 CHAPTER ONE of ARN'T CHANGED SNEEZES. This is a LibreVox recording. All LibreVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibreVox.org. ARN'T CHANGED SNEEZES by L. Frank Baum. CHAPTER ONE. Beth receives an invitation. Professor Dugrath was sorting the mail at the breakfast table. Here's a letter for you, Beth," said he, and tossed it across the cloths to where his daughter sat. The girl raised her eyebrows, expressing surprise. It was something unusual for her to receive a letter. She picked up the square envelope between a finger and thumb, and carefully read the inscription, Miss Elizabeth Dugrath, Cloverton, Ohio. Turning the envelope, she found on the river's flap a curious armorial emblem, with the word Elmhurst. Then she glanced at her father, her eyes big and somewhat startled in expression. The professor was deeply engrossed in a letter from Benjamin Lowenstein, which declared that a certain note must be paid at maturity. His weak, watery blue eyes stared rather blankly from behind the gold-rimmed spectacles. His flat nostrils extended and compressed like those of a frightened horse, and the indecisive mouth was tremulous. At the best the professor was not an imposing personage. He wore a dressing-grain of soiled, quilted silk and linen not too immaculate, but his little sandy moustache and the goatee that decorated his reseeding chin were both carefully waxed into sharp points, an indication that he possessed at least one vanity. Three days in the week he taught vocal and instrumental music to the ambitious young ladies of Cloverton. The other three days he rode to Pelham's Grove, ten miles away, and taught music to all who wished to acquire that desirable accomplishment. But the towns were small, and the fee is not large, so that Professor de Graf had much difficulty in securing an income sufficient for the needs of his family. The stout, sour, visage-to-lady, who was half hidden by her newspaper at the other end of the table, was also a breadwinner, for she taught embroidery to the women of her acquaintance, and made various articles of fancy work that were sold at Biggore's Emporium. The largest store in Cloverton. So, between them, the Professor and Mrs. de Graf managed to defray ordinary expenses and keep Elizabeth at school. But there were one or two dreadful notes that were constantly hanging over their heads like the sword of Democles, threatening to ruin them at any moment their creditors proved obdurate. Seeing her father and mother both occupied, the girl ventured to open her letter. It was written in a sharp, angular, feminine hand, and read as follows. My dear niece, it will please me to have you spend the months of July and August as my guest at Elmhurst. I am in miserable health, and wish to become better acquainted with you before I die. A check for necessary expenses is enclosed, and I shall expect you to arrive promptly on the first of July. Your aunt, Jane Merrick. A low exclamation from Elizabeth caused her father to look in her direction. He saw the bank check lying beside her plate, and the sight lent an eager thrill to his voice. What is it, Beth? A letter from Aunt Jane. Mrs. DeGraph gave a jump and crushed the newspaper into her lap. What? she screamed. Aunt Jane has invited me to spend two months at Elmhurst, said Elizabeth, and passed the letter to her mother, who grabbed it excitedly. How big is the check, Beth? Inquired the professor in a low tone. A hundred dollars? She says it for my expenses. Huh? Of course you won't go near that dreadful old cat, so we can use the money to better advantage. Adolf? The harsh cutting voice was that of his wife, and the professor shrank back in his chair. Your sister Jane is a mean, selfish, despicable old female. He muttered. You've said so a thousand times yourself, Julia. My sister Jane is a very wealthy woman, and she's a merit. Return the lady civilly. How dare you? A common DeGraph aspires her character. The DeGraphs are a very good family. He retorted. Show me one who is wealthy. Show me one who is famous. I can't, said the professor. But they are decent and they are generous, which is more than can be said for your tribe. But Elizabeth must go to Elmhurst. Said Mrs. DeGraph, ignoring her husband's taunt. She shan't. Your sister refused to loan me fifty dollars last year, when I was in great trouble. She hasn't given you a single cent since I married you. No daughter of mine shall go in Elmhurst to be bullied and insulted by Jane Merrick. Adolf, try to conceal the fact that you are a fool, said his wife. Jane is in a desperate state of health and can't live very long at the best. I believe she's decided to leave her money to Elizabeth, or she never would have invited the child to visit her. Do you want to fly in the face of Providence, your daughter ring old imbecile? No, said the professor, accepting the doubtful appellation without a blush. How much do you suppose Jane is worth? A half million at the very least. When she was a girl, she inherited from Thomas Bradley, the man she was engaged to marry, and who was suddenly killed in a railway accident. More than a quarter of a million dollars, besides that beautiful estate of Elmhurst. I don't believe Jane has even spent a quarter of her income, and the fortune must have increased enormously. Elizabeth will be one of the wealthiest heiresses in the country. If she gets the money, which I doubt. Then the professor, gloomily, why should you doubt it after this letter? You had another sister and a brother, and they both had children, said he. They each left a girl, I admit, but Jane has never favored them any more than she has me, and this invitation coming when Jane is practically on her deathbed is a warrant that Beth will get the money. I hope she will, sighed the music teacher. We all need it bad enough, I'm sure. During this conversation, Elizabeth, who might be supposed the one most interested in her aunt's invitation, sat silently at her place, eating her breakfast with her accustomed calmness of demeanor and scarcely glancing at her parents. She had pleasant and quite regular features for a girl of fifteen, with dark hair and eyes, the merry eyes, her mother proudly declared, and a complexion denoting perfect health and coloured with the rosy tints of youth. Her figure was a bit slim and unformed, and her shoulders stooped a little more than was desirable, but in Cloverton Elizabeth had the reputation of being a pretty girl, and a sullen and unresponsible one as well. Immediately she rose from her seat, glanced at the clock, and then went into the hall to get her hat and school books. The prospect of being an heiress some day had no present bearing on the fact that it was time to start for school. Her father came to the door with a check in his hand. Just sign your name on the back of this, Beth, said he, and I'll get it cashed for you. The girl shook her head. No, father, she answered, if I decide to go to Aunt Jane's, I must buy some clothes, and if you get the money, I'll never see a cent of it. When will you decide? He asked. There's no hurry, I'll take time to think it over. She replied. I hate Aunt Jane, of course, so if I go to her, I must be a hypocrite and pretend to like her, or she never will leave me her property. Well, Beth, perhaps it will be worthwhile, but if I go into that woman's house, I'll be acting a living lie. But think of the money, said her mother. I do think of it. That's why I didn't tell you at once to send the check back to Aunt Jane. I'm going to think of everything before I decide. But if I go, if I owe this money to make me a hypocrite, I won't stop at trifles, I assure you. It's in my nature to be dreadfully wicked and cruel and selfish, and perhaps the money isn't worth the risk I run of becoming depraved. Else, Beth? Goodbye. I'm late now." She continued, in the same quiet tone, and walked slowly down the walk. The professor twisted his moustache, and looked into his wife's eyes with a half-frightened glance. Beth's a mighty queer girl. He muttered. She's very like Aunt Jane, returned Mrs. Dugraff thoughtfully gazing after her daughter. But she's defiant and willful enough for all the merits put together. I do hope she'll decide to go to Elmhurst. End of chapter 1 Chapter 2 of Aunt Jane sneezes. This is a LibriVox recording. More LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Aunt Jane sneezes. By L. Frank Baum. Chapter 2 Mother and Daughter In the cozy chamber of an apartment located in a fashionable quarter of New York, Louise Merrick reclined upon a couch, dressed in a dainty morning gown, and propped and supported by dozen embroidered cushions. Upon a tabaret, beside her bed, stood a box of bonbons, the contents of which she occasionally nibbled as she turned the pages of her novel. The girl had a pleasant and attractive face, although its ruthless expression was singular in one so young. It led you to suspect that the short seventeen years of her life had robbed her of all the anticipation and eagerness that is accustomed to pulse and strong young blood and filled her with experiences that compelled her to accept existence in a half-bored and wholly matter-of-fact way. The room was tastefully, though somewhat elaborately, furnished. Yet everything in it seemed as fresh and new as if it had just come from the shop, which was not far from the truth. The apartment itself was new, with highly polished floors and woodwork and decorations undimmed by time. Even the girl's robe, which she wore so gracefully, was new, and the books upon the centre table were of the latest editions. The portier was thrust aside, and an elderly lady entered the room, seating herself quietly at the window, and, after a single glance at the form upon the couch, beginning to embroider patiently upon some work, she took from a silken bag. She moved so noiselessly that the girl did not hear her, and for several minutes absolute silence pervaded the room. 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 slap. Who is this woman, Mama? 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? I read 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. Her 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 crapped, disagreeable woman, old before her time and friendless because she suspected everyone of trying to rob her of her money. Her 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, much 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 are plunging, Louise, and it may be into a bottomless pit. Don't worry, dear, said the girl, biting into a bone-bone. We are only on the verge of our great adventure, and there is no reason to be discouraged yet, I assure you. Brilliant! Of course, the idea was brilliant, Mama. 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 decide 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 creases long before that, never fear. You ought to return the mother thoughtfully, but if you fail, you 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 adventurous, 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 don't despise a millionaire, but we'll 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 means 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 you have two strengths to your bow. You mean that I should accept her queer invitation to visit her? Yes. She has sent me a cheque 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're worthy to inherit her fortune. The girl laughed, likely. It will be easy to catch all 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 strengths 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 our 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. Her 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 her 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, too, 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 important, 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 pervasive 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, my dear, she said briefly, I shall go. End of CHAPTER II. CHAPTER III OF ANT CHANGED NEESIS. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. ARM'T CHANGED NEESIS by L. Frank Baum. CHAPTER III PATZI Now major, stand up straight and behave yourself. How do you expect me to sponge your vest when you're wriggling ground in that way? Patsi, 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 spilled, 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 obern or 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 favourite 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, trunked 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 a 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 Patse, then hand over the coin, she commanded. The major obeyed. She counted it carefully and placed it in her pocket-book, afterwards passing a half-dollar back to her father. Remember, Major, no rite is living. Make that go as far as you can, and take care not to invite anyone to drink with you. Yes, Patse, and now I'll order the dinner. The waiter was bowing and smiling beside her. Everyone smiled at Patse, 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. Patse! People at the nearby 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, Patse. Some born sent me to a swell house in 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 Juliet ever made it. Indeed, she wrote a note to Madam, asking her to send me, hereafter, instead of Juliet, and Madam patted my hand 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 can earn yourself at that miserable bookkeeping. Suffer in mosses, ejaculated the astonished Major, staring back into her twinkling eyes. If this capes on, we'll be millionaires, Patse. We are millionaires now, responded Patse promptly, because we have help 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 have 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 return. 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, Patse, Patse, 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, Patse? 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. It's a letter, said the Major. It came yesterday, or may have the day before. I don't just remember. A letter? And who from? She cried, surprised. An owl to vixen. And who made that be? Your mother's sister, Jane. I can tell by the emblem on the flap of the envelope, said he, drawing a crumpled paper from his breast pocket. Oh, that person, said Patsy, with scorn. Whatever induced her to write to me? You might read it and find out, suggested the Major. Patricia tore open the envelope and scanned the letter. Her eyes blazed. What is it, Maveryn? An insult, she answered, crushing the paper in her hand and then stuffing it into the pocket of her dress. Like your pipe, Daddy, dear. Here, I'll strike the match. End of chapter three. Chapter four of Aunt Jane sneezes. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Aunt Jane sneezes by L. Frank Baum. Chapter four. Louise makes a discovery. How did you enjoy the reception, Louise? Very well, Mama. But I made the discovery that my escort, Harry Windham, is only a poor cousin of the rich Windham family and will never have a penny he doesn't earn himself. I know that, said Mrs. Merrick. But Harry has the entree into some very exclusive social circles. I hope you treated him nicely, Louise. He can be of use to us. Oh, yes, I think I interested him. But he's a very stupid boy. By the way, Mama, I had an adventure last evening, which I have had no time to tell you off before. Yes? It has given me quite a shock. You notice the maid you ordered to come from Madam Bourne to dress my hair for the reception? I merely saw her. Was she unsatisfactory? She was very clever. I never looked prettier, I'm sure. The maid is a little demure thing, very young for such a position and positively homely and common in appearance. But I hardly noticed her until she dropped a letter from her clothing. It fell just beside me and I saw that it was addressed to no less a personage than my rich aunt, Miss Jane Merrick, at Elmhurst. Curious to know why a hairdresser should be in correspondence with Aunt Jane, I managed to conceal the letter under my skirts until the maid was gone. Then I put it away until after the reception. It was sealed and stamped already for the post, but I moistened the flap and easily opened it. Guess what I read? I have no idea, replied Mrs. Merrick. Here it is, continued Louise, producing a letter and carefully unfolding it. Listen to this, if you please. Aunt Jane, she doesn't even say dear or respected, you observe. Your letter to me, asking me to visit here, is almost an insult after your years of silence and neglect and your refusal to assist my poor mother when she was in need. Thank God we can do without your friendship and assistance now for my honoured father, Major Gregory Doyle, is very prosperous and earns all we need. I return your check with my compliments. If you are really ill, I'm sorry for you and would go to nurse you where you're not able to hire 20 nurses, each of whom would have fully as much love and far more respect for you than could ever. Your indignant knees, Patricia Doyle. What do you think of that, Mama? It's very strange, Louise. This hairdresser is your own cousin. So it seems, and she must be poor or she wouldn't go out as a sort of ladies' maid. I remember scolding her civilly for pulling my hair at one time and she was as meek as Moses and never answered a word. She has a temper, though, as this letter proves, said Mrs. Merrick. And I admire her for the stand she has taken. So do I, rejoined Louise with a laugh, for it removes a rival from my path. You will notice that Aunt Jane has sent her a check for the same amount she sent me. Here it is folded in the letter. Probably my other cousin, the Dugrath girl, is likewise invited to Elmhurst. Aunt Jane wanted us all to see what we were like and perhaps to choose between us. Quite likely, said Mrs. Merrick, uneasily watching her daughter's face. That being the case, continued Louise, I intend to enter the competition. With this child's patricia out of the way, it will be a simple duel with my unknown Dugrath cousin for my aunt's favour and the excitement will be agreeable even if I'm worsted. There's no danger of that, said her mother calmly. And the stakes are high, Louise. I've learned that your aunt Jane is rated as worth a half million dollars. They shall be mine, said the daughter with assurance, unless indeed the Dugrath girl is most wonderfully clever. What is her name? Elizabeth, if I remember rightly. But I'm not sure she is yet alive, my dear. I haven't heard of the Dugrath for a dozen years. Anyway, I shall accept my aunt Jane's invitation and make the acceptance as sweet as patricia Doyle's refusal is sour. Aunt Jane will be simply furious when she gets the little hairdressers note. Will you send it on? Why not? It's only a question of re-sealing the envelope and mailing it, and it will be sure to settle Miss Doyle's chances of sharing the inheritance for good and all. And the check? Oh, I shall leave the check inside the envelope. It wouldn't be at all safe to cash it, you know. But if you took it out, Jane would think the girl had kept it money, after all, and would be even more incensed against her. No, said Louise after a moment's thought. I'll not do a single act of dishonesty that could ever by any chance be traced to my door. To be cunning, to be diplomatic, to play the game of life with the best cards we can draw is every woman's privilege. But if I can't win honestly, Matatya, I'll quit the game for even money can't compensate a girl for the loss of her self-respect. Mrs. Merrick cast a fleeting glance at her daughter and smiled. Perhaps the heroics of Louise did not greatly impress her. End of chapter four. Chapter five of Aunt Jane's nieces. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bridget Gage. Aunt Jane's nieces by L. Frank Baum. Chapter five, Aunt Jane. Lift me up, fibs. No, not that way. Confound your awkwardness. Do you want to break my back? There, that's better. Now the pillow at my head. Oh, what are you blinking at, you old owl? Are you better this morning, Miss Jane? Asked the attendant, with grave deference. No, I'm worse. You look brighter, Miss Jane. Don't be stupid, Martha fibs. I know how I am, better than any doctor, and I tell you I'm on my last legs. Anything unusual, Miss? Of course, I can't be on my last legs regularly, can I? I hope not, Miss. What do you mean by that? Are you trying to insult me now that I'm weak and helpless? Answer me, you gibbering idiot. I'm sure you'll feel better soon, Miss. Can't I will you into the garden? It's a beautiful day, and quite sunny and warm already. Be quick about it, then, and don't tire me out with your eternal doddering. When a thing has to be done, do it. That's my motto. Yes, Miss Jane. Slowly and with care, the old attendant wheeled her mistress's invalid chair through the doorway of the room, along a stately passage, and out upon a broad piazza at the back of the mansion. Here were extensive and carefully tended gardens, and the balmy morning air was redolent with the odor of flowers. Jane Merrick sniffed the fragrance with evident enjoyment, and her sharp gray eyes sparkled as she allowed them to roam over the gorgeous expanse of colors spread out before her. I'll go down, I guess, Fibs. This may be my last day on earth, and I'll spend an hour with my flowers before I bid them goodbye forever. Fibs pulled a bell cord and a soft faraway jingle was heard. Then an old man came slowly around the corner of the house. His bare head was quite bald. He wore a short canvas apron and carried pruning shears in one hand. Without a word of greeting to his mistress, or a scarce glance at her half-recumbent form, he mounted the steps of the piazza and assisted Fibs to lift the chair to the ground. How were the roses coming on, James? Poorly, Miss, he answered, and turning his back returned to his work around the corner. If he was surly, Miss Jane seemed not to mind it. Her glance even softened a moment as she followed his retreating form. But now she was reveling amongst the flowers, which she seemed to love passionately. Fibs wheeled her slowly along the narrow paths between the beds, and she stopped frequently to fondle a blossom or pull away a dead leaf or twig from a bush. The roses were magnificent in spite of the old gardeners' croaking, and the sun was warm and grateful and the hum of the bees musical and sweet. It's hard to die and leave all this, Fibs, said the old woman, I catch in her voice, but it's got to be done. Not for a while yet, I hope, Miss Jane. It won't be long, Fibs, but I must try to live until my nieces come, and I can decide which of them is most worthy to care for the old place when I am gone. Yes, Miss. I've heard from two of them already. They jumped at the bait I held out quickly enough, but that's only natural, and the letters are very sensible ones, too. Elizabeth DeGraft says she will be glad to come, and thanks me for inviting her. Louise Merrick is glad to come also, but hopes I am deceived about my health and that she will make me more than one visit after we become friends. A very proper feeling, but I'm not deceived, Fibs, my ends in plain sight. Yes, Miss. Jane. And somebody's got to have my money and dear Elmhurst when I'm through with them. Who will it be, Fibs? I'm sure I don't know, Miss. Nor do I, the money's mine, and I can do what I please with it, and I'm under no obligation to anyone. Except Kenneth, said a soft voice behind her. Jane Merrick gave a start at the interruption and turned red and angry as, without looking around, she answered, stuff and nonsense. I know my duties and my business, Silas Watson. To be sure, said a little withered man, passing around the chair and facing the old woman with unhumbled, deprecating air. He was clothed in black and his smooth-shaven, deeply lined face was pleasant of expression and not without power and shrewd intelligence. The eyes, however, were concealed by heavy-rimmed spectacles and his manner was somewhat shy and reserved. However, he did not hesitate to speak frankly to his old friend, nor minded in the least if he aroused her ire. No one knows better than you, dear Miss. Jane, her duties and obligations, and no one performs them more religiously. But your recent acts, I confess, puzzle me. Why should you choose from a lot of inexperienced, incompetent girls a successor to Thomas Bradley's fortune, when he especially requested you in his will to look after any of his relatives, should they be in need of assistance? Kenneth Forbes, his own nephew, was born after Tom's death, to be sure, but he is alone in the world now, an orphan, and has had no advantages to help him along in life since his mother's death eight years ago. I think Tom Bradley must have had a premonition of what was to come, even though his sister was not married at the time of his death, and I am sure he would want you to help Kenneth now. He placed me under no obligations to leave the boy any money, snapped the old woman, white with suppressed wrath. You know that well enough, Silas Watson, for you drew up the will. The old gentleman slowly drew a pattern upon the graveled walk with the end of his walking stick. Yes, I drew up the will, he said deliberately, and I remember that he gave to you his betrothed bride all that he possessed, gave it gladly and lovingly, and without reserve. He was very fond of you, Miss Jane, but perhaps his conscience pricked him a bit after all, for he added the words, I shall expect you to look after the welfare of my only relative, my sister, Catherine Bradley, or any of her heirs. It appears to me, Miss Jane, that that is a distinct obligation. The boy is now sixteen, and his fine a fellow is one often meets. Bah, an imbecile, an awkward, ill-mannered brat who is only fit for a stable boy. I know him, Silas, and I know he'll never amount to a hill of beans. Leave him my money, not if I hadn't a relative on earth. You misjudge him, Jane. Kenneth is all right if you'll treat him decently, but he won't stand your abuse, and I don't think the less of him for that. Why abuse? Haven't I given him a home and an education? All because Thomas asked me to look after his relatives, and he's been rebellious and pig-headed and sullen and returned for my kindness, so naturally there's little love lost between us. You resented your one obligation, Jane, and although you fulfilled it to the letter, you did not in the spira of Tom Bradley's request. I don't blame the boy for not liking you. Sir. All right, Jane, fly at me if you will, said the little man with a smile, but I intend to tell you frankly what I think of your actions, just as long as we remain friends. Her stern brows unbent a trifle. That's why we are friends, Silas, and it's useless to crawl with you now that I'm on my last legs. A few days more will end me, I'm positive, so bear with me a little longer, my friend. He took her withered hand in his and kissed it gently. You are not so very bad, Jane, said he, and I'm almost sure you will be with us for a long time to come, but you're more nervous and irritable than usual, I'll admit, and I fear this invasion of your nieces won't be good for you. Are they really coming? Two of them are, I'm sure, for they've accepted my invitation, she replied. Here's a letter that just arrived, he said, taking it from his pocket. Perhaps it contains news from the third niece. My glasses, Phibs, cried Miss Jane eagerly, and the attendant started briskly for the house to get them. What do you know about these girls? Asked the old lawyer curiously. Nothing whatever. I scarcely knew of their existence until you hunted them out for me and found they were alive, but I'm going to know them and study them, and the one that's most capable and deserving shall have my property. Mr. Watson sighed. And Kenneth, he asked, I'll provide an annuity for the boy, although it's more than he deserves. When I realized that death was creeping upon me, I felt a strange desire to bequeath my fortune to one of my own flesh and blood. Perhaps I didn't treat my brothers and sisters generously in the old days, Silas. Perhaps not, he answered. So I'll make amends to one of their children. That is, if any one of the three nieces should prove worthy. I see, but if neither of the three is worthy, then I'll leave every cent to charity, except Kenneth's annuity. The lawyer smiled. Let us hope, said he, that they will prove all you desire. It would break my heart, Jane, to see Elmhurst turned into a hospital. Phibs arrived with the spectacles and Jane Merrick read her letter, her face growing harder with every line she mastered, then she crumpled the paper fiercely in both hands, and a moment later smoothed it out carefully and replaced it in the envelope. Silas Watson had watched her silently. Well, said he Elmhurst, another acceptance? No, a refusal, said she, a refusal from the Irishman's daughter, Patricia Doyle. That's bad, he remarked, but in a tone of relief. I don't see it in that light at all, replied Miss Jane. The girl is right. It's a sort of letter I'd have written myself under the circumstances. All right, again, Silas, and humble myself, and tried to get her to come. You surprise me, said the lawyer. I surprise myself, retorted the old woman, but I mean to know more of this Patricia Doyle. Perhaps I've found a goldmine, Silas Watson. End of chapter five. Chapter six of Aunt Jane's nieces. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Bridget Gage. Aunt Jane's nieces by L. Frank Baum. Chapter six, The Boy. Leaving the mistress of Elmhurst among her flowers, Silas Watson walked slowly and thoughtfully along the paths until he reached the extreme left wing of the rambling old mansion. Here, half hidden by tangled vines of climbing roses, he came to a flight of steps leading to an iron-railed balcony, and beyond this was a narrow stairway to the rooms in the upper part of the wing. Miss Merrick, however ungenerous she might have been to others, had always maintained Elmhurst in a fairly lavish manner. There were plenty of servants to look after the house and gardens, and there were good horses in the stables. Whenever her health permitted, she dined in state each evening in the great dining-room, solitary and dignified. Unless on rare occasions, her one familiar, Silas Watson, occupied the sea opposite her. The Boy, as he was contemptuously called, was never permitted to enter this room. Indeed, it would be difficult to define exactly Kenneth Forbes' position at Elmhurst. He had lived there ever since his mother's death, when, a silent and unattractive lad of eight, Mr. Watson had brought him to Jane Merrick and insisted upon her providing a home for Tom Bradley's orphaned nephew. She accepted the obligation reluctantly enough, giving the child a small room in the left wing, as far removed from her own apartments as possible, and transferring all details of his care to Misry Agnew, the old housekeeper. Misry endeavored to do her duty by the Boy, but appreciating the scant courtesy with which he was treated by her mistress. It is not surprising the old woman regarded him merely as a dependent and left him mostly to his own devices. Kenneth, even in his first days at Elmhurst, knew that his presence was disagreeable to Miss Jane, and as the years dragged on, he grew shy and retiring, longing to break away from his unpleasant surroundings, but knowing of no other place where he would be more welcome. His only real friend was the lawyer, who neglected no opportunity to visit the boy and chat with him in his cheery manner. Mr. Watson also arranged with the son of the village curate to tutor Kenneth and prepare him for college. But either the tutor was incompetent or the pupil did not apply himself. For at twenty, Kenneth Forbes was very ignorant indeed and seemed not to apply himself properly to his books. He was short of stature and thin, with a sad, drawn face and manners that even his staunch friend, Silas Watson, admitted were awkward and unprepossessing. What he might have been under different conditions or with different treatment could only be imagined. Slowly climbing the stairs to the little room Kenneth inhabited, Mr. Watson was forced to conclude, with a sigh of regret, that he could not blame Miss Jane for wishing to find a more desirable heir to her estate than this graceless, soul and youth who had been thrust upon her by a thoughtless request contained in the will of her dead lover, a request that she determined to fulfill literally as it only required her to look after Tom's relatives and did not oblige her to leave Kenneth her property. Yet, strange as it may seem, the old lawyer was exceedingly fond of the boy and longed to see him the master of Elmhurst. Sometimes when they were alone, Kenneth forgot his sense of injury and dependence and spoke so well and with such animation that Mr. Watson was astonished and believed that hidden underneath the mask of reserve was another entirely different personality that in the years to come might change the entire nature of the neglected youth and win for him the respect and admiration of the world. But these fits of brightness and geniality were rare. Only the lawyer had as yet discovered them. Today he found the boy lying listlessly upon the window seat and opened book in his hand, but his eyes fixed dreamily upon the grove of huge elm trees that covered the distant hills. Morningken, said he briefly, sitting beside his young friend and taking the book in his own. The margins of the printed pages were fairly covered with drawings of every description. The faraway trees were there and the nearby rose gardens. There was a cat spitting at an angry dog. Caracatures of old misery and James the Gardner and of Aunt Jane and even Silas Watson himself all so clearly depicted that the lawyer suddenly wondered if they were not clever and in evidence of genius. But the boy turned to look at him and the next moment seized the book from his grasp and sent it flying through the open window uttering at the same time a rude exclamation of impatience. The lawyer quietly lighted his pipe. Why did you do that, Kenneth? he asked. The pictures are clever enough to be preserved. I did not know you have a talent for drawing. The boy glanced at him, but answered nothing and the lawyer thought best not to pursue the subject. After smoking a moment in silence, he remarked, your aunt is failing fast. Although no relative, Kenneth had been accustomed to speak of Jane Merrick as his aunt. Getting neither word nor look and reply, the lawyer presently continued, I do not think she will live much longer. The boy stared from the window and drummed on the sill with his fingers. When she dies, said Mr. Watson in a musing tone, there will be a new mistress at Elmhurst and you will have to move out. The boy now turned to look at him inquiringly. You were twenty and you are not ready for college. You would be of no use in the commercial world. You have not even the capacity to become a clerk. What will you do, Kenneth? Where will you go? The boy shrugged his shoulders. When will Aunt Jane die? he asked. I hope she will live many days yet. She may die tomorrow. When she does, I'll answer your question, said the boy roughly. When I'm turned out of this place, which is part prison and part paradise, I'll do something. I don't know what and I won't bother about it till the time comes, but I'll do something. Could you earn a living? asked the old lawyer. Perhaps not, but I'll get one. Will I be a beggar? I don't know. It depends on whether Aunt Jane leaves you anything in her will. I hope she won't leave me ascent, cried the boy, with sudden fierceness. I hate her and will be glad when she is dead and out of my way. Kenneth, Kenneth, lad. I hate her, he persisted with blazing eyes. She has insulted me, scorned me, humiliated me every moment since I have known her. I'll be glad to have her die and I don't want a cent of her miserable money. Money, remarked the old man, knocking the ashes from his pipe, is very necessary to one who is incompetent to earn his salt, and the money she leaves you, if she really does leave you any, won't be hers, remember, but your Uncle Tom's. Uncle Tom was good to my father, said the boy softening. Well, Uncle Tom gave his money to Aunt Jane, whom he had expected to marry, but he asked her to care for his relatives and she'll doubtless give you enough to live on, but the place will go to someone else and that means you must move on. Who will have Elmhurst, asked the boy. One of your aunt's nieces, probably. She has three, it seems, all of them young girls and she has invited them to come here to visit her. Girls, girls at Elmhurst, cried the boy, shrinking back with a look of terror in his eyes. To be sure, one of the nieces, it seems, refuses to come, but there will be two of them to scramble for your aunt's affection. She has none, declared the boy, or her money, which is the same thing, the one she likes the best will get the estate. Kenneth smiled and with the change of expression his face lighted wonderfully. Poor Aunt, he said, almost I am tempted to be sorry for her. Two girls, fighting one against the other for Elmhurst and both fawning before a cruel and malicious old woman who could never love anyone but herself. Aunt her flowers, suggested the lawyer. Oh yes, and perhaps James. Tell me, why should she love James, who is a mere gardener and hate me? James tends the flowers and the flowers are Jane Merrick's very life. Isn't that the explanation? I don't know. The girls need not worry, you Kenneth. It will be easy for you to keep out of their way. When will they come? Next week, I believe. The boy looked around helplessly with the air of a caged tiger. Perhaps they won't know I'm here, he said. Perhaps not. I'll tell Misery to bring all your meals to this room and no one ever comes to this end of the garden. But if they find you, Kenneth, and scare you out of your den, run over to me and I'll keep you safe until the girls are gone. Thank you, Mr. Watson, more graciously than was his want. It isn't that I'm afraid of girls, you know, but they may want to insult me just as their aunt does and I couldn't bear any more cruelty. I know nothing about them, said the lawyer, so I can't vouch in any way for Aunt Jane's nieces. But they are young and it is probable they'll be as shy and uncomfortable here at Elmhurst as you are yourself. And after all, Kenneth boy, the most important thing just now is your own future. What in the world is to become of you? Oh, that, answered the boy, relapsing into his solemn mood. I can't see that it matters much one way or another. Anyhow, I'll not bother my head about it until the time comes. And as far as you're concerned, it's none of your business. End of chapter six. Chapter seven of Aunt Jane's nieces. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Bridget Gage. Aunt Jane's nieces by L. Frank Baum. Chapter seven, The First Warning. For a day or two, Jane Merrick seemed to improve in health. Indeed, Martha Phibbs declared her mistress was better than she had been for weeks. Then one night, the old attendant was awakened by a scream and rushed to her mistress's side. What is it, ma'am? She asked, tremblingly. My leg, I can't move my leg, gasped the mistress of Elmhurst. Rub it, you old fool, rub it till you drop and see if you can bring back the life to it. Martha rubbed, of course, but the task was useless. Oscar the Groom was sent on horseback for the nearest doctor, who came just as day was breaking. He gave the old woman a brief examination and shook his head. It's The First Warning, said he, but nothing to be frightened about. That is, for the present. Is it paralysis, asked Jane Merrick? Yes, a slight stroke. But I'll have another? Perhaps in time. How long? It may be a week or a month or a year. Sometimes there is never another stroke. Don't worry, ma'am. Just lie still and be comfortable. Huh, grunted the old woman. But she became more composed and obeyed the doctor's instructions with unwanted meekness. Silas Watson arrived during the forenoon and pressed her thin hand with real sympathy. For these two were friends, despite the great difference in their temperaments. Shall I draw your will, Jane? he asked. No, she snapped. I'm not going to die just yet, I assure you. I shall live to carry out my plan, Silas. She did live and grew better as the days were on, although she never recovered the use of the paralyzed limb. Each day, Phibbs drew the invalid chair to the porch, and old James lifted it to the garden walk, where his mistress might enjoy the flowers he so carefully and skillfully tended. They seldom spoke together, these two, yet there seemed a strange bond of sympathy between them. At last the first of July arrived and Oscar was dispatched to the railway station four miles distant, to meet Miss Elizabeth Degraff, the first of the nieces to appear in answer to Jane Merrick's invitation. Beth looked very charming and fresh in her new gown, and she greeted her aunt with a calm graciousness that would have amazed the professor to behold. She had observed carefully the grand urine beauty of Elmhurst as she drove through the grounds, and instantly decided the place was worth an effort to win. So this is Elizabeth, is it, asked Aunt Jane, as the girls stood before her for inspection. You may kiss me, child. Elizabeth advanced, striving to quell the antipathy she felt to kiss the stern-featured old woman, and touched her lips to the wrinkled forehead. Jane Merrick laughed, a bit sneeringly, while Beth drew back, still composed, and looked at her relative inquiringly. Well, what do you think of me, demanded Aunt Jane, as if embarrassed at the scrutiny she received. Surely, it is too early to ask me that, replied Beth gently. I am going to try to like you, and my first sight of my new aunt leads me to hope I shall succeed. Why shouldn't you like me? cried the old woman. Why must you try to like your mother's sister? Beth flushed. She had promised herself not to become angry or discomposed, whatever her aunt might say or do. But before she could control herself an indignant expression flashed across her face, and Jane Merrick sought. There are reasons, said Beth slowly, why your name is seldom mentioned in my father's family. Until your letter came I scarcely knew I possessed an aunt. It was your desire we should become better acquainted, and I am here for that purpose. I hope we shall become friends, Aunt Jane, but until then it is better we should not discuss the past. The woman frowned. It was not difficult for her to read the character of the child before her, and she knew intuitively that Beth was strongly prejudiced against her, but was honestly trying not to allow that prejudice to influence her. She decided to postpone further interrogations until another time. Your journey has tired you, she said sharply. I'll have misery show you to your room. She touched a bell beside her. I'm not tired, but I'll go to my room if you please, answered Beth, who realized that she had in some way failed to make as favorable an impression as she had hoped. When may I see you again? When I send for you, snapped Aunt Jane, as the housekeeper entered, I suppose you know I'm a paralytic and liable to die at any time. I am very sorry, said Beth hesitatingly. You do not seem very ill. I'm on my last legs. I may not live an hour, but that's none of your business, I suppose. By the way, I expect your cousin on the afternoon trade. Beth gave a start of surprise. My cousin, she asked. Yes, Louise Merrick. Oh, said Beth, and stopped short. What do you mean by that? Enquired Aunt Jane, with a smile that was rather malicious. I did not know I had a cousin, said the girl, that is, correcting herself. I did not know whether Louise Merrick was alive or not. Mother has mentioned her name once or twice in my presence, but not lately. Well, she's alive, very much alive, I believe, and she's coming to visit me while you are here. I expect you to be friends. To be sure, said Beth, nevertheless disconfidated at the news. We dine at seven, said Aunt Jane. I always lunch in my own room, and you may do the same. And with a wave of her thin hand she dismissed the girl, who thoughtfully followed the old housekeeper through the halls. It was not going to be an easy task to win this old woman's affection. Already she rebelled at the necessity of undertaking so distasteful venture, and wondered if she had not made a mistake in trying to curb her natural frankness, and to conciliate a creature whose very nature seemed antagonistic to her own. And this new cousin, Louise Merrick, why was she coming to Elmhurst? To compete for the prize Beth had already determined to win? In that case she must consider carefully her line of action that no rival might deprive her of this great estate. Beth felt that she could fight savagely for an object she so much desired. Her very muscles hardened and grew tense at the thought of conflict as she walked down the corridor in the wake of old misery the housekeeper. She had always resented the sordid life at Cloverton. She had been discontented with her lot since earliest girlhood, and longed to escape the constant bickerings of her parents, and their vain struggles to obtain enough money to keep up appearances, and drive the wolf from the door. And here was an opportunity to win a fortune and a home beautiful enough for a royal princess. All that was necessary was to gain the esteem of a crabbed, garrulous old woman who had doubtless but a few more weeks to live. It must be done in one way or another. But how? How could she outwit this unknown cousin and inspire the love of Aunt Jane? If there's any stuff of the right sort in my nature, decided the girl, as she entered her pretty bed chamber and threw herself into a chair. I'll find a way to win out. One thing is certain, I'll never again have another chance at so fine a fortune, and if I fail to get it, I shall deserve to live in poverty forever afterward. Suddenly she noticed the old housekeeper standing before her and regarding her with a kindly interest. In an instant she sprang up through 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 and almost a whisper. But don't you mind her tantrums or lay them 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, dearie? 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 a special 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. The brief, because her slightest word to the old gardener, incurred the fulfilment of her wishes. But this bit of garden adjoining her own rooms was her a special 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 colouring 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 stepped outside the grounds to pick wildflowers, and said I was to tell you she'd walk the rest of the way. "'To pick wildflowers?' "'That's what she said, Mum. She's that fond of them she couldn't resist it. I was to come and tell you this, Mum, and 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 strive her to Elmhurst. But this strange freak on the part of her guest set the old woman thinking what her object could be. Wildflowers 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 them, Mum, 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 a 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 ingraceful 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 on responsive 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 in 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 buttercups 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 17, Aunt. I had forgotten you are so old as that. Let me see. Elizabeth cannot be more than fifteen. Elizabeth? Elizabeth digraph your cousin. She arrived to 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? Padding the pillow deftly. I'm afraid you have needed more loving care than a paid attendant can give you, glancing at old Martha Fibbs, 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, Fibbs knows my ways and does all that is required, said the invalid, rather testively. 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 inquiringly and Aunt Jane pointed a bony finger at the porch. That is the way. Fibbs 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 a Jew, 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 an equal chance. End of chapter eight. Chapter nine of Aunt Jane's nieces. This is the Librivox recording. All Librivox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit Librivox.org. Recording by Hilara. Aunt Jane's nieces by Elle Frankbaum. Chapter nine. Chapter nine. 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 reading. 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 tacked, 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, would 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 I'll 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? inquired the other, as of 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. And if you're going to be friends, let's be honest with one another from the start. Well, queried Louise, evidently amused. It 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 defined letter to Aunt Jane or discovered her cousin's identity in the little hairdresser from Madame Bohn's establishment. Has Aunt Jane mentioned her? Continued Beth. Not my presence. Then we may conclude she's left out of the arrangement, 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 own 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. Not 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 for 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 favour. Now, tell me something about yourself and your people. Are you poor? Poor as poverty, said Beth, gloomy. My father teaches music and mother scolds him continually for not being able to earn enough money to keep out of debt. Has Aunt Jane helped you? We've never seen her scent 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 assemble, cousin Elizabeth, she advised, and teach Aunt to love you. For my part, I am fond of everyone and it delights me to fuss around in village and assist them. I ought to have been a trained nurse, you know, but of course, there's no necessity of my earning and living. I suppose not, said Beth. Then, after a thoughtful silence, she resumed abruptly. What's to prevent Aunt Jane leaving you her property, and don't need it? You say you like to care for her in village and I don't. Suppose Aunt Jane prefers you to me and wills you all her money? Why will I 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 Aunt Huss 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, suddenly. 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, persistent 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 Chin, 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 have it on any list of Aunt Chin's possessions, so I don't know. But you should 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 should be yours, dear, whatever Aunt Chin 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 savoured of play-acting, and Louise's manner was too airy to be genuine. Somehow she felt that she was being attacked 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 to tell 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 briskness, and was soon charting 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 to it with such charming naivete, and Beth listened rapturously. Such a girlfriend, it had never been her privilege to have before, and when her suspicions were forgotten, she became fairly responsive and brightened wonderfully. They addressed 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 had much to give the girl's embarrassment. Louise, indeed, seemed quiet 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, she said, 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 Elmer's 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 Elmer's, bribe her, threaten her, gnap her if necessary, Silas, but get her to Elmer's 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 all Elmer's would be sold to strangers, she resumed, with bitterness. But I don't need 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. Repeat to the old lawyer. End of Chapter 9 Cousins Chapter 10 of Aunt Jane's Nieces This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Hilara Aunt Jane's Nieces by L. Frank Baum Chapter 10 The Man with the Bundle In the harness room above this table sat Duncan Moore, 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-biscuits 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 of the building the harness and so on Thursday he performed the task never daring to entrust a work so important to us aboard in it. 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 inquired what do you think of him, Kenneth Lad? Of whom, Don? The young ladies. 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 him to make her a visit. But not yet, Don, not so soon. Nevertheless, they're here. How many, Don? Two, Lad. A bonny young thing came with a morning train and 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 it would be a shame to shut them up if they ever miss this glad weather. But why not? They'll be company for you, Kenneth Lad. How long will they stay? Maybe for I. Oscar, four buys. One of the other will own the place when Miss Jane gives up the ghost. The boy sat silent a moment, thinking upon this beach. 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 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 plain 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 beau's spectacles rested upon the bridge of his nose at exactly the right angle and his underlip 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. Wear wee pencil on the 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 rope of tall bottles. Meantime Kenneth had reached the stable thrown a brittle over the head of a fine sorrel mare and scawning to use a saddle down the lane and out at the rare gate upon the old turn pike road. His head was whirling with amazement his heart full of indignation gulls, gulls at Elmhurst nieces and guests of the fierce old woman he so bitterly hated then indeed his days of peace and quiet would end it. 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 and 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 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 sorrow 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 sorrows flanks began 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 Elmhurd before he realized his cruelty to the splendid mare he bestowed 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 face even better than her rider through the village he paced moorily the brittle 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 border 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 rain and stopped beside the traveller 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 you want to go asked the boy to Jane Merrick's place it's straight ahead said Kenneth as the mayor 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 already 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 a smooth-shaven face that stamped him a man who had seen life in many of its phases Kenneth who resented the companionship for most people seemed attracted by the man and hesitated to gallop on and leave him no 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 of 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 you name lad Kenneth Forbes any Forbes is 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 so believe this time the boy slid off the mare and walked beside the little man holding the brittle 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 relations are just a brother that's all can it stop shot 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 job isn't it I don't know perhaps it's a natural reply to 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 is 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 overnight and that's why I didn't get a horse at the library 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 let me have the horse if I ask him thank you lad return the man gratefully I thought a little exercise would do me good but this three miles has seemed like 30 to me we're here at last said the boy turning into the driveway seeing that you're her brother sir I advise you to go right up to the front door and ring the bell I will said the man I always go around the back way myself I see the boy turned away but in a moment halted again his interest in his James 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 end of chapter 10 the man with the bundle chapter 11 the mad gardener 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 surly 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 worthwhile 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 where 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 things it is true she's schemed and intrigued to advance her personal welfare and position in life but even her schemes were undertaken lightly 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 6 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 fibs 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 to your feet hurt you, she asked yes, Miss, in the morning they's awful bad it's being on them all the day tending to Miss Jane, you know but after a time I get more used to the pain and don't feel it, the morning's always the worst she was passing on but Beth stopped her come into my room, she said and led the way Martha fibs 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 but 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 fibs 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 on 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 fibs while tears of gratitude stood in her faded eyes I'm sure I feel twenty years younger already but you shouldn't have 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 from 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 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? inquired 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 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 Lord no, but he's that odd scary he won't talk to a soul never did since the day Master Tom was killed James was travelling with Master Tom you know and there was an accident and the train run off in the track and tipped over James wasn't hurt at all but he dragged Master Tom out in 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 who 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 and comrade he does his duty and obeys all Miss Jane's orders as faithful as can be but he won't talk and we've all give up trying 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 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 kimono 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 stare and were sitting upon it when fibs 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 fibs 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 gray 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 applied 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 at her aunt's feet but we have enough for our requirements and that makes us feel quite independent by the way, Aunty it's 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 Aunt Jane'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 $100 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 to 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 she was accused, 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 books at 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 amused the old lady but Beth erroneously judged that the aged and infirm 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 housed the sleeper without ceremony what's the matter asked Aunt Jane quarrelously 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 end of chapter 11 read by Kara Schellenberg www.kray.org on August 20th 2009 in San Diego California