“What’s happened to the town?” demanded Fluss abruptly. “Couldn’t find even the oldest inhabitant hanging around the station. Everybody gone to a funeral?”
“There’s a big oil fire,” returned Bob. “Four or five wells have been burning a couple of days now, though they say they have it under control.”
The word “oil” roused Blosser again.
“There ain’t no oil on this place,” he announced heavily. “I’ve seen a lot of money sunk in dry wells, and what I don’t know about the oil country ain’t worth mentioning. Isn’t that so, George? Traveling round to list farms as I do, I just naturally make a study of the sections. If ever I saw a poor risk, it’s this place; there ain’t an inch of oil sand on it.”
Betty’s hand on his arm telegraphed Bob not to argue.
“You may be right,” the boy replied indifferently. “We won’t quarrel over that.”
There was nothing more to be said, and the two men turned away, Blosser putting the cards down on the step with the curt wish that “You’d hand those to your aunts and tell ’em we’ll drop in again in a couple of days.”
“Oh, I’m so glad they’ve gone!” Betty watched the retreating backs till they disappeared around a bend in the road. “Did you see how the older man stared at you, Bob? Do you suppose he remembers seeing you on the train?”
“Certainly not!” Bob openly scoffed at the suggestion. “They were stumped because they couldn’t see my aunts, that’s all. I only hope they forget to come around here until I’ve had a chance to warn my relatives—get that, Betty? My relatives sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?—against their crooked ways. If they don’t believe there is oil on this farm, I’ll eat my hat. No client with a delicate daughter could explain their eagerness. I’ll bet they’ve thoroughly prospected the fields before they even approached the house.”
Betty could not share Bob’s light-heartedness. The look in the older man’s eyes as he studied Bob would persist in sticking in her mind, and she was unable to rid herself of the feeling that he would do the boy actual harm if a chance presented. What he hoped to gain by injuring Bob, Betty could not thoroughly understand, but added to her anxiety for her uncle and the responsibility she felt for the sick women, was now added a fear for Bob’s safety. She tried to tell him something of this, but he laughed at her.
“If you have a vision of me kidnapped by the cruel sharpers,” he teased her, “forget it. What were my voice and my two trusty arms and legs given me for? I can take care of myself and you, too, Betsey.”
Nevertheless, Betty’s tranquillity was sorely shaken, and though she gradually became calmer as the day wore on, she insisted on going out with Bob to do the chores at the barn that night, and extracted a promise from him that he would call her when he got up in the morning so that she might make the morning rounds with him. Luckily Miss Hope passed a quiet night, for if she had called for her lost sister again it is difficult to say what the effect might have been on Betty’s already tried nerves.
One of her anxieties was removed to some extent the next morning when Doctor Morrison came out in his car and brought her word that her uncle had telephoned the Watterbys and sent Betty a message.
“The connection was very faulty,” said the doctor, “and Will Watterby says he doesn’t believe he made your uncle understand where you and Bob were. But he made out that Mr. Gordon was safe and the fire slackening up a bit. He doesn’t expect to be able to get away under a week. Of course work is demoralized, and he’ll have his hands full.”
Both Betty and Bob were overjoyed to learn that Uncle Dick was all right, and when the doctor pronounced both patients on the road to certain recovery, they were additionally cheered. They said nothing to the physician of their visitors of the day before, because Bob was unwilling to announce that he was a nephew of the Saunders. He wished them to hear it first.
“I think Miss Hope might sit up for a few minutes this afternoon,” counseled the doctor on leaving. “Miss Charity might try that to-morrow. Of course, I’ll be out again in the morning. You two youngsters are in my mind continually.”
He drove away, and for the rest of the day Bob was left pretty much to his own devices, Betty, however, stipulating that he was to stay close to the house. She could not shake off her fear of the two men, and Bob was far too considerate to worry her deliberately when she had so much to attend to.
Miss Hope was delighted to sit up for half an hour, and now that her patients were stronger, Betty was put to it to keep them amused and contented in bed. The doctor’s orders were strict that they were not to get up for at least two more days.
Betty read aloud to them, seated in the doorway between the two rooms so that both could hear; she gave them reports of the condition of things outside; and Miss Hope said primly that she would like to meet and thank the boy who had been so kind as soon as she could be “suitably attired.” Betty was thankful that she did not ask his name, but the sisters were not at all curious. They had been so ill and were still weak, and the fact that their household and farm was apparently running smoothly was enough for them to grasp. The details did not claim their attention.
“Charity was sick first,” said Miss Hope, over her beef tea and toast. “What delicious tea this is, my dear! Yes, she was down for two days, and I took care of her and did the milking. Then I felt a cold coming on, but I crawled around for another day, doing the best I could. The night before the day you came I went out to milk and I must have fainted. When I came to I was within an inch of old Blossom’s hoofs. That scared me, and I came right into the house without finishing a chore. I think I was delirious all night, and I remember thinking that if we were both going to die, at least I’d have things as orderly as possible. So I went around and pulled down all the first floor shades. Upstairs we always keep ’em drawn. And then I don’t remember another thing till I came to and found you in the room.”
“And she didn’t come a minute too soon,” croaked Miss Charity.
CHAPTER XIX
LOOKING BACKWARD
Doctor Morrison declared that it was due to Betty’s skill in nursing more than to his drugs, but it is certain that, once started, the aunts gained steadily. In two or three days from the time they first sat up he pronounced it safe for them to be dressed, and while they were still a bit shaky, they took great delight in walking about the house.
Bob was introduced to them off-handedly one morning by the doctor, and though both old ladies started at his name, they said nothing. After the physician’s car had gone, Miss Hope came out on to the back porch where Betty was peeling potatoes and Bob mending a loose floor-board.
“My sister and I—” stammered Miss Hope, “we were wondering if you were a neighbor’s boy. We’ve seen so little of our neighbors these last few years, that we haven’t kept track of the new families who have moved into the neighborhood. I don’t recollect any Hendersons about here, do you, Sister?”
Miss Charity, who had followed her, shook her head.
Bob looked at Betty, and Betty looked helplessly at Bob. Now that the time had come they were afraid of the effect the news might have on the sisters. Bob, as he said afterward, “didn’t know how to begin,” and Betty wished fervently that her uncle could be there to help them out.
“A long time ago,” said Miss Hope dreamily, “we knew a man named Henderson, David Henderson. He married our younger sister.”
Caution deserted Bob, and, without intending to, he made his announcement.
“David Henderson was my father,” he stated.
Miss Hope turned so white that Betty thought she would faint, and Miss Charity’s mouth opened in speechless amazement.
“Then you are Faith’s son,” said Miss Hope slowly, clinging to the door for support. “Ever since Doctor Morrison introduced you, I wanted to stare at you, you looked so like the Saunders. Faith didn’t—she was more like the Dixons, our mother’s people. But you are Saunders through and through; isn’t he, Charity?”
“
He looks so much like you,” quavered Miss Charity, “that I’d know in a minute he was related to us. But Faith—your mother—is she, did she—?”
“She died the night I was born,” said Bob simply. “Almost fifteen years ago.”
The sisters must have expected this; indeed, hope that their sister lived had probably deserted them years ago; and yet the confirmation was naturally something of a shock. They clung to each other for a moment, and then Miss Hope, rather to Bob’s embarrassment, walked over to him and solemnly kissed him.
“My dear, dear nephew!” she murmured.
Then Miss Charity, more timidly, kissed him too, and presently they were all sitting down quietly on the porch, checking up the long years.
When Bob’s tin box was finally opened, and the marriage certificate of his parents, the picture of his mother in her wedding gown, and a yellowed letter or two examined and cried over softly by the aunts, Miss Hope began to piece together the story of their lives since Bob’s mother had left them. Bob and Betty had found Faith’s photograph in the family album, but Miss Hope brought out the old Bible and showed them where her mother had made the entry of the marriage of his mother and father.
“They went away for a week for their wedding trip, and then came back to get a few things for housekeeping,” said the old lady, patting Betty’s hand where it lay in her lap. Bob was still looking over the Bible. “Then they said they were going to Chicago, and they drove away one bright morning, eighteen years ago. And not one word did we ever hear from Faith, or from David, not one word. It killed father and mother, the anxiety and the suspense. They died within a week of each other and less than a year after Faith went. Charity and I always wanted to go to Chicago and hunt for ’em, but there was the expense. We had only this farm, and the interest took every cent we could rake together. How on earth we’ll pay it this year is more than I can see.”
“What do you think was the reason they didn’t write?” urged Miss Charity, in her gentle old voice. “There were almost three years ’fore you came along. Why couldn’t they write? I know David was good to Faith—he worshiped her. So that couldn’t have been the reason. Bob, is your father dead, too?”
“I’ll tell you, though perhaps I shouldn’t,” said Bob slowly. “If I give you pain, remember it is better to hear it from me than from a stranger, as you otherwise might. Aunt Hope—and Aunt Charity—I was born in the Gladden county poorhouse, in the East.”
There was a gasp from Miss Hope, but Bob hurried on, pretending not to hear.
“My father, they think, was killed in a railroad wreck,” he said. “At least there was a bad wreck several miles from where they found my mother nearly crazed and with no baggage beyond this little tin box and the clothes she wore. Grief and exposure had driven her almost out of her mind, and in her ravings, they tell me, she talked continuously about ‘the brakes’ and ‘that glaring headlight.’ And then, toward the end, she spoke of her husband and said she couldn’t wake him up to speak to her. There is small doubt in my mind but that he died in the wreck. Mother died the night I was born, and until I was ten I lived in the poorhouse. Then I was hired out to a farmer, and the third year on his place I met Betty, who came to spend the summer there. An old bookman, investigating a pile of old books and records at the poorhouse, found that Saunders was my mother’s maiden name and he traced my relatives for me.”
Bob briefly sketched his trip to Washington and his experiences there, and during the recital the aunts learned a great deal about Betty, too. Their first shock at hearing that their sister had died in the poorhouse gradually lessened, but they were still puzzled to account for the three years’ silence that had preceded his birth.
“I’ll tell you how I think it was,” said Bob. “This is only conjecture, mind. I think my father wasn’t successful in a business way, and he must have wanted to give my mother comforts and luxuries and a pleasant home. He probably kept thinking that in a few weeks things would be better, and insensibly he persuaded her to put off writing till she could ask you to come to see her. If she had lived after I was born, I am sure she would have written, whether my father prospered or not. But I imagine they were both proud.”
“Faith was,” assented Miss Hope. “Though dear knows, she needn’t have hesitated to have written home for a little help. Father would have been glad to send her money, for he admired David and liked him. He was a fine looking young man, Bob, tall and slender and with such magnificent dark eyes. And Faith was a beautiful girl.”
All the rest of that day the aunts kept recalling stories of Bob’s mother, and in the attic, just as Betty had known there would be, they opened a trunk that was full of little keepsakes she had treasured as a girl.
Bob handled the things in the little square trunk very tenderly and reverently and tried to picture the young girl who had packed them away so carefully the week before her wedding.
“They’re yours, Bob,” said Miss Hope. “Faith was going to send for that trunk as soon as she was settled. Of course she never did. The farm will be yours, too, some day; in fact, a third of it’s yours now, or will be when you come of age. Father left it that way in his will—to us three daughters share and share alike, and you’ll have Faith’s share. Poor Father! He was sure that we’d hear from Faith, and he thought he’d left us all quite well off. But we had to put a mortgage on the farm about ten years ago, and every year it’s harder and harder to get along. Charity and I are too old—that’s the truth. And some stock Father left us we traded off for some paying eight per cent., and that company failed.”
“You see,” explained Miss Charity in her gentle way, “we don’t know anything about business. That man wasn’t honest who sold us the stock, but Hope and I thought he couldn’t cheat us—he was a friend of Father’s.”
“Well, don’t let any one swindle you again,” said Bob, a trifle excitedly. “You don’t have to worry about interest and taxes, any more, Aunts. You have a fortune right here in your own dooryard; or if not exactly out by the pump, then very near it!”
The sisters looked bewildered.
“Yes, yes,” insisted Betty, as they gazed at her to see if Bob were in earnest. “The farm is worth thousands of dollars.”
“Oil!” exploded Bob. “You can lease or sell outright, and there isn’t the slightest doubt that there’s oil sand on the place. Betty’s uncle will know. Uncle Dick is an expert oil man.”
Miss Hope shook her head.
“My dear nephew,” she urged protestingly, “surely you must be mistaken. Sister and I have seen no evidences of oil. No one has ever mentioned the subject or the possibilities to us. There are no oil wells very near here. Don’t you speak unadvisedly?”
“I should say not!” Bob was positive if not as precise as his aunt. “There’s oil here, or all the wells in the fields are dry. The farm is a gold mine.”
Betty rose hurriedly and pointed toward the window in alarm. They had been sitting in the parlor, and she faced the bar of late afternoon sunlight that lay on the floor.
“I saw the shadow of some one,” she whispered in alarm. “It crossed that patch of sunlight. Bob, I am afraid!”
CHAPTER XX
BETTY IS STOPPED
“Doctor Morrison, maybe,” said Bob carelessly. “Gee, Betty, you certainly are nervous! I’ll run around the house and see if there’s any one about.”
He dashed out, and though he hunted thoroughly, reported that he could find no one.
“It wasn’t the doctor, that’s sure,” he said. “And the grocer’s boy would have gone to the back of the house. Are you sure you saw anything, Betty?”
“I saw a man’s shadow,” averred Betty positively. “I was sitting facing the window, you know, and watching the million little motes dancing in the shaft of light, when a shadow, full length, fell on the floor. It was for only a second, as though some one had stepped across the porch. Then I told you. Bob, I know I shan’t sleep a wink tonight.”
“Nonsense,” said Bob stout
ly. “Who could it have been? Goodness knows, there’s nothing worth stealing in the house.”
“Those sharpers,” whispered Betty. “They might have come back and be hanging around hoping they can make your aunts sell the farm to them.”
“I’d like to see them try it,” bristled Bob. “Isn’t it funny, Betty, we can’t make the aunts believe there is oil here? I think Aunt Charity might, but Aunt Hope is so positive she rides right over her. Well, I hope that Uncle Dick comes back from the fields mighty quick and persuades them that they have a fortune ready for the spending.”
Despite Bob’s assurances that he could find no one, Betty was uneasy, and she passed a restless night. The next day and the next passed without incident, save for a visit from Doctor Morrison in the late afternoon. He did not come every day now, and this call, he announced, was more in the nature of a social call. He had been told of Bob’s relationship to the old ladies and was interested and pleased, for he had known them for as long as he had lived in that section. He carried the good news to Grandma Watterby, too, and that kind soul, as an expression of her pleasure, insisted on sending the aunts two of her best braided rugs.
“I have a note for you from your uncle, Betty,” said the doctor, after he had delivered the rugs.
People often intrusted him with messages and letters and packages, for his work took him everywhere. He had been to the oil fields and seen Mr. Gordon and had been able to give him a full account of Betty’s and Bob’s activities. In a postscript Mr. Gordon had added his congratulations and good wishes for “my nephew Bob.” The body of the letter, addressed to Betty, praised her for her service to the aunts and said that the writer hoped to get back to the Watterbys within three or four days.
“I’ll need a little rest by then,” he went on to say, “for I’ve been in the machine night and day for longer than I care to think about. We’re clearing away the debris of the fire, and drilling two new wells.”
The doctor was persuaded to stay to supper, which was a meal to be remembered, for Miss Hope was a famous cook and she spared neither eggs nor butter, a liberality which the close-fisted Joseph Peabody would have blamed for her poverty.
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