Old Misery smiled and stroked the girl's glossy head.
"Bless the child!" she said, delightedly; "of course I'll be a mother to you. You'll need a bit of comforting now and then, my dear, if you're going to live with Jane Merrick."
"Is she cross?" asked Beth, softly.
"At times she's a fiend," confided the old housekeeper, in almost a whisper. "But don't you mind her tantrums, or lay 'em to heart, and you'll get along with her all right."
"Thank you," said the girl. "I'll try not to mind."
"Do you need anything else, deary?" asked Misery, with a glance around the room.
"Nothing at all, thank you."
The housekeeper nodded and softly withdrew.
"That was one brilliant move, at any rate," said Beth to herself, as she laid aside her hat and prepared to unstrap her small trunk. "I've made a friend at Elmhurst who will be of use to me; and I shall make more before long. Come as soon as you like, Cousin Louise! You'll have to be more clever than I am, if you hope to win Elmhurst."
Aunt Jane was in her garden, enjoying the flowers. This was her especial garden, surrounded by a high-box hedge, and quite distinct from the vast expanse of shrubbery and flower-beds which lent so much to the beauty of the grounds at Elmhurst. Aunt Jane knew and loved every inch of her property. She had watched the shrubs personally for many years, and planned all the alterations and the construction of the flower-beds which James had so successfully attended to. Each morning, when her health permitted, she had inspected the greenhouses and issued her brief orders—brief because her slightest word to the old gardener incurred the fulfillment of her wishes. But this bit of garden adjoining her own rooms was her especial pride, and contained the choicest plants she had been able to secure. So, since she had been confined to her chair, the place had almost attained to the dignity of a private drawing-room, and on bright days she spent many hours here, delighting to feast her eyes with the rich coloring of the flowers and to inhale their fragrance. For however gruff Jane Merrick might be to the people with whom she came in contact, she was always tender to her beloved flowers, and her nature invariably softened when in their presence.
By and by Oscar, the groom, stepped through an opening in the hedge and touched his hat.
"Has my niece arrived?" asked his mistress, sharply.
"She's on the way, mum," the man answered, grinning. "She stopped outside the grounds to pick wild flowers, an' said I was to tell you she'd walk the rest o' the way."
"To pick wild flowers?"
"That's what she said, mum. She's that fond of 'em she couldn't resist it. I was to come an' tell you this, mum; an' she'll follow me directly."
Aunt Jane stared at the man sternly, and he turned toward her an unmoved countenance. Oscar had been sent to the station to meet Louise Merrick, and drive her to Elmhurst; but this strange freak on the part of her guest set the old woman thinking what her object could be. Wild flowers were well enough in their way; but those adjoining the grounds of Elmhurst were very ordinary and unattractive, and Miss Merrick's aunt was expecting her. Perhaps—
A sudden light illumined the mystery.
"See here, Oscar; has this girl been questioning you?"
"She asked a few questions, mum."
"About me?"
"Some of 'em, if I remember right, mum, was about you."
"And you told her I was fond of flowers?"
"I may have just mentioned that you liked 'em, mum."
Aunt Jane gave a scornful snort, and the man responded in a curious way. He winked slowly and laboriously, still retaining the solemn expression on his face.
"You may go, Oscar. Have the girl's luggage placed in her room."
"Yes, mum."
He touched his hat and then withdrew, leaving Jane Merrick with a frown upon her brow that was not caused by his seeming impertinence.
Presently a slight and graceful form darted through the opening in the hedge and approached the chair wherein Jane Merrick reclined.
"Oh, my dear, dear aunt!" cried Louise. "How glad I am to see you at last, and how good of you to let me come here!" and she bent over and kissed the stern, unresponsive face with an enthusiasm delightful to behold.
"This is Louise, I suppose," said Aunt Jane, stiffly. "You are welcome to Elmhurst."
"Tell me how you are," continued the girl, kneeling beside the chair and taking the withered hands gently in her own. "Do you suffer any? And are you getting better, dear aunt, in this beautiful garden with the birds and the sunshine?"
"Get up," said the elder woman, roughly. "You're spoiling your gown."
Louise laughed gaily.
"Never mind the gown," she answered. "Tell me about yourself. I've been so anxious since your last letter."
Aunt Jane's countenance relaxed a trifle. To speak of her broken health always gave her a sort of grim satisfaction.
"I'm dying, as you can plainly see," she announced. "My days are numbered, Louise. If you stay long enough you can gather wild flowers for my coffin."
Louise flushed a trifle. A bunch of butter-cups and forget-me-nots was fastened to her girdle, and she had placed a few marguerites in her hair.
"Don't laugh at these poor things!" she said, deprecatingly. "I'm so fond of flowers, and we find none growing wild in the cities, you know."
Jane Merrick looked at her reflectively.
"How old are you, Louise," she asked.
"Just seventeen, Aunt."
"I had forgotten you are so old as that. Let me see; Elizabeth cannot be more than fifteen."
"Elizabeth?"
"Elizabeth De Graf, your cousin. She arrived at Elmhurst this morning, and will be your companion while you are here."
"That is nice," said Louise.
"I hope you will be friends."
"Why not, Aunt? I haven't known much of my relations in the past, you know, so it pleases me to find an aunt and a cousin at the same time. I am sure I shall love you both. Let me fix your pillow—you do not seem comfortable. There! Isn't that better?" patting the pillow deftly. "I'm afraid you have needed more loving care than a paid attendant can give you," glancing at old Martha Phibbs, who stood some paces away, and lowering her voice that she might not be overheard. "But for a time, at least, I mean to be your nurse, and look after your wants. You should have sent for me before, Aunt Jane."
"Don't trouble yourself; Phibbs knows my ways, and does all that is required," said the invalid, rather testily. "Run away, now, Louise. The housekeeper will show you to your room. It's opposite Elizabeth's, and you will do well to make her acquaintance at once. I shall expect you both to dine with me at seven."
"Can't I stay here a little longer?" pleaded Louise. "We haven't spoken two words together, as yet, and I'm not a bit tired or anxious to go to my room. What a superb oleander this is! Is it one of your favorites, Aunt Jane?"
"Run away," repeated the woman. "I want to be alone."
The girl sighed and kissed her again, stroking the gray hair softly with her white hand.
"Very well; I'll go," she said. "But I don't intend to be treated as a strange guest, dear Aunt, for that would drive me to return home at once. You are my father's eldest sister, and I mean to make you love me, if you will give me the least chance to do so."
She looked around her, enquiringly, and Aunt Jane pointed a bony finger at the porch.
"That is the way. Phibbs will take you to Misery, the housekeeper, and then return to me. Remember, I dine promptly at seven."
"I shall count the minutes," said Louise, and with a laugh and a graceful gesture of adieu, turned to follow Martha into the house.
Jane Merrick looked after her with a puzzled expression upon her face.
"Were she in the least sincere," she muttered, "Louise might prove a very pleasant companion. But she's not sincere; she's coddling me to win my money, and if I don't watch out she'll succeed. The girl's a born diplomat, and weighed in the balance against sincerity, diplomacy will often tip the scales. I might do worse than to leave Elmhurst to a clever woman. But I don't know Beth yet. I'll wait and see which girl is the most desirable, and give them each an equal chance."
"Come in," called Beth, answering a knock at her door.
Louise entered, and with a little cry ran forward and caught Beth in her arms, kissing her in greeting.
"You must be my new cousin—Cousin Elizabeth—and I'm awfully glad to see you at last!" she said, holding the younger girl a little away, that she might examine her carefully.
Beth did not respond to the caress. She eyed her opponent sharply, for she knew well enough, even in that first moment, that they were engaged in a struggle for supremacy in Aunt Jane's affections, and that in the battles to come no quarter could be asked or expected.
So they stood at arm's length, facing one another and secretly forming an estimate each of the other's advantages and accomplishments.
"She's pretty enough, but has no style whatever," was Louise's conclusion. "Neither has she tact nor self-possession, or even a prepossessing manner. She wears her new gown in a dowdy manner and one can read her face easily. There's little danger in this quarter, I'm sure, so I may as well be friends with the poor child."
As for Beth, she saw at once that her "new cousin" was older and more experienced in the ways of the world, and therefore liable to prove a dangerous antagonist. Slender and graceful of form, attractive of feature and dainty in manner, Louise must be credited with many advantages; but against these might be weighed her evident insincerity—the volubility and gush that are so often affected to hide one's real nature, and which so shrewd and suspicious a woman as Aunt Jane could not fail to readily detect. Altogether, Beth was not greatly disturbed by her cousin's appearance, and suddenly realizing that they had been staring at one another rather rudely, she said, pleasantly enough:
"Won't you sit down?"
"Of course; we must get acquainted," replied Louise, gaily, and perched herself cross-legged upon the window-seat, surrounded by a mass of cushions.
"I didn't know you were here, until an hour ago," she continued. "But as soon as Aunt Jane told me I ran to my room, unpacked and settled the few traps I brought with me, and here I am—prepared for a good long chat and to love you just as dearly as you will let me."
"I knew you were coming, but not until this morning," answered Beth, slowly. "Perhaps had I known, I would not have accepted our Aunt's invitation."
"Ah! Why not?" enquired the other, as if in wonder.
Beth hesitated.
"Have you known Aunt Jane before today?" she asked.
"No."
"Nor I. The letter asking me to visit her was the first I have ever received from her. Even my mother, her own sister, does not correspond with her. I was brought up to hate her very name, as a selfish, miserly old woman. But, since she asked me to visit her, we judged she had softened and might wish to become friendly, and so I accepted the invitation. I had no idea you were also invited."
"But why should you resent my being here?" Louise asked, smiling."Surely, two girls will have a better time in this lonely old placethan one could have alone. For my part, I am delighted to find you atElmhurst."
"Thank you," said Beth. "That's a nice thing to say, but I doubt if it's true. Don't let's beat around the bush. I hate hypocrisy, and if we're going to be friends let's be honest with one another from the start."
"Well?" queried Louise, evidently amused.
"It's plain to me that Aunt Jane has invited us here to choose which one of us shall inherit her money—and Elmhurst. She's old and feeble, and she hasn't any other relations."
"Oh, yes, she has" corrected Louise.
"You mean Patricia Doyle?"
"Yes."
"What do you know of her?"
"Nothing at all."
"Where does she live?"
"I haven't the faintest idea."
Louise spoke as calmly as if she had not mailed Patricia's defiant letter to Aunt Jane, or discovered her cousin's identity in the little hair-dresser from Madame Borne's establishment.
"Has Aunt Jane mentioned her?" continued Beth.
"Not in my presence."
"Then we may conclude she's left out of the arrangement," said Beth, calmly. "And, as I said, Aunt Jane is likely to choose one of us to succeed her at Elmhurst. I hoped I had it all my own way, but it's evident I was mistaken. You'll fight for your chance and fight mighty hard!"
Louise laughed merrily.
"How funny!" she exclaimed, after a moment during which Beth frowned at her darkly. "Why, my dear cousin, I don't want Aunt Jane's money."
"You don't?"
"Not a penny of it; nor Elmhurst; nor anything you can possibly lay claim to, my dear. My mother and I are amply provided for, and I am only here to find rest from my social duties and to get acquainted with my dead father's sister. That is all."
"Oh!" said Beth, lying back in her chair with a sigh of relief.
"So it was really a splendid idea of yours to be frank with me at our first meeting," continued Louise, cheerfully; "for it has led to your learning the truth, and I am sure you will never again grieve me by suggesting that I wish to supplant you in Aunt Jane's favor. Now tell me something about yourself and your people. Are you poor?"
"Poor as poverty," said Beth, gloomily. "My father teaches music, and mother scolds him continually for not being able to earn enough money to keep out of debt."
"Hasn't Aunt Jane helped you?"
"We've never seen a cent of her money, although father has tried at times to borrow enough to help him out of his difficulties."
"That's strange. She seems like such a dear kindly old lady," saidLouise, musingly.
"I think she's horrid," answered Beth, angrily; "but I mustn't let her know it. I even kissed her, when she asked me to, and it sent a shiver all down my back."
Louise laughed with genuine amusement.
"You must dissemble, Cousin Elizabeth," she advised, "and teach our aunt to love you. For my part, I am fond of everyone, and it delights me to fuss around invalids and assist them. I ought to have been a trained nurse, you know; but of course there's no necessity of my earning a living."
"I suppose not," said Beth. Then, after a thoughtful silence, she resumed abruptly; "What's to prevent Aunt Jane leaving you her property, even if you are rich, and don't need it? You say you like to care for invalids, and I don't. Suppose Aunt Jane prefers you to me, and wills you all her money?"
"Why, that would be beyond my power to prevent," answered Louise, with a little yawn.
Beth's face grew hard again.
"You're deceiving me," she declared, angrily. "You're trying to make me think you don't want Elmhurst, when you're as anxious to get it as I am."
"My dear Elizabeth—by the way, that's an awfully long name; what do they call you, Lizzie, or Bessie, or—"
"They call me Beth," sullenly.
"Then, my dear Beth, let me beg you not to borrow trouble, or to doubt one who wishes to be your friend. Elmhurst would be a perfect bore to me. I wouldn't know what to do with it. I couldn't live in this out-of-the-way corner of the world, you know."
"But suppose she leaves it to you?" persisted Beth. "You wouldn't refuse it, I imagine."
Louise seemed to meditate.
"Cousin," she said, at length, "I'll make a bargain with you. I can't refuse to love and pet Aunt Jane, just because she has money and my sweet cousin Beth is anxious to inherit it. But I'll not interfere in any way with your chances, and I'll promise to sing your praises to our aunt persistently. Furthermore, in case she selects me as her heir, I will agree to transfer half of the estate to you—the half that consists of Elmhurst."
"Is there much more?" asked Beth.
"I haven't any list of Aunt Jane's possessions, so I don't know. But you shall have Elmhurst, if I get it, because the place would be of no use to me."
"It's a magnificent estate," said Beth, looking at her cousin doubtfully.
"It shall be yours, dear, whatever Aunt Jane decides. See, this is a compact, and I'll seal it with a kiss."
She sprang up and, kneeling beside Beth, kissed her fervently.
"Now shall we be friends?" she asked, lightly. "Now will you abandon all those naughty suspicions and let me love you?"
Beth hesitated. The suggestion seemed preposterous. Such generosity savored of play acting, and Louise's manner was too airy to be genuine. Somehow she felt that she was being laughed at by this slender, graceful girl, who was scarcely older than herself; but she was too unsophisticated to know how to resent it. Louise insisted upon warding off her enmity, or at least establishing a truce, and Beth, however suspicious and ungracious, could find no way of rejecting the overtures.
"Were I in your place," she said, "I would never promise to give up a penny of the inheritance. If I win it, I shall keep it all."
"To be sure. I should want you to, my dear."
"Then, since we have no cause to quarrel, we may as well become friends," continued Beth, her features relaxing a little their set expression.
Louise laughed again, ignoring the other's brusqueness, and was soon chatting away pleasantly upon other subjects and striving to draw Beth out of her natural reserve.
The younger girl had no power to resist such fascinations. Louise knew the big world, and talked of it with charming naivete, and Beth listened rapturously. Such a girl friend it had never been her privilege to have before, and when her suspicions were forgotten she became fairly responsive, and brightened wonderfully.
They dressed in time for dinner, and met Aunt Jane and Silas Watson, the lawyer, in the great drawing-room. The old gentleman was very attentive and courteous during the stately dinner, and did much to relieve the girls' embarrassment. Louise, indeed, seemed quite at home in her new surroundings, and chatted most vivaciously during the meal; but Aunt Jane was strangely silent, and Beth had little to say and seemed awkward and ill at ease.
The old lady retired to her own room shortly after dinner, and presently sent a servant to request Mr. Watson to join her.
"Silas," she said, when he entered, "what do you think of my nieces?"
"They are very charming girls," he answered, "although they are at an age when few girls show to good advantage. Why did you not invite Kenneth to dinner, Jane?"
"The boy?"
"Yes. They would be more at ease in the society of a young gentleman more nearly their own age."
"Kenneth is a bear. He is constantly saying disagreeable things. In other words, he is not gentlemanly, and the girls shall have nothing to do with him."
"Very well," said the lawyer, quietly.
"Which of my nieces do you prefer?" asked the old lady, after a pause.
"I cannot say, on so short an acquaintance," he answered, with gravity. "Which do you prefer, Jane?"
"They are equally unsatisfactory," she answered. "I cannot imagine Elmhurst belonging to either, Silas." Then she added, with an abrupt change of manner: "You must go to New York for me, at once."
"Tonight?"
"No; tomorrow morning. I must see that other niece—the one who defies me and refuses to answer my second letter."
"Patricia Doyle?"
"Yes. Find her and argue with her. Tell her I am a crabbed old woman with a whim to know her, and that I shall not die happy unless she comes to Elmhurst. Bribe her, threaten her—kidnap her if necessary, Silas; but get her to Elmhurst as quickly as possible."
"I'll do my best, Jane. But why are you so anxious?"
"My time is drawing near, old friend," she replied, less harshly than usual, "and this matter of my will lies heavily on my conscience. What if I should die tonight?"
He did not answer.
"There would be a dozen heirs to fight for my money, and dear old Elmhurst would be sold to strangers," she resumed, with bitterness. "But I don't mean to cross over just yet, Silas, even if one limb is dead already. I shall hang on until I get this matter settled, and I can't settle it properly without seeing all three of my nieces. One of these is too hard, and the other too soft. I'll see what Patricia is like."
"She may prove even more undesirable," said the lawyer.
"In that case, I'll pack her back again and choose between these two.But you must fetch her, Silas, that I may know just what I am doing.And you must fetch her at once!"
"I'll do the best I can, Jane," repeated the old lawyer.
In the harness-room above the stable sat Duncan Muir, the coachman and most important servant, with the exception of the head gardener, in Miss Merrick's establishment. Duncan, bald-headed but with white and bushy side-whiskers, was engaged in the serious business of oiling and polishing the state harness, which had not been used for many months past. But that did not matter. Thursday was the day for oiling the harness, and so on Thursday he performed the task, never daring to entrust a work so important to a subordinate.
In one corner of the little room Kenneth Forbes squatted upon a bench, with an empty pine box held carelessly in his lap. While Duncan worked the boy was busy with his pencil, but neither had spoken for at least a half hour.
Finally the aged coachman, without looking up, enquired:
"What do ye think o' 'em, Kenneth lad?"
"Think o' whom, Don?"
"The young leddies."
"What young ladies?"
"Miss Jane's nieces, as Oscar brought from the station yesterday."
The boy looked astonished, and leaned over the box in his lap eagerly.
"Tell me, Don," he said. "I was away with my gun all yesterday, and heard nothing of it."
"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 inMiss 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.
If she became an heiress she would not need to teach, but she was not at all confident of her prospects, and the girl's practical nature prompted her to carry out her plans until she was sure of the future.
In the hall she met Phibbs, shuffling along as if in pain.
"Good morning, miss," said the old servant.
Beth looked at her thoughtfully. This was Aunt Jane's special and confidential attendant.
"Do your feet hurt you?" she asked.
"Yes, miss; in the mornin' they's awful bad. It's being on 'em all the day, 'tendin' to Miss Jane, you know. But after a time I gets more used to the pain, and don't feel it. The mornin's always the worst."
She was passing on, but Beth stopped her.
"Come into my room," she said, and led the way.
Martha Phibbs followed reluctantly. Miss Jane might already be awake and demanding her services, and she could not imagine what the young lady wanted her for.
But she entered the room, and Beth went to a box and brought out a bottle of lotion.
"Mother has the same trouble that you complain of," she said, practically, "and here is a remedy that always gives her relief. I brought it with me in case I should take long tramps, and get sore feet."
She gently pushed the old woman into a chair, and then, to Phibbs' utter amazement, knelt down and unfastened her shoes and drew off her stockings. A moment later she was rubbing the lotion upon the poor creature's swollen feet, paying no attention to Martha's horrified protests.
"There. Now they're sure to feel better," said Beth, pulling the worn and darned stockings upon the woman's feet again. "And you must take this bottle to your room, and use it every night and morning."
"Bless your dear heart!" cried Phibbs, while tears of gratitude stood in her faded eyes. "I'm sure I feel twenty years younger, a'ready. But you shouldn't 'a' done it, miss; indeed you shouldn't."
"I'm glad to help you," said Beth, rinsing her hands at the wash stand and drying them upon a towel. "It would be cruel to let you suffer when I can ease your pain."
"But what would Miss Jane say?" wailed old Martha, throwing up her hands in dismay.
"She'll never know a thing about it. It's our secret, Martha, and I'm sure if I ever need a friend you'll do as much for me."
"I'll do anything for you, Miss Elizabeth," was the reply, as the woman took the bottle of lotion and departed.
Beth smiled.
"That was not a bad thought," she said to herself, again starting for the gardens. "I have made a firm friend and done a kindly action at the same time—and all while Cousin Louise is fast asleep."
The housekeeper let her out at the side door, after Beth had pressed her hand and kissed her good morning.
"You're looking quite bonny, my dear," said the old woman. "Do you feel at home, at all, in this strange place?"
"Not quite, as yet," answered Beth. "But I know I have one good friend here, and that comforts me."
She found a path between high hedges, that wandered away through the grounds, and along this she strolled until she reached a rose arbor with a comfortable bench.
Here she seated herself, looking around her curiously. The place seemed little frequented, but was kept with scrupulous care. Even at this hour, a little way off could be heard the "click-click!" of hedge-shears, and Beth noted how neatly the paths were swept, and how carefully every rose on the arbor was protected.
Elmhurst was a beautiful place. Beth sighed as she wondered if it would ever be hers. Then she opened her book and began to work.
During the next hour the click of the hedge-shears drew nearer, but the girl did not notice this. In another half hour James himself came into view, intent upon his monotonous task. Gradually the motionless form of the girl and the plodding figure of the gardener drew together, until he stood but two yards distant. Then he paused, looked toward the arbor, and uttered an exclamation.
Beth looked up.
"Good morning," she said, pleasantly.
James stared at her, but made no reply save a slight inclination of his head.
"Am I in your way?" she asked.
He turned his back to her, then, and began clipping away as before. Beth sprang up and laid a hand upon his arm, arresting him. Again he turned to stare at her, and in his eyes was a look almost of fear.
She drew back.
"Why won't you speak to me?" enquired the girl, gently. "I'm a stranger at Elmhurst, but I want to be your friend. Won't you let me?"
To her amazement James threw up his hands, letting the shears clatter to the ground, and with a hoarse cry turned and fled up the path as swiftly as he could go.
Beth was really puzzled, but as she stood silently looking after the gardener she heard a soft laugh, and found old Misery beside her.
"It's just his way, Miss; don't you be scared by anything that James does," said the woman. "Why, at times he won't even speak to Miss Jane."
"He isn't dumb, is he?" asked Beth.
"Lor', no! But he's that odd an' contrary he won't talk to a soul. Never did, since the day Master Tom was killed. James was travellin' with Master Tom, you know, and there was an accident, an' the train run off'n the track an' tipped over. James wasn't hurt at all, but he dragged Master Tom out'n the wreck and sat by him until he died. Then James brought Master Tom's body back home again; but his mind seemed to have got a shock, in some way, and he never was the same afterwards. He was powerful fond of young Master Tom. But then, we all was."
"Poor man!" said Beth.
"After that," resumed Misery, "all that James would do was to look after the flowers. Miss Jane, after she came, made him the head gardener, and he's proved a rare good one, too. But James he won't even talk to Miss Jane, nor even to his old friend Lawyer Watson, who used to be Master Tom's special chum an' comrade. He does his duty, and obeys all Miss Jane's orders as faithful as can be; but he won't talk, an' we've all give up tryin' to make him."
"But why should I frighten him?" asked the girl.
"You tried to make him talk, and you're a stranger. Strangers always affect James that way. I remember when Miss Jane first came to Elmhurst he screamed at the sight of her; but when he found out that Master Tom loved her and had given her Elmhurst, James followed her around like a dog, and did everything she told him to. But breakfast is ready, Miss. I came to call you."
"Thank you," said Beth, turning to walk beside the housekeeper.
According to Aunt Jane's instructions the breakfast was served in her own room, and presently Louise, dressed in a light silk kimona, came in bearing her tray "to keep her cousin company," she laughingly announced.
"I should have slept an hour longer," she yawned, over her chocolate, "but old Misery—who seems rightly named—insisted on waking me, just that I might eat. Isn't this a funny establishment?"
"It's different from everything I'm used to," answered Beth, gravely; "but it seems very pleasant here, and everyone is most kind and attentive."
"Now I'll dress," said Louise, "and we'll take a long walk together, and see the place."
So it happened that Kenneth clattered down the road on the sorrel mare just a moment before the girls emerged from the house, and while he was riding off his indignation at their presence at Elmhurst, they were doing just what his horrified imagination had depicted—that is, penetrating to all parts of the grounds, to every nook in the spacious old gardens and even to the stables, where Beth endeavored to make a friend of old Donald the coachman.
However, the gray-whiskered Scotsman was not to be taken by storm, even by a pretty face. His loyalty to "the boy" induced him to be wary in associating with these strange "young females" and although he welcomed them to the stable with glum civility he withheld his opinion of them until he should know them better.
In their rambles the girls found Kenneth's own stair, and were sitting upon it when Phibbs came to summon Louise to attend upon Aunt Jane.
She obeyed with alacrity, for she wished to know more of the queer relative whose guest she had become.
"Sit down," said Aunt Jane, very graciously, as the girl entered.
Louise leaned over the chair, kissed her and patted her cheek affectionately, and then shook up the pillows to make them more comfortable.
"I want you to talk to me," announced Aunt Jane, "and to tell me something of the city and the society in which you live. I've been so long dead to the world that I've lost track of people and things."
"Let me dress your hair at the same time," said Louise, pleadingly."It looks really frowsy, and I can talk while I work."
"I can't lift my left hand," said the invalid, flushing, "and Phibbs is a stupid ass."
"Never mind, I can make it look beautiful in half a jiffy," said the girl, standing behind the chair and drawing deftly the hairpins from Aunt Jane's scanty grey locks, "and you can't imagine how it pleases me to fuss over anyone."
It was surprising how meekly Aunt Jane submitted to this ordeal, but she plied the girl with many shrewd questions and Louise, busily working in a position where the old woman could not see her face, never hesitated for an answer. She knew all the recent gossip of fashionable society, and retailed it glibly. She had met this celebrity at a ball and that one at a reception, and she described them minutely, realizing that Aunt Jane would never be in a position to contradict any assertion she might choose to make.
Indeed, Aunt Jane was really startled.
"However did your mother manage to gain an entree into society?" she asked. "Your father was a poor man and of little account. I know, for he was my own brother."
"He left us a very respectable life insurance," said Louise, demurely, "and my mother had many friends who were glad to introduce us to good society when we were able to afford such a luxury. Father died twelve years ago, you know, and for several years, while I was at school, mother lived very quietly. Then she decided it was time I made my debut, but for the last season we have been rather gay, I admit."
"Are you rich?" asked Aunt Jane, sharply.
"Mercy, no!" laughed Louise, who had finished her work and now sat her aunt's feet. "But we have enough for our requirements, and that makes us feel quite independent. By the way, auntie, I want to return that check you sent me. It was awfully good and generous of you, but I didn't need it, you know, and so I want you to take it back."
She drew the slip of paper from her pocket and pressed it into AuntJane's hand.
"It's quite enough for you to give me this nice treat in the country," resumed the girl, calmly. "The change from the city will do me a world of good, and as I wanted to be quiet, and rest I declined all my other invitations for the summer to accept yours. Isn't it glorious that we can get acquainted at last? And I quite love Elmhurst, already!"
Aunt Jane was equally surprised and gratified. The return of the check for a hundred dollars was very pleasant. She had drawn a similar check for each of her three nieces, believing that it would be necessary for her to meet their expenses, and she had considered the expenditure in the nature of a business transaction. But Patricia had flung one check in her face, practically, and now Louise had voluntarily returned another, because she did not need the money. Really, Jane Merrick was accomplishing her purpose for less money than she had expected, and she had hoarded her wealth for so many years that she disliked to spend any of it foolishly.
Louise had read her nature correctly. It had been a little hard to return so large a check, but the girl's policy was not to appear before Aunt Jane as a poor relation, but rather as a young lady fitted by social education and position to become a gracious mistress of Elmhurst. This she believed would give her a powerful advantage over all competitors.
Whether she was right or not in this surmise it is certain that she rose several points in Aunt Jane's estimation during this interview, and when she was dismissed it was so graciously that she told herself the money her little plot had cost had been well expended.
Afterward Elizabeth was summoned to attend her aunt.
"I want to be amused. Can you read aloud?" said the invalid.
"Not very well, I'm afraid. But I'll be glad to try," answered Beth."What do you like?"
"Select your own book," said Aunt Jane, pointing to a heap of volumes beside her.
The girl hesitated. Louise would doubtless have chosen a romance, or some light tale sure to interest for the hour, and so amuse the old lady. But Beth erroneously judged that the aged and infirm love sober and scholarly books, and picked out a treatise that proved ineffably dull and tedious.
Aunt Jane sniffed, and then smiled slyly and proceeded to settle herself for a nap. If the girl was a fool, let her be properly punished.
Beth read for an hour, uncertain whether her aunt were intensely interested or really asleep. At the end of that dreadful period old Misery entered and aroused the sleeper without ceremony.
"What's the matter?" asked Aunt Jane, querrulously, for she resented being disturbed.
"There's a man to see you, Miss."
"Send him about his business!"
"But—"
"I won't see him, I tell you!"
"But he says he's your brother, Miss."
"Who?"
"Your brother."
Miss Jane stared as if bewildered.
"Your brother John, Miss."
The invalid sank back upon her cushions with a sigh of resignation.
"I thought he was dead, long ago; but if he's alive I suppose I'll have to see him," she said. "Elizabeth, leave the room. Misery, send the man here!"
Beth went out to find Louise, and discovered her standing near the stables, where a boy was rubbing down the sides of a sorrel mare with wisps of straw.
"Something has happened," she said to Louise in a troubled voice.
"What?"
"A man has arrived who says he is Aunt Jane's brother."
"Impossible! Have you seen him?"
"No; he says he's Aunt Jane's brother John."
"Oh; I know. The peddler, or tinker, or something or other who disappeared years ago. But it doesn't matter."
"It may matter a good deal," said practical Beth. "Aunt Jane may leave him her money."
"Why, he's older than she is. I've heard mother say he was the eldest of the family. Aunt Jane wont leave her money to an old man, you may be sure."
Beth felt a little reassured at this, and stood for a moment beside Louise watching the boy. Presently Oscar came to him, and after touching his hat respectfully took the mare and led her into the stable. The boy turned away, with his hands in his pockets, and strolled up a path, unaware that the two dreaded girls had been observing him.
"I wonder who that is," said Beth.
"We'll find out," returned Louise. "I took him for a stable boy, at first. But Oscar seemed to treat him as a superior."
She walked into the stable, followed by her cousin, and found the groom tying the mare.
"Who was the young man?" she asked.
"Which young man, Miss?"
"The one who has just arrived with the horse."
"Oh; that's Master Kenneth, Miss," answered Oscar, with a grin.
"Where did he come from?"
"Master Kenneth? Why, he lives here."
"At the house?"
"Yes, Miss."
"Who is he?"
"Master Tom's nephew—he as used to own Elmhurst, you know."
"Mr. Thomas Bradley?"
"The same, Miss."
"Ah. How long has Master Kenneth lived here?"
"A good many years. I can't just remember how long."
"Thank you, Oscar."
The girls walked away, and when they were alone Louise remarked:
"Here is a more surprising discovery than Uncle John, Beth. The boy has a better right than any of us to inherit Elmhurst."
"Then why did Aunt Jane send for us?"
"It's a mystery, dear. Let us try to solve it."
"Come; we'll ask the housekeeper," said Beth. "I'm sure old Misery will tell us all we want to know."
So they returned to the house and, with little difficulty, found the old housekeeper.
"Master Kenneth?" she exclaimed. "Why, he's just Master Tom's nephew, that's all."
"Is this his home?" asked Beth.
"All the home he's got, my dear. His father and mother are both dead, and Miss Jane took him to care for just because she thought Master Tom would 'a' liked it."
"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 asshe 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."