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?"