Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “Then I’ll leave every cent to charity — except Kenneth’s annuity.”

  The lawyer smiled.

  “Let us hope,” said he, “that they will prove all you desire. It would break my heart, Jane, to see Elmhurst turned into a hospital.”

  Phibbs arrived with the spectacles, and Jane Merrick read her letter, her face growing harder with every line she mastered. Then she crumpled the paper fiercely in both hands, and a moment later smoothed it out carefully and replaced it in the envelope.

  Silas Watson had watched her silently.

  “Well,” said he, at last, “another acceptance?”

  “No, a refusal,” said she. “A refusal from the Irishman’s daughter,

  Patricia Doyle.”

  “That’s bad,” he remarked, but in a tone of relief.

  “I don’t see it in that light at all,” replied Miss Jane. “The girl is right. It’s the sort of letter I’d have written myself, under the circumstances. I’ll write again, Silas, and humble myself, and try to get her to come.”

  “You surprise me!” said the lawyer.

  “I surprise myself,” retorted the old woman, “but I mean to know more of this Patricia Doyle. Perhaps I’ve found a gold mine, Silas Watson!”

  CHAPTER VI.

  THE BOY.

  Leaving the mistress of Elmhurst among her flowers, Silas Watson walked slowly and thoughtfully along the paths until he reached the extreme left wing of the rambling old mansion. Here, half hidden by tangled vines of climbing roses, he came to a flight of steps leading to an iron-railed balcony, and beyond this was a narrow stairway to the rooms in the upper part of the wing.

  Miss Merrick, however ungenerous she might have been to others, had always maintained Elmhurst in a fairly lavish manner. There were plenty of servants to look after the house and gardens, and there were good horses in the stables. Whenever her health permitted she dined in state each evening in the great dining-room, solitary and dignified, unless on rare occasions her one familiar, Silas Watson, occupied the seat opposite her. “The boy,” as he was contemptuously called, was never permitted to enter this room. Indeed, it would be difficult to define exactly Kenneth Forbes’ position at Elmhurst. He had lived there ever since his mother’s death, when, a silent and unattractive lad of eight, Mr. Watson had brought him to Jane Merrick and insisted upon her providing a home for Tom Bradley’s orphaned nephew.

  She accepted the obligation reluctantly enough, giving the child a small room in the left wing, as far removed from her own apartments as possible, and transferring all details of his care to Misery Agnew, the old housekeeper. Misery endeavored to “do her duty” by the boy, but appreciating the scant courtesy with which he was treated by her mistress, it is not surprising the old woman regarded him merely as a dependent and left him mostly to his own devices.

  Kenneth, even in his first days at Elmhurst, knew that his presence was disagreeable to Miss Jane, and as the years dragged on he grew shy and retiring, longing to break away from his unpleasant surroundings, but knowing of no other place where he would be more welcome. His only real friend was the lawyer, who neglected no opportunity to visit the boy and chat with him, in his cheery manner. Mr. Watson also arranged with the son of the village curate to tutor Kenneth and prepare him for college; but either the tutor was incompetent or the pupil did not apply himself, for at twenty Kenneth Forbes was very ignorant, indeed, and seemed not to apply himself properly to his books.

  He was short of stature and thin, with a sad drawn face and manners that even his staunch friend, Silas Watson, admitted were awkward and unprepossessing. What he might have been under different conditions or with different treatment, could only be imagined. Slowly climbing the stairs to the little room Kenneth inhabited, Mr. Watson was forced to conclude, with a sigh of regret, that he could not blame Miss Jane for wishing to find a more desirable heir to her estate than this graceless, sullen youth who had been thrust upon her by a thoughtless request contained in the will of her dead lover — a request that she seemed determined to fulfil literally, as it only required her to “look after” Tom’s relatives and did not oblige her to leave Kenneth her property.

  Yet, strange as it may seem, the old lawyer was exceedingly fond of the boy, and longed to see him the master of Elmhurst. Sometimes, when they were alone, Kenneth forgot his sense of injury and dependence, and spoke so well and with such animation that Mr. Watson was astonished, and believed that hidden underneath the mask of reserve was another entirely different personality, that in the years to come might change the entire nature of the neglected youth and win for him the respect and admiration of the world. But these fits of brightness and geniality were rare. Only the lawyer had as yet discovered them.

  Today he found the boy lying listlessly upon the window-seat, an open book in his hand, but his eyes fixed dreamily upon the grove of huge elm trees that covered the distant hills.

  “Morning, Ken,” said he, briefly, sitting beside his young friend and taking the book in his own hand. The margins of the printed pages were fairly covered with drawings of every description. The far away trees were there and the near-by rose gardens. There was a cat spitting at an angry dog, caricatures of old Misery and James, the gardener, and of Aunt Jane and even Silas Watson himself — all so clearly depicted that the lawyer suddenly wondered if they were not clever, and an evidence of genius. But the boy turned to look at him, and the next moment seized the book from his grasp and sent it flying through the open window, uttering at the same time a rude exclamation of impatience.

  The lawyer quietly lighted his pipe.

  “Why did you do that, Kenneth?” he asked. “The pictures are clever enough to be preserved. I did not know you have a talent for drawing.”

  The boy glanced at him, but answered nothing, and the lawyer thought best not to pursue the subject After smoking a moment in silence he remarked:

  “Your aunt is failing fast.” Although no relative, Kenneth had been accustomed to speak of Jane Merrick as his aunt.

  Getting neither word nor look in reply the lawyer presently continued:

  “I do not think she will live much longer.”

  The boy stared from the window and drummed on the sill with his fingers.

  “When she dies,” said Mr. Watson, in a musing tone, “there will be a new mistress at Elmhurst and you will have to move out.”

  The boy now turned to look at him, enquiringly.

  “You are twenty, and you are not ready for college. You would be of no use in the commercial world. You have not even the capacity to become a clerk. What will you do, Kenneth? Where will you go?”

  The boy shrugged his shoulders.

  “When will Aunt Jane die?” he asked.

  “I hope she will live many days yet. She may die tomorrow.”

  “When she does, I’ll answer your question.” said the boy, roughly. “When I’m turned out of this place — which is part prison and part paradise — I’ll do something. I don’t know what, and I won’t bother about it till the time comes. But I’ll do something.”

  “Could you earn a living?” asked the old lawyer.

  “Perhaps not; but I’ll get one. Will I be a beggar?”

  “I don’t know. It depends on whether Aunt Jane leaves you anything in her will.”

  “I hope she won’t leave me a cent!” cried the boy, with sudden fierceness. “I hate her, and will be glad when she is dead and out of my way!”

  “Kenneth — Kenneth, lad!”

  “I hate her!” he persisted, with blazing eyes. “She has insulted me, scorned me, humiliated me every moment since I have known her. I’ll be glad to have her die, and I don’t want a cent of her miserable money.”

  “Money,” remarked the old man, knocking the ashes from his pipe, “is very necessary to one who is incompetent to earn his salt. And the money she leaves you — if she really does leave you any — won’t be her’s, remember, but your Uncle Tom’s.”

  “Uncle Tom was good to m
y father,” said the boy, softening.

  “Well, Uncle Tom gave his money to Aunt Jane, whom he had expected to marry; but he asked her to care for his relatives, and she’ll doubtless give you enough to live on. But the place will go to some one else, and that means you must move on.”

  “Who will have Elmhurst?” asked the boy.

  “One of your aunt’s nieces, probably. She has three, it seems, all of them young girls, and she has invited them to come here to visit her.”

  “Girls! Girls at Elmhurst?” cried the boy, shrinking back with a look of terror in his eyes.

  “To be sure. One of the nieces, it seems, refuses to come; but there will be two of them to scramble for your aunt’s affection.”

  “She has none,” declared the boy.

  “Or her money, which is the same thing. The one she likes the best will get the estate.”

  Kenneth smiled, and with the change of expression his face lighted wonderfully.

  “Poor Aunt!” he said. “Almost I am tempted to be sorry for her. Two girls — fighting one against the other for Elmhurst — and both fawning before a cruel and malicious old woman who could never love anyone but herself.”

  “And her flowers,” suggested the lawyer.

  “Oh, yes; and perhaps James. Tell me, why should she love James, who is a mere gardener, and hate me?”

  “James tends the flowers, and the flowers are Jane Merrick’s very life. Isn’t that the explanation?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The girls need not worry you, Kenneth. It will be easy for you to keep out of their way.”

  “When will they come?”

  “Next week, I believe.”

  The boy looked around helplessly, with the air of a caged tiger.

  “Perhaps they won’t know I’m here,” he said.

  “Perhaps not. I’ll tell Misery to bring all your meals to this room, and no one ever comes to this end of the garden. But if they find you, Kenneth, and scare you out of your den, run over to me, and I’ll keep you safe until the girls are gone.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Watson,” more graciously than was his wont. “It isn’t that I’m afraid of girls, you know; but they may want to insult me, just as their aunt does, and I couldn’t bear any more cruelty.”

  “I know nothing about them,” said the lawyer, “so I can’t vouch in any way for Aunt Jane’s nieces. But they are young, and it is probable they’ll be as shy and uncomfortable here at Elmhurst as you are yourself. And after all, Kenneth boy, the most important thing just now is your own future. What in the world is to become of you?”

  “Oh, that,” answered the boy, relapsing into his sullen mood; “I can’t see that it matters much one way or another. Anyhow, I’ll not bother my head about it until the time comes and as far as you’re concerned, it’s none of your business.”

  CHAPTER VII.

  THE FIRST WARNING.

  For a day or two Jane Merrick seemed to improve in health. Indeed, Martha Phibbs declared her mistress was better than she had been for weeks. Then, one night, the old attendant was awakened by a scream, and rushed to her mistress’ side.

  “What is it, ma’am?” she asked, tremblingly.

  “My leg! I can’t move my leg,” gasped the mistress of Elmhurst. “Rub it, you old fool! Rub it till you drop, and see if you can bring back the life to it.”

  Martha rubbed, of course, but the task was useless. Oscar the groom was sent on horseback for the nearest doctor, who came just as day was breaking. He gave the old woman a brief examination and shook his head.

  “It’s the first warning,” said he; “but nothing to be frightened about. That is, for the present.”

  “Is it paralysis?” asked Jane Merrick.

  “Yes; a slight stroke.”

  “But I’ll have another?”

  “Perhaps, in time.”

  “How long?”

  “It may be a week — or a month — or a year. Sometimes there is never another stroke. Don’t worry, ma’am. Just lie still and be comfortable.”

  “Huh!” grunted the old woman. But she became more composed and obeyed the doctor’s instructions with unwonted meekness. Silas Watson arrived during the forenoon, and pressed her thin hand with real sympathy, for these two were friends despite the great difference in their temperaments.

  “Shall I draw your will, Jane?” he asked. “No!” she snapped. “I’m not going to die just yet, I assure you. I shall live to carry out my plans, Silas.”

  She did live, and grew better as the days wore on, although she never recovered the use of the paralyzed limb.

  Each day Phibbs drew the invalid chair to the porch and old James lifted it to the garden walk, where his mistress might enjoy the flowers he so carefully and skillfully tended. They seldom spoke together, these two; yet there seemed a strange bond of sympathy between them.

  At last the first of July arrived, and Oscar was dispatched to the railway station, four miles distant, to meet Miss Elizabeth De Graf, the first of the nieces to appear in answer to Jane Merrick’s invitation.

  Beth looked very charming and fresh in her new gown, and she greeted her aunt with a calm graciousness that would have amazed the professor to behold. She had observed carefully the grandeur and beauty of Elmhurst, as she drove through the grounds, and instantly decided the place was worth an effort to win.

  “So, this is Elizabeth, is it?” asked Aunt June, as the girl stood before her for inspection. “You may kiss me, child.”

  Elizabeth advanced, striving to quell the antipathy she felt to kiss the stern featured, old woman, and touched her lips to the wrinkled forehead.

  Jane Merrick laughed, a bit sneeringly, while Beth drew back, still composed, and looked at her relative enquiringly.

  “Well, what do you think of me?” demanded Aunt Jane, as if embarrassed at the scrutiny she received.

  “Surely, it is too early to ask me that,” replied Beth, gently. “I am going to try to like you, and my first sight of my new aunt leads me to hope I shall succeed.”

  “Why shouldn’t you like me?” cried the old woman. “Why must you try to like your mother’s sister?”

  Beth flushed. She had promised herself not to become angry or discomposed, whatever her aunt might say or do; but before she could control herself an indignant expression flashed across her face and Jane Merrick saw it.

  “There are reasons,” said Beth, slowly, “why your name is seldom mentioned in my father’s family. Until your letter came I scarcely knew I possessed an aunt. It was your desire we should become better acquainted, and I am here for that purpose. I hope we shall become friends, Aunt Jane, but until then, it is better we should not discuss the past.”

  The woman frowned. It was not difficult for her to read the character of the child before her, and she knew intuitively that Beth was strongly prejudiced against her, but was honestly trying not to allow that prejudice to influence her. She decided to postpone further interrogations until another time.

  “Your journey has tired you,” she said abruptly. “I’ll have Misery show you to your room.”

  She touched a bell beside her.

  “I’m not tired, but I’ll go to my room, if you please,” answered Beth, who realized that she had in some way failed to make as favorable an impression as she had hoped. “When may I see you again?”

  “When I send for you,” snapped Aunt Jane, as the housekeeper entered.

  “I suppose you know I am a paralytic, and liable to die at any time?”

  “I am very sorry,” said Beth, hesitatingly. “You do not seem very ill.”

  “I’m on my last legs. I may not live an hour. But that’s none of your business, I suppose. By the way, I expect your cousin on the afternoon train.”

  Beth gave a start of surprise.

  “My cousin?” she asked.

  “Yes, Louise Merrick.”

  “Oh!” said Beth, and stopped short.

  “What do you mean by that?” enquired Aunt Jane, with
a smile that was rather malicious.

  “I did not know I had a cousin,” said the girl. “That is,” correcting herself, “I did not know whether Louise Merrick was alive or not. Mother has mentioned her name once or twice in my presence; but not lately.”

  “Well, she’s alive. Very much alive, I believe. And she’s coming to visit me, while you are here. I expect you to be friends.”

  “To be sure,” said Beth, nevertheless discomfited at the news.

  “We dine at seven,” said Aunt Jane. “I always lunch in my own room, and you may do the same,” and with a wave of her thin hand she dismissed the girl, who thoughtfully followed the old housekeeper through the halls.

  It was not going to be an easy task to win this old woman’s affection. Already she rebelled at the necessity of undertaking so distasteful a venture and wondered if she had not made a mistake in trying to curb her natural frankness, and to conciliate a creature whose very nature seemed antagonistic to her own. And this new cousin, Louise Merrick, why was she coming to Elmhurst? To compete for the prize Beth had already determined to win? In that case she must consider carefully her line of action, that no rival might deprive her of this great estate. Beth felt that she could fight savagely for an object she so much desired. Her very muscles hardened and grew tense at the thought of conflict as she walked down the corridor in the wake of old Misery the housekeeper. She had always resented the sordid life at Cloverton. She had been discontented with her lot since her earliest girlhood, and longed to escape the constant bickerings of her parents and their vain struggles to obtain enough money to “keep up appearances” and drive the wolf from the door. And here was an opportunity to win a fortune and a home beautiful enough for a royal princess. All that was necessary was to gain the esteem of a crabbed, garrulous old woman, who had doubtless but a few more weeks to live. It must be done, in one way or another; but how? How could she out-wit this unknown cousin, and inspire the love of Aunt Jane?

  “If there’s any stuff of the right sort in my nature,” decided the girl, as she entered her pretty bedchamber and threw herself into a chair, “I’ll find a way to win out. One thing is certain — I’ll never again have another chance at so fine a fortune, and if I fail to get it I shall deserve to live in poverty forever afterward.”