Jim flushed.
“Does he know I’m here?” he asked, hesitatingly.
“I told him. He didn’t know it until then. Your mother and Nellie and May are all delighted and eager to see you.”
“And father?”
“He did not express himself as glad or sorry. You’ve offended him deeply, Jim.”
The boy thrust his hands into his pockets and looked thoughtful.
“I’d like to see mother,” he said, musingly. “She’s as tender and sweet as any mother can be, Mr. Jarrod; but the poor dear is entirely under my father’s thumb, and even his frown terrifies her.”
“Hm,” said the lawyer. “I thought that kind of wives became extinct years ago.”
“Mother’s the old-fashioned sort, sir. And the girls are all right, in their way — for sisters. But dad has a dreadful temper, and when he gets on his high horse all I can do is to jaw back.”
“No two in a family should try to ride the high horse at the same time,” observed Jarrod; “and you must remember that the head of the house controls the stables. He’s sick, Jim, and his pain makes him crabbed. Why not try to bear with him, and be friendly?”
“That’s what Susie says. Perhaps I really ought to go up to the cottage and call.”
“There’s no question about it. Go now.”
Jim hesitated.
“I said I’d never darken his doors again, you know,” he intimated, weakly.
“These are not his doors. It’s Grant’s cottage.”
“So it is. Well, I’ll go.”
He pulled his hat down over his ears desperately, buttoned his coat in spite of the heat, and with tense muscles but trembling lips marched up the hill to the Grant cottage.
Before he could knock the door flew open and he was in his mother’s arms. The poor lady was sobbing with joy, and led her errant son into the room where his father sat propped with cushions in an easy chair.
“Here’s Jim!” she said, trembling with uncertainty and a well founded fear of the interview to follow.
Mr. Everton looked at his boy and nodded.
“Sit down, Jim,” he said. The tone was not harsh, but lacked cordiality.
Jim sat down.
“How are you, sir?”
“Pretty bad. I don’t seem to find any relief.”
Once Jim had wickedly suggested that he take his own rheumatism cure; but the remark had led to all their trouble, so he twirled his hat and answered perfunctorily:
“I’m sorry, sir.”
Such mildness of demeanor ought to have placated the father. But Everton was eyeing his son suspiciously.
“They tell me you’re working. A lawyer’s clerk.”
“I’m Mr. Jarrod’s private secretary, sir.”
“Huh! Good job for a college man, isn’t it? Nice investment I made when I sent you to Cornell.”
Jim wondered what he would say if he knew he had until recently been a dry-goods clerk.
“Haven’t you had about enough of this two-penny folly?” demanded his father, more harshly.
“Oh, I’ve discovered that I can earn my own living,” said the boy, flushing.
“That isn’t the point. I reared you with the expectation that you would be of some use to me when I grew old and feeble. That time has arrived. I need you to help look after the business. Look here: do you owe nothing to me?”
Jim examined the pattern on the rug.
“Just as much as I owe myself, sir. Surely not more.”
“Then pay your obligation to me first, and you can do as you please afterward.”
“All right. That’s fair.”
His mother, who sat beside him silently holding his hand, hugged him again, and even Mr. Everton seemed pleased by the frank answer.
“You jeered at the business once, and called it a — a fake!” resumed the elder man, somewhat bitterly; “but it’s nothing of the sort. Every one of the Everton Remedies is prepared according to the formula of a skillful physician, and they’ve helped lots of suffering people. Is not my name highly respected? Answer me!”
“I think it is.”
“Very well. You shall be my assistant and have an interest in the business. I’ll allow you ten thousand a year.”
“Good!” said Jim, brightening suddenly. “Then I can get married.”
“Oh, Jim!” cried his mother.
“To whom, sir?” asked his father.
“Why, to Susie. Perhaps you haven’t heard of her. She’s a girl I met at Tamawaca.”
“What’s her other name?”
“Smith. Susie Smith,” dwelling on it lovingly.
“Smith! Well, who is she?”
“The sweetest girl in all the world, sir.”
“Bah! Who are her people? Where does she come from?”
“I don’t know.”
“Nonsense.”
“I haven’t asked about her family. Why should I, when she’s all right herself? She’s stopping with Mr. Carleton — W. E. Carleton, the railway contractor. He says he knows you.”
“Well?”
“Susie lives in New York, I think, or some Eastern city. Her mother is dead but her father is still on deck — I’m positive of that, for she often speaks of him.”
“What does he do?”
“Can’t imagine, I’m sure.”
“Jim, you’re a fool — a doddering imbecile!”
“All right.”
“Oh, Henry — please don’t quarrel!” exclaimed Mrs. Everton, beginning to weep anew.
But the invalid was suffering twinges and would not be stayed.
“You’ll have to give up that girl for good and all,” he roared. “Susie Smith! Some cheap stenographer or a paid companion to Mrs. Carleton, I suppose. Some designing hussy who thinks you’ll have money, and wants to get her clutches on it. Susie Smith! For heaven’s sake, Jim, why can’t you have a little sense?”
Jim got up, slowly and with a white face.
“Father, I don’t know much about Susie except that I love her and mean to marry her. And I won’t have you sneer at her, even if you are ill and bad tempered. You have no reason to say a word against her.”
“Smith!”
“I know,” a smile creeping over his face to soften its fierceness; “but I’ll change that name, pretty soon. Susie Everton isn’t so bad, is it?”
“Give her up, Jim. Don’t let her come between us.”
“She’s there, Dad, and you, can’t thrust her away.”
“Give her up.”
“I won’t!”
Mrs. Everton was sobbing softly. The invalid turned on his cushions with a sigh. But his jaws were closed tight and his brow bent to a frown. Jim had quite regained his composure.
“I hope you’ll soon get better, sir,” he remarked. “I shall be in Tamawaca for some weeks yet, and if I can be of any help in any way, let me know. Good bye, mother.”
As he turned to go the door burst open and Nellie and May dashed in and threw themselves upon their brother with glad cries and smothering kisses. They were bright, pretty girls, and Jim loved them and was proud of them.
“Is it all made up, Jim?’ asked Nell, anxiously.
“Not quite, little sister,” smiling at her.
“Oh, but it must be! It’s all wrong, dear, for us to be separated this way. Tell him so, father!” turning appealingly to the invalid.
“He refused my overtures,” said Mr. Everton, testily.
“Oh, no!” laughed Jim; “he refused my sweetheart.”
The girls clapped their hands gleefully.
“We’ve heard all about it, in the town,” said one. “Oh, Jim, you lucky boy!”
“And whom do you think it is, Dad?” asked the other eagerly, as she seated herself beside her father’s chair.
“I don’t know; and Jim don’t know.”
“But we know! She’s an old friend of ours. We knew her at Wellesley, and we’ve just called upon her and kissed her and hugged her for old times’ sake.
Father, it’s Susie Smith!”
“Smith!” with a snort of contempt.
“The only, only child of the great Agamemnon Smith, the richest Standard Oil magnate after Rockefeller himself!”
Jim fell into a chair and stared at his father. His father stared at him.
“And that isn’t all,” said May, gushingly. “Susie’s as lovely as she is rich — the sweetest, cutest, brightest and cunningest little thing that ever lived.”
“To think that Susie Smith will be our sister!” cried Nell, clasping her hands ecstatically.
“And — and — Jim can change that name of Smith, you know,” faltered poor Mrs. Everton, glancing at her husband nervously.
The invalid roused himself and looked up with a smile.
“So he can,” he observed, drily. “Hang up your hat, Jim, and let’s talk it over.”
Jim hung up his hat.
CHAPTER XIV.
OF COURSE.
Things settled into easy grooves at Tamawaca.
Now that Wilder was no longer a public autocrat people accepted him in his new role as an humble member of the community, according him the consideration due any well behaved cottager. Easton kept out of the way for a time, and gradually folks forgot him and regained their accustomed cheerfulness. He had been a thorn in their sides, but the wound soon healed when the thorn was removed. Few of us care to remember unpleasant things, and communities are more generous than we are inclined to give them the credit for being.
The “New Tamawaca” began to arouse the interest of the cottagers, who threw themselves heart and soul into its regeneration. Things were done for the first time in the history of the place, and done with a will and enthusiasm that accomplished wonders in a brief period. Miles of cement walks were laid through the woods, and a broad thoroughfare now extends the length of the lake front, where once it was dangerous to travel on foot. To the visitor it is the chief charm of the place. There are new public buildings, too, and the little parks that were formerly dumps for refuse are made sweet and enticing with shrubs and flowers.
Because of all this, and the era of prosperity that has dawned upon it, Tamawaca is growing steadily and many pretty cottages are springing up on the vacant lots. One of the most attractive of these is owned by Jim and Susie, who have ample reason to be fond of the delightful resort where they had the good fortune to first meet.
ANNABEL, A NOVEL FOR YOUNG FOLK
Annabel, published by Reilly & Britton in 1906 was one of Baum’s first novels meant for young girls. Thus he used the pseudonym, Suzanne Metcalf. H. Putnam Hall provided the illustrations. The Horatio Alger-style plot features a plucky hero named Will Carden who helps his mother and siblings grow vegetables for a living, though the family once owned a steel mill. The plot features the requisite villain, a friendly mentor, a lovely heroine, a mystery, which once solved, leads to success and prosperity. Annabel was not a great success but did appear in a second edition, illustrated by the Belgian-American artist, Joseph Pierre Nuyttens.
A first edition copy of ‘Annabel’
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER ONE
WILL MEETS WITH A REBUKE
“HERE are your vegetables, Nora,” said Will Carden, as he scraped his feet upon the mat before the kitchen door of the “big house.”
“Come in, Masther Willyum,” called the cook, in her cheery voice.
So the boy obeyed the summons and pushed open the screen door, setting his basket upon the white table at Nora’s side.
“Oo, misery! but them pays is illegant,” she said, breaking open a green pod and eating the fresh, delicious contents. “Why, Masther Willyum, the bloom is on ‘em yet.”
“I picked them myself, Nora,” the boy answered, with a pleased laugh, “and only a little while ago, at that. And you’ll find the tomatoes and the celery just as nice, I’m sure.”
“They can’t be bate,” responded the cook, emptying the basket and handing it to him. “Sure, I don’t know whatever we’d do widout yez to bring us the grand stuff, Masther Willyum.”
“I wish,” said he, hesitatingly, “you wouldn’t call me ‘master,’ Nora. Call me Will, as everyone else does. I’m not old enough to have a handle to my name, and I’m not much account in the world — yet.”
Nora’s round, good-natured face turned grave, and she looked at the boy with a thoughtful air.
“I used to know the Cardens,” she said, “when they didn’t have to raise vegetables to earn a living.”
Will flushed, and his eyes fell.
“Never mind that, Nora,” he answered, gently. “We’ve got to judge people by what they are, not by what they have been. Goodbye!” and he caught up his basket and hastily retreated, taking care, however, to close the screen door properly behind him, for he knew the cook’s horror of flies.
“Poor boy!” sighed Nora, as she resumed her work. “It ain’t his fault, at all at all, that the Cardens has come down in the wurruld. But down they is purty close to the bottom, an’ it ain’t loikly as they’ll pick up ag’in in a hurry.”
Meantime, the vegetable boy, whistling softly to himself, passed along the walk that led from the back of the big house past the stables and so on to the gate opening into the lane. The grounds of the Williams mansion were spacious and well kept, the lawns being like velvet and the flower beds filled with artistic clusters of rare blooming plants. A broad macadamed driveway, edged with curbs of dressed stone, curved gracefully from the carriage porch to the stables, crossing the lawn like a huge scroll.
At one side of this a group of children played upon the grass — two boys and three girls — white the nurse who was supposed to have charge of the smallest girl, as yet scarcely more than a baby, sat upon a comfortable bench, engaged in reading a book.
As Will passed, one of the little girls lay flat upon the ground, sobbing most dismally, her golden head resting upon her outstretched arms. The boy hesitated an instant, and then put down his basket and crossed the lawn to where the child lay, all neglected by her companions.
“What’s wrong, Gladie?” he asked, sitting on the grass beside her.
“Oh, Will,” she answered, turning to him a tear-stained face, “m — my d — d — dolly’s all bwoke, an’ Ted says she’ll h — h — have t’ go to a h — h — hospital, an’ Ma ‘Weeze an’ Wedgy says they’ll in — m — make a f — f — un’ral an’ put dolly in the c — cold gwound, an’ make her dead!” and the full horror of the recital flooding her sensitive little heart, Gladys burst into a new flood of tears.
“Don’t you worry about it, Gladie,” he said in a comforting tone. “We’ll fix dolly all right, in less than a jiffy. Where is she, and where’s she broke?”
Hope crept into the little face, begot of a rare confidence in the big boy beside her. Gladys rolled over upon the grass, uncovering a French doll of the jointed variety, dressed in very elaborate but soiled and bedraggled clothes and having a grimy face and a mass of tangled hair. It must have been a pretty toy when new, but the doll had never won Gladys’ whole heart so long as it remained immaculate and respectable. In its present disreputable condition it had become her dearest treasure, and when she handed the toy to Will Carden and showed him where one leg was missing from the knee down, a fresh outburst of grief convulsed her.
“Her l — leg is all b — bwoke!” she cried.
“That’s bad,” said Will, examining the doll carefully. “But we’ll play I’m the doctor, come to m
ake her well. Where’s the other piece, Gladie?”
The child hastily searched for her pocket, from which, when at last the opening was found, she drew forth the severed leg. By this time the other children had discovered Will’s presence and with a wild whoop of greeting they raced to his side and squatted around him on the lawn, curiously watching to see how he would mend the doll. Theodore was about Will’s own age, but much shorter and inclined to stoutness. His face habitually wore a serious expression and he was very quiet and stolid of demeanor. Reginald, the other boy, was only nine, but his nature was so reckless and mischievous that he was the life of the whole family, and his mother could always tell where the children were playing by listening for the sound of Reginald’s shrill and merry voice.
Mary Louise was fourteen — a dark-haired, blueeyed maiden whose sweet face caused strangers to look more than once as she passed them by. To be sure she was very slender — so slight of frame that Reginald had named her “Skinny” as a mark of his brotherly affection; but the girl was so dainty in her ways and so graceful in every movement that it was a wonder even her careless younger brother should not have recognized the fact that her “skinny” form was a promise of great beauty in the years to come.
Then there was Annabel, the “odd one” of the Williams family, with a round, freckled face, a pug nose, tawny red hair and a wide mouth that was always smiling. Annabel was twelve, the favored comrade of her brothers and sisters, the despair of her lady mother because of her ugliness of feature, and the pet of Nora, the cook, because she was what that shrewd domestic considered “the right stuff.” Annabel, in spite of her bright and joyous nature, was shy with strangers, and at times appeared almost as reserved as her brother Theodore, which often led to her being misunderstood. But Will Carden was no stranger to the Williams children, being indeed a schoolmate, and as they flocked around him this bright Saturday morning they showered questions and greetings upon their friend in a somewhat bewildering manner.
The boy had only one thought in mind, just then: to comfort little Gladys by making her dolly “as good as new.” So whistling softly, in his accustomed fashion, he drew out his pocketknife and began fishing in the hole of the doll’s leg for the elastic cord that had parted and allowed her lower joint to fall off. Gladys watched this operation with wide, staring eyes; the others with more moderate interest; and presently Will caught the end of the cord, drew it out, and made a big knot in the end so it could not snap back again and disappear. Then, in the severed portion, he found the other end of the broken elastic, and when these two ends had been firmly knotted together the joints of the leg snapped firmly into place and the successful operation was completed.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 767
