L. Frank Baum_Aunt Jane 01 (7 page)

"Why, it seems Miss Jane's invited 'em to make her a visit."

"But not yet, Don! Not so soon."

"Na'theless, they're here."

"How many, Don?"

"Two, lad. A bonny young thing came on the morning train, an' a nice,
wide-awake one by the two o'clock."

"Girls?" with an accent of horror.

"Young females, anyhow," said Donald, polishing a buckle briskly.

The boy glared at him fixedly.

"Will they be running about the place, Don?"

"Most likely, 'Twould be a shame to shut them up with the poor missus
this glad weather. But why not? They'll be company for ye, Kenneth
lad."

"How long will they stay?"

"Mabbe for aye. Oscar forbys one or the ither o' 'em will own the
place when Miss Jane gi'es up the ghost."

The boy sat silent a moment, thinking upon this speech. Then, with a
cry that was almost a scream, he dashed the box upon the floor and
flew out the door as if crazed, and Donald paused to listen to his
footsteps clattering down the stairs.

Then the old man groaned dismally, shaking his side-whiskers with a
negative expression that might have conveyed worlds of meaning to one
able to interpret it. But his eye fell upon the pine box, which had
rolled to his feet, and he stooped to pick it up. Upon the smoothly
planed side was his own picture, most deftly drawn, showing him
engaged in polishing the harness. Every strap and buckle was depicted
with rare fidelity; there was no doubt at all of the sponge and bottle
on the stool beside him, or the cloth in his hand. Even his bow
spectacles rested upon the bridge of his nose at exactly the right
angle, and his under lip protruded just as it had done since he was a
lad.

Donald was not only deeply impressed by such an exhibition of art; he
was highly gratified at being pictured, and full of wonder that the
boy could do such a thing; "wi' a wee pencil an' a bit o' board!" He
turned the box this way and that to admire the sketch, and finally
arose and brought a hatchet, with which he carefully pried the board
away from the box. Then he carried his treasure to a cupboard, where
he hid it safely behind a row of tall bottles.

Meantime Kenneth had reached the stable, thrown a bridle over the head
of a fine sorrel mare, and scorning to use a saddle leaped upon her
back and dashed down the lane and out at the rear gate upon the old
turnpike road.

His head was whirling with amazement, his heart full of indignation.
Girls! Girls at Elmhurst—nieces and guests of the fierce old woman
he so bitterly hated! Then, indeed, his days of peace and quiet were
ended. These dreadful creatures would prowl around everywhere; they
might even penetrate the shrubbery to the foot of the stairs leading
to his own retired room; they would destroy his happiness and drive
him mad.

For this moody, silent youth had been strangely happy in his life
at Elmhurst, despite the neglect of the grim old woman who was its
mistress and the fact that no one aside from Lawyer Watson seemed to
care whether he lived or died.

Perhaps Donald did. Good old Don was friendly and seldom bothered him
by talking. Perhaps old Misery liked him a bit, also. But these were
only servants, and almost as helpless and dependent as himself.

Still, he had been happy. He began to realize it, now that these awful
girls had come to disturb his peace. The thought filled him with grief
and rebellion and resentment; yet there was nothing he could do to
alter the fact that Donald's "young females" were already here, and
prepared, doubtless, to stay.

The sorrel was dashing down the road at a great pace, but the boy
clung firmly to his seat and gloried in the breeze that fanned his hot
cheeks. Away and away he raced until he reached the crossroads, miles
away, and down this he turned and galloped as recklessly as before.
The sun was hot, today, and the sorrel's flanks begun to steam and
show flecks of white upon their glossy surface. He turned again to the
left, entering upon a broad highway that would lead him straight home
at last; but he had almost reached the little village of Elmwood,
which was the railway station, before he realized his cruelty to the
splendid mare he bestrode. Then indeed, he fell to a walk, patting
Nora's neck affectionately and begging her to forgive him for his
thoughtlessness. The mare tossed her head in derision. However she
might sweat and pant, she liked the glorious pace even better than her
rider.

Through the village he paced moodily, the bridle dangling loosely on
the mare's neck. The people paused to look at him curiously, but he
had neither word nor look for any.

He did not know one of them by name, and cared little how much they
might speculate upon his peculiar position at "the big house."

Then, riding slowly up the hedge bordered road, his troubles once more
assailed him, and he wondered if there was not some spot upon the
broad earth to which he could fly for retirement until the girls had
left Elmhurst for good.

Nora shied, and he looked up to discover that he had nearly run down a
pedestrian—a stout little man with a bundle under his arm, who held
up one hand as if to arrest him.

Involuntarily he drew rein, and stopped beside the traveler with a
look of inquiry.

"Sorry to trouble you, sir," remarked the little man, in a cheery
voice, "but I ain't just certain about my way."

"Where do you want to go?" asked the boy.

"To Jane Merrick's place. They call it Elmhurst, I guess."

"It's straight ahead," said Kenneth, as the mare walked on. His
questioner also started and paced beside him.

"Far from here?"

"A mile, perhaps."

"They said it was three from the village, but I guess I've come a
dozen a'ready."

The boy did not reply to this. There was nothing offensive in the
man's manner. He spoke with an easy familiarity that made it difficult
not to respond with equal frank cordiality, and there was a shrewd
expression upon his wrinkled, smooth-shaven face that stamped him a
man who had seen life in many of its phases.

Kenneth, who resented the companionship of most people, seemed
attracted by the man, and hesitated to gallop on and leave him.

"Know Jane Merrick?" asked the stranger.

The boy nodded.

"Like her?"

"I hate her," he said, savagely.

The man laughed, a bit uneasily.

"Then it's the same Jane as ever," he responded, with a shake of his
grizzled head. "Do you know, I sort o' hoped she'd reformed, and I'd
be glad to see her again. They tell me she's got money."

The boy looked at him in surprise.

"She owns Elmhurst, and has mortgages on a dozen farms around here,
and property in New York, and thousands of dollars in the bank," he
said. "Aunt Jane's rich."

"Aunt Jane?" echoed the man, quickly. "What's your name, lad?"

"Kenneth Forbes."

A shake of the head.

"Don't recollect any Forbeses in the family."

"She isn't really my aunt," said the boy, "and she doesn't treat me
as an aunt, either; but she's my guardian, and I've always called her
Aunt, rather than say Miss Merrick."

"She's never married, has she?"

"No. She was engaged to my Uncle Tom, who owned Elmhurst. He was
killed in a railway accident, and then it was found he'd left her all
he had."

"I see."

"So, when my parents died, Aunt Jane took me for Uncle Tom's sake, and
keeps me out of charity."

"I see." Quite soberly, this time.

The boy slid off the mare and walked beside the little man, holding
the bridle over his arm. They did not speak again for some moments.

Finally the stranger asked:

"Are Jane's sisters living—Julia and Violet?"

"I don't know. But there are two of her nieces at Elmhurst."

"Ha! Who are they?"

"Girls," with bitterness. "I haven't seen them."

The stranger whistled.

"Don't like girls, I take it?"

"No; I hate them."

Another long pause. Then the boy suddenly turned questioner.

"You know Aunt—Miss Merrick, sir?"

"I used to, when we were both younger."

"Any relation, sir?"

"Just a brother, that's all."

Kenneth stopped short, and the mare stopped, and the little man, with
a whimsical smile at the boy's astonishment, also stopped.

"I didn't know she had a brother, sir—that is, living."

"She had two; but Will's dead, years ago, I'm told. I'm the other."

"John Merrick?"

"That's me. I went west a long time ago; before you were born, I
guess. We don't get much news on the coast, so I sort of lost track of
the folks back east, and I reckon they lost track of me, for the same
reason."

"You were the tinsmith?"

"The same. Bad pennies always return, they say. I've come back to look
up the family and find how many are left. Curious sort of a job, isn't
it."

"I don't know. Perhaps it's natural," replied the boy, reflectively.
"But I'm sorry you came to Aunt Jane first."

"Why?"

"She's in bad health—quite ill, you know—and her temper's dreadful.
Perhaps she—she—"

"I know. But I haven't seen her in years; and, after all, she's my
sister. And back at the old home, where I went first, no one knew
anything about what had become of the family except Jane. They kept
track of her because she suddenly became rich, and a great lady, and
that was a surprising thing to happen to a Merrick. We've always been
a poor lot, you know."

The boy glanced at the bundle, pityingly, and the little man caught
the look and smiled his sweet, cheery smile.

"My valise was too heavy to carry," he said; "so I wrapped up a few
things in case Jane wanted me to stay over night. And that's why I
didn't get a horse at the livery, you know. Somebody'd have to take it
back again."

"I'm sure she'll ask you to stay, sir. And if she doesn't, you come
out to the stable and let me know, and I'll drive you to town again.
Donald—that's the coachman—is my friend, and he'll let me have the
horse if I ask him."

"Thank you, lad," returned the man, gratefully. "I thought a little
exercise would do me good, but this three miles has seemed like thirty
to me!"

"We're here at last," said the boy, turning: into the drive-way.
"Seeing that you're her brother, sir, I advise you to go right up to
the front door and ring the bell."

"I will," said the man.

"I always go around the back way, myself."

"I see."

The boy turned away, but in a moment halted again. His interest in
Miss Jane's brother John was extraordinary.

"Another thing," he said, hesitating.

"Well?"

"You'd better not say you met me, you know. It wouldn't be a good
introduction. She hates me as much as I hate her."

"Very good, my lad. I'll keep mum."

The boy nodded, and turned away to lead Nora to the stable. The man
looked after him a moment, and shook his head, sadly.

"Poor boy!" he whispered.

Then he walked up to the front door and rang the bell.

"This seems to be a lazy place," said Louise, as she stood in the
doorway of Beth's room to bid her good night. "I shall sleep until
late in the morning, for I don't believe Aunt Jane will be on
exhibition before noon."

"At home I always get up at six o'clock," answered Beth.

"Six o'clock! Good gracious! What for?"

"To study my lessons and help get the breakfast."

"Don't you keep a maid?"

"No," said Beth, rather surlily; "we have hard work to keep
ourselves."

"But you must be nearly through with school by this time. I finished
my education ages ago."

"Did you graduate?" asked Beth.

"No; it wasn't worth while," declared Louise, complacently. "I'm sure
I know as much as most girls do, and there are more useful lessons to
be learned from real life than from books."

"Good night," said Beth.

"Good night," answered the older girl, and shut the door behind her.

Beth sat for a time moodily thinking. She did not like the way in
which her cousin assumed superiority over her. The difference in
their ages did not account for the greater worldly wisdom Louise
had acquired, and in much that she said and did Beth recognized a
shrewdness and experience that made her feel humbled and, in a way,
inferior to her cousin. Nor did she trust the friendship Louise
expressed for her.

Somehow, nothing that the girl said seemed to ring true, and Beth
already, in her mind, accused her of treachery and insincerity.

As a matter of fact, however, she failed to understand her cousin.
Louise really loved to be nice to people, and to say nice thing's. It
is true she schemed and intrigued to advance her personal welfare and
position in life; but even her schemes were undertaken lightly and
carelessly, and if they failed the girl would be the first to laugh at
her disappointment and try to mend her fortunes. If others stood in
her way she might not consider them at all; if she pledged her word,
it might not always be profitable to keep it; but she liked to be on
pleasant terms with everyone, and would be amiable to the last, no
matter what happened. Comedy was her forte, rather than tragedy. If
tragedy entered her life she would probably turn it into ridicule.
Wholly without care, whimsical and generous to a degree, if it suited
her mood, Louise Merrick possessed a nature capable of great things,
either for good or ill.

It was no wonder her unsophisticated country cousin failed to
comprehend her, although Beth's intuition was not greatly at fault.

Six o'clock found Beth wide awake, as usual; so she quietly dressed
and, taking her book under her arm, started to make her way into the
gardens. Despite Louise's cynicism she had no intention of abandoning
her studies. She had decided to fit herself for a teacher before Aunt
Jane's invitation had come to her, and this ambition would render it
necessary for her to study hard during vacations.