CHAPTER VII
A MAN OF "PRINCIPLES"
"One dozen stockings—six woolen and six silk—imagine owning six pairs of silk stockings—-six nighties—don't they look luxurious, all beribboned and fluffy? One thick sweater, one pair of stout boots—I hope these boots are stout enough; they look as if they could kick a hole through the side of a battle-ship. One mackintosh—now where under the sun can I put this mackintosh?"
"Oh, just roll it up in a bundle and slam it in that corner near your shoes. It'll keep 'em from bumping around. My dear, you look as if you'd been in a tornado."
"In a tornado! I am a tornado." Nancy lifted a flushed face, and gazed at Alma through a haze of tumbled hair. Then she sat back on her heels in front of the open trunk, and seizing her locks near the temples, pulled them frenziedly. "Alma Prescott, if you sit there another moment looking calm, I'll throw this shoe-horn at you. Do anything, scream, run around in circles, pant, anything, but don't look calm. Every minute I'm forgetting something vital. Let me see, nail-brush, tooth-brush, cold-cream——"
"If you go over that formula again, I'll be a mopping, mowing idiot," observed Alma serenely, from the window-seat. "I wonder how one mops and mows—it sounds awfully idiotic, doesn't it? I saw you put the nail-brush and the tooth-brush and the cold-cream in the tray there—left-hand corner. Now, for goodness' sake, forget about them—it's just little things like that that unhinge the greatest minds. You're horribly bad company while you're packing a trunk."
"Well, anyhow, it's nearly done now—and yours is ready."
"You're a lamb for doing mine for me—I haven't been a bit of help, I know. Oh, you know it's going to be glorious fun—at boarding school. I've always longed to go to boarding school. And it isn't awfully strict at Miss Leland's, Elise Porterbridge says. They have midnight feasts, and all sorts of things—and then, you know, Frank Barrows is at Harvard, and he asked me up there for some dance near Christmas. Don't you think Frank is very nice, Nancy?" This was what Alma had been leading around to, and Nancy knew it. Personally she thought Frank rather an affected youth, but she had sense enough not to air this opinion before Alma just then.
"Why, yes, he seems very nice," she replied, with very mild interest.
"I think he has sort of more to him than most men of his age," pursued Alma, affecting a judicial air.
"Probably he has."
"He dances beautifully. Goodness, I had a wonderful time the other night. I know that you probably think it's wrong of me, but I'd like nothing more than to go to a party like that every night in the week."
"I don't think it's wrong at all—only I think you'd probably get awfully sick of it in a little while. And—and the chief trouble as far as we are concerned is that it's so dreadfully expensive. I know you think I'm always harping on the same string—but do you remember the motto of Mr. Micawber—'Income one pound—expenditure nineteen shillings and sixpence—product, happiness; income one pound, expenditure one pound and sixpence, product, misery——'"
"Well, I know that's very sensible, but there's lots of sense to 'eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die,'" returned Alma, with a gay laugh. "You're thinking about my dress and slippers—I could have killed that person who spilt their fruit punch all over my skirt, but there was nothing to do about it, and besides I'm sure I can hide the stain with a sash or something. I don't believe in worrying." With this, Madame Optimist turned and, pressing her short nose against the window pane, drummed with her little pink nails against the wet glass. The rain was falling again in a monotonous drenching downpour, stripping the trees of the few, brown, shivering leaves that clung to the dripping branches. The promise of Indian summer seemed to have been definitely broken for reasons of Dame Nature's own, and the weather was having a tantrum about it. But inside, the little bedroom was all the cosier in contrast to the woebegone gloom of the early dusk. The chintz window curtains of Nancy's making were faded by many washings, it is true, and the two white iron bedsteads might have looked sprucer for a coat of paint, but with a fire glowing in the grate, and sending out an almost affectionate glint upon all the familiar objects, the little room had an air of motherly cheerfulness and comfort. A shabby but inviting armchair stood in front of the hearth. In a corner, a white bookcase harbored a family of well-worn volumes, ranging from "Grimm's Fairy Tales," and "Stepping Stones to English Literature" to "The Three Musketeers" and "Jane Eyre," all tattered and thumbed, and seeming to wear the happy, weary expression of a rag doll that has been "loved to death."
"Well," Nancy was saying, in reply to Alma's observation, "I don't believe in worrying, but I do believe in having an umbrella if you live in a rainy climate. Then you don't have to worry about the—rain. Comprenez-vous?"
"I comprenez—you are talking in symbols, aren't you? Where's Mother?"
"Here I am, darling," replied Mrs. Prescott from the doorway. "Dear me, the trunks are all packed, aren't they? Nancy, what a wonderful child you are. Oh, whatever am I going to do without my daughters!"
"This time to-morrow night we'll all be dying of the blues. Thank goodness, here's Hannah with some tea—I'm starving," said Nancy, springing up to take the tray from the hands of the fat old woman, who had just made her appearance, her full, solemn red face looming behind the teapot.
They all gathered around the fire, Nancy and Alma settling cross-legged on the floor, and immediately opening a disastrous attack on the plate of chocolate cake—Hannah's prize contribution to this farewell feast.
"This time to-morrow night we'll probably be regaling ourselves on baked beans and cold rice-pudding," added Alma, cramming chocolate cake into her mouth like a greedy child. "That's an awful thought."
"Now, miss, ye don't suppose they'll be feedin' ye bad," exclaimed Hannah in great concern. The old woman had taken her stand respectfully near the doorway, loath to lose the last few glimpses of her adored young mistresses. "If ye think that now, I can send ye a box of jellies and the like any time ye say."
"Well, they'll probably give us something more than bread and water—but not much," replied Nancy, seriously. "They don't believe in giving students much to eat, because it hampers their brains."
"Is that so, now?" marvelled Hannah.
"It is indeed—it's a scientific fact, Hannah. When we come back for the Christmas holidays, we'll probably be so pale and wan that we won't even cast a shadow. But goodness, how clever we'll be."
"I'm a great believer in good feedin'," commented Hannah dubiously. "And I don't cotton much to scientifics, if you'll pardon me, miss. Lord, what an empty house 'twill be without ye."
"I hope you aren't insinuating that we take up much room," laughed Nancy; she was teasing Hannah to cover up her own growing sensation of homesickness and uneasiness. "Take good care of Mother, Hannah, and don't let her go out without her rubbers on, and—and make her write to us every single day. It's ridiculous, I suppose, to talk as if we were going twelve hundred instead of twelve miles, but we've never been even twelve miles away from home before."
"Yes, and there's nothing like seeing something of the world to broaden a person," observed Alma, sagely. "When I'm grown up, I shall certainly travel. I intend to make a tour of the world. Egypt especially—goodness, I'd like to go to Egypt. That Edith Palliser was a lucky girl—her guardian took her to Paris and Rome and Cairo and even to Algiers, and she met all kinds of interesting people—a Spanish prince and a Russian count, and loads of artists and writers and things. I'm afraid that we must be terribly provincial."
"Ah, now, don't say that," remonstrated Hannah, who had no idea what "provincial" meant, and was consequently convinced that it must mean something very bad indeed. "Bless my soul! There's the bell—now who could be comin' here on a day like this?"
The door-bell had indeed been rung fiercely, and a second ring followed impatiently upon the first. Hannah vanished.
"Who in the world——" wondered Nancy.
"Sh! It's some man."
Alma sprang up, and running out into the hall leaned curiously over the bannister. In a moment she returned, looking as if she had seen a ghost, her mouth open, and her eyes popping.
"Nancy! Mother! I think it's Uncle Thomas!"
"Nonsense!" But Nancy too scrambled to her feet and stood listening with suspended breath. "Mother——!"
"No, my dear—it—it couldn't be!" Mrs. Prescott had turned quite pale. "It must be just some tradesman. See—there's Hannah now."
But Hannah's face confirmed the dazing suspicion. Without even announcing the stupifying news, she leaned weakly against the doorway, and pressed her hand to her ample bosom, signifying an overwhelming agitation.
"Who is it, Hannah?"
"The saints protect us, miss—ma'am! Sure, it's the old gentleman himself—as large as life, indeed. 'Is the missis home?' says he, and before I can draw breath—'Tell her Mr. Prescott is waitin' on her, and would like to see the young ladies,' says he. And he sticks his soakin' umbrella in the corner, and without takin' off his overshoes, stalks into the livin'-room. 'Humph!' says he, seein' the hole in the carpet, 'that's dangerous. I like to have broken me neck. Be good enough to hurry, ma'am,' says he, 'an' don't stand gawpin' at me like a simpleton.' 'Will ye have a seat, sir?' says I. 'I will, when I want one,' says he, short-like, and there he stands standin' and starin' around him, and suckin' at his lips, and kinda talkin' to hisself. What shall I be tellin' him, ma'am?"
This bomb seemed to have paralyzed the little family.
"I—I—tell him——" stammered Mrs. Prescott, looking piteously at Nancy for help.
"You'd better go right down, Mother. Why, you look frightened to death, dear."
"I am. He frightens me dreadfully. I can't bear sarcastic people. Do go down alone, Nancy,—tell him I have a headache."
"No, no! That wouldn't be wise. What can he say? He may want to be very nice," said Nancy, reassuringly. "Come along—don't keep him waiting. Here, just tuck up your hair a bit. Come on, Alma."
Inwardly quaking, but outwardly preserving a dignified composure, the three descended the staircase, with the calmness of people going to some inevitable fate.
"He can't bite you, dear," whispered Nancy to her mother, with a nervous little giggle.
Mr. Prescott was standing perfectly still, with his back toward the door, staring with an evidently absorbed interest at the wall in front of him. He turned slowly, as Mrs. Prescott entered the room, and for a moment surveyed her and the two girls without speaking. Then he said, casually:
"Good-afternoon, Lallie."
Alma shot a glance at Nancy.
"Good-afternoon, Uncle Thomas," said Mrs. Prescott, in a rather faint voice, and flushing crimson with nervousness. "It—it is very kind of you——"
"Not at all," he interrupted, brusquely, "not at all. May we have a light—it is rather dark."
Nancy quickly lit the gas, and as the light from the jet shone down on her upturned face the old man scrutinized her keenly. A queer, half-tender, but repressed expression changed the lines in his stern old face for a moment, then he looked at Alma, who was regarding him with perfectly unconcealed terror and awe.
"How do you do?" he said to her, holding out his hand. "How do you do? You're my niece Alma, eh? Anne is the one who looks like—like my nephew, and Alma is the one who resembles her mother." He said this as if he were repeating some directions to himself. "I haven't seen you since you were children." He shook Alma's hand formally, and sat down at Mrs. Prescott's timid invitation, The short silence which ensued, while it seemed like an age of discomfort to the Prescotts, apparently was unobserved by him.
"It has been a very long time since—since I have seen you, Uncle Thomas," said Mrs. Prescott in desperation, quite aware that this remark, like any one she should make just then, was a very awkward one.
"Yes. I never go out, madam. So this is Anne—Nancy, eh?" He turned abruptly to the girl and met her clear, steady eyes sharply. "You were a child—a very little girl when I saw you last. You resemble my nephew very much,—my—my dear.
"No doubt, madam, you are wondering at the reason of this visit," he said, all at once plunging into the heart of matters with an air of impatience at any "beating about the bush." "I've no doubt it was the last thing in the world you expected, eh?"
"It was indeed a surprise," murmured Mrs. Prescott.
"I realized that my grandnieces are growing up, and I had a curiosity to see them. There is the kernel of the matter. They are handsome girls. I suppose everyone knows that they have a rich uncle—and prospects, eh?"
"Neither my daughters nor anyone else has been deluded in that respect," answered Mrs. Prescott, with a touch of spirit.
"Hum. Well, that's good, I should say. Nothing puts anyone in such a false position as to be generally regarded as having—prospects. It's ruinous, especially for girls."
"My daughters have been taught that they must rely entirely on themselves. You need not have come to repeat the lesson to them, Uncle Thomas," returned Mrs. Prescott, trying to conceal her temper. Mr. Prescott affected not to notice her rising annoyance, which was a natural enough reaction from her earlier nervousness. Instead he next addressed himself directly to Alma.
"So you think I'm a regular old ogre, don't you, my dear?" His eyes suddenly twinkled at her palpable terror and distress, but only Nancy caught the twinkle. "You think I'm a queer, crotchety old fellow, eh? Well, don't let's talk about me. I want to know what you are planning to do with yourselves—an old man's curiosity. Your face is your fortune, my dear—though a pretty face is not infrequently a misfortune, so the wiseacres say. I understand that you two young ladies are going now to a fashionable school,—to learn how to be fashionable, no doubt. That's a folly—it would be better if you stayed at home and learned how to cook and darn."
"We can cook and darn," said Nancy, demurely.
"So? Good. Now tell me why are you going to this school? It's no place for poor girls. I suppose it's some woman's notion of yours, ma'am?" pursued the old gentleman, turning to Mrs. Prescott.
"My plans for my daughters can concern you so little, Uncle Thomas——" began Mrs. Prescott, throwing her usual diplomacy to the winds.
"That it behooves me to mind my own business, eh?" Mr. Prescott finished for her with perfect good-humor. "You are quite right, madam." He seemed really pleased at Mrs. Prescott's spirit, and went on, "You do right to tell me so. I have acted in a most unkinsmanly way toward my nieces, and consequently it's none of my business what they do or what they don't do. Well, if you had allowed me to interfere in this matter, I should have imagined that you were doing so simply because you wanted to get into my good graces, and so forth, which would have been quite useless in as far as it would have changed my plans in regard to them. It's a very silly thing you are doing with them, in my opinion, but I'm glad you have spirit enough to stick to your own mind. Now, my dear, don't be angry with me. Understand that I have come to interfere in your plans in no way at all. It's not my purpose to use your poverty and your need for my money as a force by which to tyrannize over you. I had these thoughts in mind when I came here to-day—on an old man's whimsical impulse: I wished, first of all, to put a period to the unfriendliness that has existed between us all these years; I wished to see my nieces, and I wished, at the same time—and in order to avoid any false attitude on your part or on my own—to have it clearly understood that you must not expect any financial assistance from me. Live out your own lives—think out your own problems—make your mistakes, fearlessly—do not, I beg you, humiliate yourselves by trying to conciliate an old man, who chooses to do what he will with the money he made with his own wits and labor. There, that is particularly what I wanted to say to you. Don't try to 'work' me. Don't expect anything from me. Thus, if we are friends, it will be a disinterested friendship. Otherwise, if I felt that we were on good terms, I should be thinking to myself—'It is only because I am the rich uncle.' If you were amiable with me, I'd think, 'That's because they are afraid of angering me.' Now—let us be friends. I think I can be very fond of my nieces—but don't expect anything from me. Is that clear? Will you make friends with an old man on those terms?" He looked first into Mrs. Prescott's eyes, and saw that she was still hostile; at Alma, and read her bewilderment in her face, and then at Nancy. Again his eyes softened, almost touchingly, and with quick instinct she understood the appeal that lay beneath his brusque language. She remembered her father's stories of his tenderness, and somehow she understood that what the old man longed for was the simple affection of which for so long his life had been empty. And she understood, too, his dread of gaining that affection by holding out hopes of payment for it. His reiterated "Don't expect anything of me," was more of a plea than a curt warning. He wanted their good-will for himself, and not for his money—that was what he was trying to say in his brusque, almost crude, way. Her eyes were bright with this understanding of his heart, and she held out her hand with a smile; for he seemed to have turned directly to her for his answer. He grasped her hand eagerly.
"There!" he exclaimed, with an almost child-like pleasure. "There is George's daughter, every inch. We understand each other, eh? Good girl. We shall be friends, eh? I'm a friend—not a rich old uncle, who'll give you what you want, if you manage him right. That's it, you understand? Now, this is pleasant—this is honest. Be independent, my dear. Don't expect anything of me. I tell you—if I thought that it was only thoughts of my money that bought your good-will, I'd give the last cent of it away to-morrow."
He got up, evidently well satisfied, and still retaining Nancy's hand in his. The other he held out to Mrs. Prescott, who took it, with a constrained smile; and then, in high good-humor he pinched Alma's dimpled chin playfully.
"Good-day! Good-day! I'm glad I came. We'll know each other better after a while. We understand each other, eh? The hatchet is buried, eh? Good. It's a piece of business I've been putting off for a long while. Tut-tut! Where's my umbrella?"
The three Prescotts stood at the window, staring with varying feelings at the stooped, but surprisingly agile old figure that walked off through the rain and fog, head down, the worn velvet collar of his old coat hunched around his neck—and with never a look behind. Then, all at once, both Alma and Nancy broke out laughing.
"You seemed to get along with him beautifully," chuckled Alma. "Goodness, he scared me out of my five wits—so that I couldn't understand a word he was saying. I couldn't tell you for the life of me what he was talking about. I think he must be crazy. But he doesn't seem so bad at all. At times he even looked rather nice."
"Why, I believe he is nice," said Nancy. "He's a funny, eccentric old man, but I'm sure that he'd be rather a dear, if he doesn't think that we are trying to 'manage' him as he says."
Mrs. Prescott was silent, her pretty face frowning a little. Nancy looked at her a moment, and then putting her arms around her, rubbed her own ruddy cheek against her mother's pink one.
"Put yourself in his place, Mother," she said gently. "He's very lonely—he wants to be friendly—he was thinking of Father all the time, you know. But he has a horror of our being affectionate with him just for the sake of his money. Imagine what it would be to be a lonely old man, always troubled by the thought that the only reason people would be nice to him was because they were hoping to profit by it."
"He made it very clear that he has no intention of—of helping us in that way," said Mrs. Prescott.
"And I'm glad of it. I'm glad of it!" cried Nancy. "I don't want to act and think and live to conciliate a rich relative. I think that must be the most hateful position in the world. I want to forget that Uncle Thomas is very rich and very old—just as he wants us to forget it. I want to make my own life, and have no one to thank or to blame for whatever I accomplish but myself."
"What an independent lassie! You are right, dear," said Mrs. Prescott, touching the little curls around Nancy's flushed face affectionately. "You are right. You are like a boy, aren't you? I was never that way myself—and that was the trouble. You have such good sense, my dear. Whatever am I going to do without you?"