L. Frank Baum_Aunt Jane 01 (2 page)

Then, however, Louise in turning a leaf glanced up and saw the head
bent over the embroidery. She laid down her book and drew an open
letter from between the cushions beside her, which she languidly
tossed into the other's lap.

"Who is this woman, mamma?" she asked.

Mrs. Merrick glanced at the letter and then read it carefully through,
before replying.

"Jane Merrick is your father's sister," she said, at last, as she
thoughtfully folded the letter and placed it upon the table.

"Why have I never heard of her before?" enquired the girl, with a
slight accession of interest in her tones.

"That I cannot well explain. I had supposed you knew of your poor
father's sister Jane, although you were so young when he died that it
is possible he never mentioned her name in your presence."

"They were not on friendly terms, you know. Jane was rich, having
inherited a fortune and a handsome country place from a young man whom
she was engaged to marry, but who died on the eve of his wedding day."

"How romantic!" exclaimed Louise.

"It does seem romantic, related in this way," replied her mother. "But
with the inheritance all romance disappeared from your aunt's life.
She became a crabbed, disagreeable woman, old before her time and
friendless because she suspected everyone of trying to rob her of her
money. Your poor father applied to her in vain for assistance, and I
believe her refusal positively shortened his life. When he died, after
struggling bravely to succeed in his business, he left nothing but his
life-insurance."

"Thank heaven he left that!" sighed Louise.

"Yes; we would have been beggared, indeed, without it," agreed Mrs.
Merrick. "Yet I often wonder, Louise, how we managed to live upon the
interest of that money for so many years."

"We didn't live—we existed," corrected the girl, yawning. "We
scrimped and pinched, and denied ourselves everything but bare
necessities. And had it not been for your brilliant idea, mater dear,
we would still be struggling in the depths of poverty."

Mrs. Merrick frowned, and leaned back in her chair.

"I sometimes doubt if the idea was so brilliant, after all," she
returned, with a certain grimness of expression. "We're plunging,
Louise; and it may be into a bottomless pit."

"Don't worry, dear," said the girl, biting into a bonbon. "We are
only on the verge of our great adventure, and there's no reason to
be discouraged yet, I assure you. Brilliant! Of course the idea
was brilliant, mamma. The income of that insurance money was
insignificant, but the capital is a very respectable sum. I am just
seventeen years of age—although I feel that I ought to be thirty, at
the least—and in three years I shall be twenty, and a married woman.
You decided to divide our capital into three equal parts, and spend a
third of it each year, this plan enabling us to live in good style and
to acquire a certain social standing that will allow me to select a
wealthy husband. It's a very brilliant idea, my dear! Three years is a
long time. I'll find my Croesus long before that, never fear."

"You ought to," returned the mother, thoughtfully. "But if you fail,
we shall be entirely ruined."

"A strong incentive to succeed." said Louise, smiling. "An ordinary
girl might not win out; but I've had my taste of poverty, and I don't
like it. No one will suspect us of being adventurers, for as long as
we live in this luxurious fashion we shall pay our bills promptly and
be proper and respectable in every way. The only chance we run lies in
the danger that eligible young men may prove shy, and refuse to take
our bait; but are we not diplomats, mother dear? We won't despise a
millionaire, but will be content with a man who can support us in good
style, or even in comfort, and in return for his money I'll be a very
good wife to him. That seems sensible and wise, I'm sure, and not at
all difficult of accomplishment."

Mrs. Merrick stared silently out of the window, and for a few moments
seemed lost in thought.

"I think, Louise," she said at last, "you will do well to cultivate
your rich aunt, and so have two strings to your bow."

"You mean that I should accept her queer invitation to visit her?"

"Yes."

"She has sent me a check for a hundred dollars. Isn't it funny?"

"Jane was always a whimsical woman. Perhaps she thinks we are quite
destitute, and fears you would not be able to present a respectable
appearance at Elmhurst without this assistance. But it is an evidence
of her good intentions. Finding death near at hand she is obliged to
select an heir, and so invites you to visit her that she may study
your character and determine whether you are worthy to inherit her
fortune."

The girl laughed, lightly.

"It will be easy to cajole the old lady," she said. "In two days I can
so win her heart that she will regret she has neglected me so long."

"Exactly."

"If I get her money we will change our plans, and abandon the
adventure we were forced to undertake. But if, for any reason, that
plan goes awry, we can fall back upon this prettily conceived scheme
which we have undertaken. As you say, it is well to have two strings
to one's bow; and during July and August everyone will be out of town,
and so we shall lose no valuable time."

Mrs. Merrick did not reply. She stitched away in a methodical manner,
as if abstracted, and Louise crossed her delicate hands behind her
head and gazed at her mother reflectively. Presently she said:

"Tell me more of my father's family. Is this rich aunt of mine the
only relative he had?"

"No, indeed. There were two other sisters and a brother—a very
uninteresting lot, with the exception, of your poor father. The eldest
was John Merrick, a common tinsmith, if I remember rightly, who went
into the far west many years ago and probably died there, for he was
never heard from. Then came Jane, who in her young days had some
slight claim to beauty. Anyway, she won the heart of Thomas Bradley,
the wealthy young man I referred to, and she must have been clever to
have induced him to leave her his money. Your father was a year or so
younger than Jane, and after him came Julia, a coarse and
disagreeable creature who married a music-teacher and settled in some
out-of-the-way country town. Once, while your father was alive, she
visited us for a few days, with her baby daughter, and nearly drove us
all crazy. Perhaps she did not find us very hospitable, for we were
too poor to entertain lavishly. Anyway, she went away suddenly after
you had a fight with her child and nearly pulled its hair out by the
roots, and I have never heard of her since."

"A daughter, eh," said Louise, musingly. "Then this rich Aunt Jane has
another niece besides myself."

"Perhaps two," returned Mrs. Merrick; "for her youngest sister, who
was named Violet, married a vagabond Irishman and had a daughter
about a year younger than you. The mother died, but whether the child
survived her or not I have never learned."

"What was her name?" asked Louise.

"I cannot remember. But it is unimportant. You are the only Merrick of
them all, and that is doubtless the reason Jane has sent for you."

The girl shook her blonde head.

"I don't like it," she observed.

"Don't like what?"

"All this string of relations. It complicates matters."

Mrs. Merrick seemed annoyed.

"If you fear your own persuasive powers," she said, with almost a
sneer in her tones, "you'd better not go to Elmhurst. One or the
other of your country cousins might supplant you in your dear aunt's
affections."

The girl yawned and took up her neglected novel.

"Nevertheless, mater dear," she said briefly, "I shall go."

"Now, Major, stand up straight and behave yourself! How do you expect
me to sponge your vest when you're wriggling around in that way?"

"Patsy, dear, you're so sweet this evening, I just had to kiss your
lips."

"Don't do it again, sir," replied Patricia, severely, as she scrubbed
the big man's waistcoat with a damp cloth. "And tell me, Major, how
you ever happened to get into such a disgraceful condition."

"The soup just shpilled," said the Major, meekly.

Patricia laughed merrily. She was a tiny thing, appearing to be no
more than twelve years old, although in reality she was sixteen. Her
hair was a decided red—not a beautiful "auburn," but really red—and
her round face was badly freckled. Her nose was too small and her
mouth too wide to be beautiful, but the girl's wonderful blue eyes
fully redeemed these faults and led the observer to forget all else
but their fascinations. They could really dance, these eyes, and send
out magnetic, scintillating sparks of joy and laughter that were
potent to draw a smile from the sourest visage they smiled upon.
Patricia was a favorite with all who knew her, but the big,
white-moustached Major Doyle, her father, positively worshipped her,
and let the girl rule him as her fancy dictated.

"Now, sir, you're fairly decent again," she said, after a few vigorous
scrubs. "So put on your hat and we'll go out to dinner."

They occupied two small rooms at the top of a respectable but
middle-class tenement building, and had to descend innumerable flights
of bare wooden stairs before they emerged upon a narrow street
thronged with people of all sorts and descriptions except those who
were too far removed from the atmosphere of Duggan street to know that
it existed.

The big major walked stiffly and pompously along, swinging his
silver-trimmed cane in one hand while Patricia clung to his other arm.
The child wore a plain grey cloak, for the evening was chill. She had
a knack of making her own clothes, all of simple material and fashion,
but fitting neatly and giving her an air of quiet refinement that made
more than one passer-by turn to look back at her curiously.

After threading their way for several blocks they turned in at the
open door of an unobtrusive restaurant where many of the round white
tables were occupied by busy and silent patrons.

The proprietor nodded to the major and gave Patricia a smile. There
was no need to seat them, for they found the little table in the
corner where they were accustomed to eat, and sat down.

"Did you get paid tonight?" asked the girl.

"To be sure, my Patsy."

"Then hand over the coin," she commanded.

The major obeyed. She counted it carefully and placed it in her
pocketbook, afterwards passing a half-dollar back to her father.

"Remember, Major, no riotous living! Make that go as far as you can,
and take care not to invite anyone to drink with you."

"Yes, Patsy."

"And now I'll order the dinner."

The waiter was bowing and smiling beside her. Everyone smiled at
Patsy, it seemed.

They gave the usual order, and then, after a moment's hesitation, she
added:

"And a bottle of claret for the Major."

Her father fairly gasped with amazement.

"Patsy!"

People at the near-by tables looked up as her gay laugh rang out, and
beamed upon her in sympathy.

"I'm not crazy a bit. Major," said she, patting the hand he had
stretched toward her, partly in delight and partly in protest. "I've
just had a raise, that's all, and we'll celebrate the occasion."

Her father tucked the napkin under his chin then looked at her
questioningly.

"Tell me, Patsy."

"Madam Borne sent me to a swell house on Madison Avenue this morning,
because all her women were engaged. I dressed the lady's hair in
my best style, Major, and she said it was much more becoming than
Juliette ever made it. Indeed, she wrote a note to Madam, asking her
to send me, hereafter, instead of Juliette, and Madam patted my head
and said I would be a credit to her, and my wages would be ten dollars
a week, from now on. Ten dollars. Major! As much as you earn yourself
at that miserable bookkeeping!"

"Sufferin' Moses!" ejaculated the astonished major, staring back into
her twinkling eyes, "if this kapes on, we'll be millionaires, Patsy."

"We're millionaires, now." responded Patsy, promptly, "because we've
health, and love, and contentment—and enough money to keep us from
worrying. Do you know what I've decided, Major, dear? You shall go to
make that visit to your colonel that you've so long wanted to have.
The vacation will do you good, and you can get away all during July,
because you haven't rested for five years. I went to see Mr. Conover
this noon, and he said he'd give you the month willingly, and keep the
position for you when you returned."

"What! You spoke to old Conover about me?"

"This noon. It's all arranged, daddy, and you'll just have a glorious
time with the old colonel. Bless his dear heart, he'll be overjoyed to
have you with him, at last."

The major pulled out his handkerchief, blew his nose vigorously, and
then surreptitiously wiped his eyes.

"Ah, Patsy, Patsy; it's an angel you are, and nothing less at all, at
all."

"Rubbish, Major. Try your claret, and see if it's right. And eat your
fish before it gets cold. I'll not treat you again, sir, unless you
try to look happy. Why, you seem as glum as old Conover himself!"

The major was positively beaming.

"Would it look bad for me to kiss you, Patsy?"

"Now?"

"Now and right here in this very room!"

"Of course it would. Try and behave, like the gentleman you are, and
pay attention to your dinner!"

It was a glorious meal. The cost was twenty-five cents a plate, but
the gods never feasted more grandly in Olympus than these two simple,
loving souls in that grimy Duggan street restaurant.

Over his coffee the major gave a sudden start and looked guiltily into
Patricia's eyes.

"Now, then," she said, quickly catching the expression, "out with it."