The Big Mogul

by Joseph Crosby Lincoln

“Because—because I do. I’ve lived with him ever since I can remember. He is my uncle, too.”

Townsend rubbed his beard. His frown deepened.

“Humph!” he grunted. The remainder of the drive was less pleasant than that preceding. The captain said very little and his niece was close to tears. In one way she was sorry she had spoken as she had, in another she was not. For some illogical reason the sneer at Mr. Clark, she felt, included her; it had hurt her pride, and the brusque order that she refuse to see him when he called was disturbing. Her Aunt Reliance had assured her, over and over again, that her moving to the big house did not mean the slightest change in their relationship; they would all see each other every day at least, and perhaps several times a day. She had relied on that assurance. Now her faith was shaken. If she could not see Millard might not the next order be that she could not see her aunt? That she would not obey—no, she would not.

Townsend, himself, was not entirely easy in his mind. It was early—or so it seemed to him—for symptoms of rebellion in this new relationship. And open rebellion of any sort was an unaccustomed insult to his imperial will. He was ruffled, but it was not long before his strong common sense took command. He even chuckled inwardly at the thought of the girl’s defiance. She was no soft-soaper, at any rate. She had a will of her own, too, and pluck to back it. She was a Townsend. Well, he had boasted to Reliance that very morning of his ability to handle a skittish colt. He would handle this one, and if tact, rather than the whip, was needed he would use that. When they drove up to the side door of the mansion and he helped her to alight from the dog-cart he was good-natured, even jolly, and ignored her very evident agitation, seemed not to notice it.

During supper and all that evening he was chatty and affable. Esther’s wounded feelings were salved by the change in his manner. This was a new Uncle Foster, not the grand, dogmatic, overbearing autocrat she had been taught to dread and dislike, but a good-humored, joking, sympathizing comrade, who took her into his confidence, treated her as if she really was an equal, not a dependent. He told stories, and interesting ones, of his early life and struggles. She began to feel a new understanding and respect for him. He must be a wonderful man to have fought his way from nothing to the everything he now was. And he talked concerning household affairs, even asked her advice as to Ellen, the second maid, suggested that she keep an eye on the latter and see if her share of the housework was done as it should be. All this was pleasantly grateful and encouraging. It emphasized the impression left by him in their talk about planting the flower garden and strengthened that given by the cordial welcome to the family which Varunas and Nabby had accorded her that morning.

Later on, they went again into the parlor and this time, at his urgent request, she sang. He listened intently and insisted upon repetitions. When the little recital was over he put his arm about her shoulder.

“Your voice is as good as they said it was,” he declared, with emphasis. “I don’t know much about such things, of course, but I know enough to be able to swear you ought to go on with your music. We’ll find the best teacher in the county and if he isn’t good enough we’ll send you where there is a better one. We’ll have you singing in a big Boston concert yet and your Aunt Reliance and I will be down in the front seats clapping our hands. Oh, it’s nothing to laugh at; we’ll be there.”

The mention of her aunt as a member of that audience was the one thing needed to make his praise sweeter. Her apprehensions of the afternoon must have been groundless. It was plain that he had no idea of separating her from her beloved relative. It was only Millard who had irritated him and Uncle Millard was—well, even Reliance, his own half-sister, had more than once confessed, under stress of especial provocation, that he was “not much account.”

Esther’s bed-time thoughts that night were by no means as dismal and hopeless as those of the night before. Pictures of herself as a great singer mingled with her dreams as she fell asleep. Her last conscious conviction was that she did not hate her Uncle Foster; perhaps, as she came to know him better and better, she might even like him. It was perfectly wonderful, the future he was planning for her.

Down in the library Foster Townsend was lounging in the leather chair and thinking over his new plan of campaign as so far carried out. He was very well satisfied. He was quite well aware that he had made a favorable impression. Figuratively he patted himself on the back for the happy astuteness which had given Reliance Clark a seat at that concert. That was the cleverest stroke of the evening. Not that he intended sharing his niece’s future with Reliance or any one else. She was his, and little by little he would make her altogether so. She was a good-looking girl, a clever girl, and he was beginning to believe he had made no mistake in bringing her to his home. With his money and under his guidance she might be, not only the new interest he had sought, but a daughter to be proud of. The little flashes of temper and independence she had shown made the prospect only more alluring. He would make her trot in harness, give him time. His training of the skittish colt so far was not so bad—not so bad.