"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.