At the Mercy of TiberiusEvans, Augusta J. (Augusta Jane)
History
At the Mercy of Tiberius
Evans, Augusta J. (Augusta Jane)
Rome -- History -- Tiberius, 14-37 -- Fiction
"You mean those etchings; or the designs for the Christmas cards? Have
not heard a word, pro or con. Guess no news is good news; for I notice
'rejected' work generally travels fast, to roost at home."
"I thought the awards were made last week, and that to-day you could
tell me the result."
"The awards have been made, I presume, but who owns the lucky cards is
the secret that has not yet transpired. You young people have no
respect for red tape, and methodical business routine. You want to
clap spurs on fate, and make her lower her own last record? 'Bide awee.
Bide awee'."
"Winning this prize means so much to me, that I confess I find it very
hard to be patient. Success would save me from a painful and expensive
journey, upon which I must start to-night; and therefore I hoped so
earnestly that I might receive good tidings to-day. I am obliged to go
South on an errand, which will necessitate an absence of several days,
and if you should have any news for me, keep it until I call again. If
unfavorable it would depress my mother, and therefore I prefer you
should not write, as of course she will open any letters addressed to
me. Please save all the work you can for me, and I will come here as
soon as I get back home."
"Very well. Any message, Patterson?"
"Mr. Endicott said, 'All right; first-rate;' and ordered them shipped."
"Here is your money, Miss Brentano. Better call as early as you can, as
I guess there will be a lot of photographs ready in a few days. Good
afternoon."
"Thank you. Good-bye, sir."
From the handful of small change, she selected some pennies which she
slipped inside of her glove, and dropping the remainder into her
pocket, left the building, and walked on toward Union Square. Absorbed
in grave reflections, and oppressed by some vague foreboding of
impending ill, dim, intangible and unlocalized--she moved slowly along
the crowded sidewalk--unconscious of the curious glances directed
toward her superb form, and stately graceful carriage, which more than
one person turned and looked back to admire, wondering when she had
stepped down from some sacred Panathenaic Frieze.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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