“Is she fond of him?” enquired Louise.
“Fond of the boy? Why, Miss Jane just hates him, for a fact. She won’t even see him, or have him near her. So he keeps to his little room in the left wing, and eats and sleeps there.”
“It’s strange,” remarked Beth, thoughtfully. “Isn’t he a nice boy?”
“We’re all very fond of Master Kenneth,” replied the housekeeper, simply. “But I’ll admit he’s a queer lad, and has a bad temper. It may be due to his lack of bringin’ up, you know; for he just runs wild, and old Mr. Chase, who comes from the village to tutor him, is a poor lot, and lets the boy do as he pleases. For that reason he won’t study, and he won’t work, and I’m sure I don’t know whatever will become of him, when Miss Jane dies.”
“Thank you,” said Beth, much relieved, and the girls walked away with lighter hearts.
“There’s no danger in that quarter, after all,” said Louise, gaily.
“The boy is a mere hanger-on. You see, Aunt Jane’s old sweetheart,
Thomas Bradley, left everything to her when he died, and she can do as
she likes with it.”
After luncheon, which they ate alone and unattended save by the maid Susan, who was old Misery’s daughter, the girls walked away to the rose arbor, where Beth declared they could read or sew quite undisturbed.
But sitting upon the bench they found a little old man, his legs extended, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, and a look of calm meditation upon his round and placid face. Between his teeth was a black brier pipe, which he puffed lazily.
Beth was for drawing back, but Louise took her arm and drew her forward.
“Isn’t this Uncle John?” she asked.
The little man turned his eyes upon them, withdrew his hands from his pockets and his pipe from his mouth, and then bowed profoundly.
“If you are my nieces, then I am Uncle John,” he said, affably. “Sit down, my dears, and let us get acquainted.”
Louise smiled, and her rapid survey took in the man’s crumpled and somewhat soiled shirt-front, the frayed black necktie that seemed to have done years of faithful service, and the thick and dusty cow-hide boots. His clothing was old and much worn, and the thought crossed her mind that Oscar the groom was far neater in appearance than this newly-found relative.
Beth merely noticed that Uncle John was neither dignified nor imposing in appearance. She sat down beside him — leaving a wide space between them — with a feeling of disappointment that he was “like all the rest of the Merricks.”
“You have just arrived, we hear,” remarked Louise.
“Yes. Walked up from the station this forenoon,” said Uncle John.
“Come to see Jane, you know, but hadn’t any idea I’d find two nieces.
Hadn’t any idea I possessed two nieces, to be honest about it.”
“I believe you have three,” said Louise, in an, amused tone.
“Three? Who’s the other?”
“Why, Patricia Doyle.”
“Doyle? Doyle? Don’t remember the name.”
“I believe your sister Violet married a man named Doyle.”
“So she did. Captain Doyle — or Major Doyle — or some such fellow. But what is your name?”
“I am Louise Merrick, your brother Will’s daughter.”
“Oh! And you?” turning to Beth.
“My mother was Julia Merrick,” said Beth, not very graciously. “She married Professor DeGraf. I am Elizabeth DeGraf.”
“Yes, yes,” observed Uncle John, nodding his head. “I remember Julia very well, as a girl. She used to put on a lot of airs, and jaw father because he wouldn’t have the old top-buggy painted every spring. Same now as ever, I s’pose?”
Beth did not reply.
“And Will’s dead, and out of his troubles, I hope,” continued Uncle John, reflectively. “He wrote me once that his wife had nearly driven him crazy. Perhaps she murdered him in his sleep — eh, Louise?”
“Sir,” said Louise, much offended, “you are speaking of my mother.”
“Ah, yes. It’s the same one your father spoke of,” he answered, unmoved. “But that’s neither here nor there. The fact is, I’ve found two nieces,” looking shrewdly from one face into the other, “and I seem to be in luck, for you’re quite pretty and ladylike, my dears.”
“Thank you,” said Louise, rather coldly. “You’re a competent judge, sir, I suppose.”
“Tolerable,” he responded, with a chuckle. “So good a judge that I’ve kep’ single all my life.”
“Where did you come from?” asked the girl.
“From out on the coast,” tossing his grizzled head toward the west.
“What brought you back here, after all these years?”
“Family affection, I guess. Wanted to find out what folks yet belonged to me.”
An awkward silence followed this, during which Uncle John relighted his pipe and Beth sat in moody silence. Louise drew a pattern in the gravel with the end of her parasol. This new uncle, she reflected, might become an intolerable bore, if she encouraged his frank familiarity.
“Now that you are here,” she said, presently, “what are you going to do?”
“Nothing, my dear.”
“Have you any money?”
He looked at her with a droll expression.
“Might have expected that question, my dear,” said he; “but it’s rather hard to answer. If I say no, you’ll be afraid I’ll want to borrow a little spendin’ money, now an’ then; and if I say yes, you’ll take me for a Rockyfeller.”
“Not exactly,” smiled Louise.
“Well, then, if I figure close I won’t have to borrow,” he responded, gravely. “And here’s Jane, my sister, just rolling in wealth that she don’t know what to do with. And she’s invited me to stay a while. So let’s call the money question settled, my dear.”
Another silence ensued. Louise had satisfied her curiosity concerning her new uncle, and Beth had never had any. There was nothing more to say, and as Uncle John showed no intention of abandoning the arbored seat, it was evident they must go themselves. Louise was about to rise when the man remarked:
“Jane won’t last long”.
“You think not?” she asked.
“She says she’s half dead a’ready, and I believe it. It’s about time, you know. She’s let her temper and restless disposition wear her out. Pretty soon she’ll blow out, like a candle. All that worries her is to keep alive until she can decide who to leave her money to. That’s why you’re here, I s’pose, my dears. How do you like being on exhibition, an’ goin’ through your paces, like a bunch o’ trotting hosses, to see which is worth the most?”
“Uncle John,” said Beth, “I had hoped I would like you. But if you are going to be so very disagreeable, I’ll have nothing more to do with you!”
With this she arose and marched up the path, vastly indignant, and Louise marched beside her. At the bend in the walk they glanced back, and saw Uncle John sitting upon the bench all doubled up and shaking with silent laughter.
“He’s a queer old man,” said Beth, flushing; “but he’s impudent and half a fool.”
“Don’t judge hastily, Beth,” replied Louise, reflectively. “I can’t make up my mind, just yet, whether Uncle John is a fool or not.”
“Anyhow,” snapped Beth, “he’s laughing at us.”
“And that,” said her cousin, softly, “is the strongest evidence of his sanity. Beth, my love, Aunt Jane has placed us in a most ridiculous position.”
That evening at dinner they met Uncle John again, seated opposite Aunt Jane in the great dining hall. The mistress of Elmhurst always dressed for this meal and tonight she wore a rich black silk and had her invalid chair wheeled to her place at the head of the table. Uncle John had simply changed his old black necktie for a soiled white one. Otherwise his apparel was the same as before, and his stubby gray hair was in a sad state of disarray. But his round face wore a cheerful smile, nevertheless, and
Aunt Jane seemed not to observe anything outre in her brother’s appearance. And so the meal passed pleasantly enough.
After it was finished Uncle John strolled into the garden to smoke his pipe under the stars and Louise sang a few songs for Aunt Jane in the dimly-lit drawing room. Beth, who was a music teacher’s daughter, could not sing at all.
It was some time later when John Merrick came to his sister’s room to bid her good night.
“Well,” she asked him, “what do you think of the girls?”
“My nieces?”
“Yes.”
“During my lifetime,” said the old man, “I’ve always noticed that girls are just girls — and nothing more. Jane, your sex is a puzzle that ain’t worth the trouble solving. You’re all alike, and what little I’ve seen of my nieces convinces me they’re regulation females — no better nor worse than their kind.”
“Louise seems a capable girl,” declared Aunt Jane, musingly. “I didn’t care much for her, at first; but she improves on acquaintance. She has been well trained by her mother, and is very ladylike and agreeable.”
“She’s smarter than the other one, but not so honest,” said Uncle
John.
“Beth has no tact at all,” replied Aunt Jane. “But then, she’s younger than Louise.”
“If you’re trying to figure out what they are, and what they are not,” returned the man, “you’ve got a hard job on your hands, Jane, and like as not you’ll make a mistake in the end. Where’s the other niece? Aren’t there three of them?”
“Yes. The other’s coming. Silas Watson, my lawyer, has just telegraphed from New York that he’s bringing Patricia back with him.”
“Had to send for her, eh?”
“Yes. She’s Irish, and if I remember rightly her father is a disgraceful old reprobate, who caused poor Violet no end of worry. The girl may be like him, for she wrote me a dreadful letter, scolding me because I hadn’t kept her parents supplied with money, and refusing to become my guest.”
“But she’s changed her mind?”
“I sent Watson after her, and he’s bringing her. I wanted to see what the girl is like.”
Uncle John whistled a few bars of an ancient tune.
“My advice is,” he said, finally, “to let ‘em draw cuts for Elmhurst. If you want to leave your money to the best o’ the lot, you’re as sure of striking it right that way as any other.”
“Nonsense!” said Jane Merrick, sharply. “I don’t want to leave my money to the best of the lot.”
“No?”
“By no means. I want to leave it to the one I prefer — whether she’s the best or not.”
“I see. Jane, I’ll repeat my former observation. Your sex is a puzzle that isn’t worth solving. Good night, old girl.”
“Good night, John.”
CHAPTER XIII.
THE OTHER NIECE.
Patricia sat down opposite her Aunt Jane. She still wore her hat and the gray wrap.
“Well, here I am,” she exclaimed, with a laugh; “but whether I ought to be here or not I have my doubts.”
Aunt Jane surveyed her critically.
“You’re a queer little thing,” she said, bluntly. “I wonder why I took so much trouble to get you.”
“So do I,” returned Patsy, her eyes twinkling. “You’ll probably be sorry for it.”
Lawyer Watson, who had remained standing, now broke in nervously.
“I explained to Miss Doyle,” said he, “that you were ill, and wanted to see her. And she kindly consented to come to Elmhurst for a few days.”
“You see,” said Patsy, “I’d just got Daddy away on his vacation, to visit his old colonel. I’ve wanted him to go this three years back, but he couldn’t afford it until I got a raise this Spring. He’ll have a glorious old time with the colonel, and they’ll fish and hunt and drink whiskey all day, and fight the war all over again every evening. So I was quite by myself when Mr. Watson came to me and wouldn’t take no for his answer.”
“Why did you object to come here?” asked Aunt Jane.
“Well, I didn’t know you; and I didn’t especially want to know you. Not that I bear grudges, understand, although you’ve been little of a friend to my folks these past years. But you are rich and proud — and I suspect you’re a little cross, Aunt Jane — while we are poor and proud and like to live our lives in our own way.”
“Are you a working girl?” enquired Miss Merrick.
“Surely,” said Patsy, “and drawing a big lump of salary every Saturday night. I’m a hair-dresser, you know — and by the way, Aunt Jane, it puzzles me to find a certain kink in your hair that I thought I’d invented myself.”
“Louise dressed my hair this way,” said Miss Merrick, a bit stiffly.
“Your maid?”
“My niece, Louise Merrick.”
Patsy whistled, and then clapped her hand over her mouth and looked grave.
“Is she here?” she asked, a moment later.
“Yes, and your other cousin, Elizabeth De Graf, is here also.”
“That’s just the trouble,” cried Patsy, energetically. “That’s why I didn’t want to come, you know.”
“I don’t understand you, Patricia.”
“Why, it’s as plain as the nose on your face, even if I hadn’t pumped Mr. Watson until I got the truth out of him. You want us girls here just to compare us with each other, and pick out the one you like best.”
“Well?”
“The others you’ll throw over, and the favorite will get your money.”
“Haven’t I a right to do that?” asked the invalid, in an amazed tone.
“Perhaps you have. But we may as well understand each other right now, Aunt Jane. I won’t touch a penny of your money, under any circumstances.”
“I don’t think you will, Patricia.”
The girl laughed, with a joyous, infectious merriment that was hard to resist.
“Stick to that, aunt, and there’s no reason we shouldn’t be friends,” she said, pleasantly. “I don’t mind coming to see you, for it will give me a bit of a rest and the country is beautiful just now. More than that, I believe I shall like you. You’ve had your own way a long time, and you’ve grown crochetty and harsh and disagreeable; but there are good lines around your mouth and eyes, and your nature’s liable to soften and get sunny again. I’m sure I hope so. So, if you’d like me to stay a few days, I’ll take off my things and make myself at home. But I’m out of the race for your money, and I’ll pay my way from now on just as I have always done.”
Silas Watson watched Aunt Jane’s face during this speech with an anxious and half-frightened expression upon his own. No one but himself had ever dared to talk to Jane Merrick as plainly as this before, and he wondered how she would accept such frankness from a young girl.
But Patricia’s manner was not at all offensive. Her big eyes were as frank as her words, but they glistened with kindliness and good nature, and it was evident the girl had no doubt at all of her aunt’s reply, for she straightway begun to take off her hat.
The invalid had kept her eyes sternly fastened upon her young niece ever since the beginning of the interview. Now she reached out a hand and touched her bell.
“Misery,” she said to the old housekeeper, “show my niece, Miss
Patricia, to the rose chamber. And see that she is made comfortable.”
“Thank you,” said Patsy, jumping up to go.
“Make yourself perfectly free of the place,” continued Aunt Jane, in an even tone, turning to Patricia, “and have as good a time as you can. I’m afraid it’s rather stupid here for girls, but that can’t be helped. Stay as long as you please, and go home whenever you like; but while you are here, if you ever feel like chatting with a harsh and disagreeable old woman, come to me at any time and you will be welcome.”
Patsy, standing before her, looked down into her worn face with a pitying expression.
“Ah! I’ve been cruel to you,” she exclaimed, imp
ulsively, “and I didn’t mean to hurt you at all, Aunt Jane. You must forgive me. It’s just my blunt Irish way, you see; but if I hadn’t been drawn to you from the first I wouldn’t have said a word — good or bad!”
“Go now,” replied Aunt Jane, turning in her chair rather wearily. “But come to me again whenever you like.”
Patsy nodded, and followed the housekeeper to the rose chamber — the prettiest room old Elmhurst possessed, with broad windows opening directly upon the finest part of the garden.
Lawyer Watson sat opposite his old friend for some moments in thoughtful silence. “The child is impossible.” he said, at last.
“You think so?” she enquired, moodily.
“Absolutely. Either of the others would make a better Lady of Elmhurst. Yet I like the little thing, I confess. She quite won my old heart after I had known her for five minutes. But money would ruin her. She’s a child of the people, and ought not to be raised from her proper level. Jane, Jane — you’re making a grave mistake in all this. Why don’t you do the only right thing in your power, and leave Elmhurst to Kenneth?”
“You bore me, Silas,” she answered, coldly. “The boy is the most impossible of all.”
It was the old protest and the old reply. He had hardly expected anything different.
After a period of thought he asked;
“What is this I hear about John Merrick having returned from the
West?”
“He came yesterday. It was a great surprise to me.”
“I never knew this brother, I believe.”
“No; he had gone away before I became acquainted with either you or
Tom.”
“What sort of a man is he?”
“Honest and simple, hard-headed and experienced.”
“Is he independent?”
“I believe so; he has never mentioned his affairs to me. But he has worked hard all his life, he says, and now means to end his days peacefully. John is not especially refined in his manner, nor did he have much of an education; but he seems to be a good deal of a man, for all that. I am very glad he appeared at Elmhurst just at this time.”
“You had believed him dead?”
“Yes. He had passed out of my life completely, and I never knew what became of him.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 389