Suddenly she noticed the old housekeeper standing before her and regarding her with a kindly interest. In an instant she sprang up, threw her arms around Misery and kissed her furrowed cheek.
“Thank you for being so kind,” said she. “I’ve never been away from home before and you must be a mother to me while I’m at Elmhurst.”
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.”
CHAPTER VIII.
THE DIPLOMAT.
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.”
CHAPTER IX.
COUSINS.
“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 place
than one could have alone. For my part, I am delighted to find you at
Elmhurst.”
“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,” said
Louise, 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 Be
th,” 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.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 386
