no--oh, you _have_ been so kind, Mr. Arnold, I mean, G-George.

Only you won't say anything to Uncle Thomas--of course you won't, but I'm just mentioning that."

"I won't breathe a word to any living thing on land or sea. This is our own private conspiracy, and no one shall have any part in it," he a.s.sured her, gaily. "Only please promise me that, if you should need any help again, you'll ask me. I--it disturbed me very much to find you at old Zeigler's, though of course it was my good fortune."

There was an abundance of time before Nancy's train left, so they strolled at an easy pace down Fifth Avenue, stopping to look in at the shop windows whenever they saw anything that caught their fancy, and chatting together as if they had known each other all their lives. At the corner of Forty-fourth Street, Mr. Arnold suddenly dove into a huge florist's shop on the corner, and in a moment returned bearing a bunch of Parma violets, tied with a silken cord and ta.s.sel.

"I say, will you wear these?" he asked, bluntly. "You know, I always wanted to give a bouquet to a young lady, but I never could find the young lady to whom I wanted to give them. The flowers were plentiful, but I began to think that the lady didn't exist." Nancy colored at the compliment with which he proffered her the flowers, and dimpled as only a rosy girl can dimple. His attentions were very flattering, and his half-shy, boyish manner made them doubly so.

"Now do tell me what book you have there?" he asked, as they turned east on Forty-second Street. "Is it something very learned or very frivolous?"

With a little laugh, Nancy handed him the package.

"You can open it, if you promise to tie it up again," she said, watching his face out of the corners of her eyes, as he untied the string. He glanced from the book to her face, trying to look disapproving, though he could not quite conceal his look of nave pleasure.

"_Very_ frivolous. I see that I shall have to direct your book-buying as well as your business. Why didn't you let me get it for you if you wanted it?"

"Because I wanted to get it for myself--you probably wouldn't have let me get it."

"Well, if I had given it to you, I could have written something in it, and that's something I always wanted to do, you know, something about 'the compliments of the author' in a flowing script."

"Well, why don't you write something in it anyway?"

"May I?"

"Only not 'the compliments of the author.'"

He took her to the train, and then standing beside her seat, took out his fountain pen, and scribbled on the fly-leaf of the little volume.

"There," he said, handing it back to her. "Now, good-bye. I am going to see you again in the holidays, am I not? I have enjoyed two or three hours to-day more than I have enjoyed anything in years." He took her hand and shook it warmly, and then as the train gave a warning jerk, he hurried off.