HOW AUNTY GOT THE NEWS
Say, I expect it ain't good form to get chesty over your relations,
specially when they're so new as mine; but I've got to hand it to Mr.
Kyrle Ballard. After three weeks' tryout he shapes up as some grand
little great-uncle, take it from me!
First off, you know, I had him card indexed as havin' more or less
tabasco in his temper'ment, with a wide grumpy streak runnin' through
his ego. And he is kind of crisp and snappy in his talk, I'll admit.
Strangers might think he was a grouch toter. But that's just his way.
It's all on the outside. Back of that gruff, offhand talk and behind
them bushy, gray eyebrows there's a lot of fun and good nature. One of
the kind that's never seemed to grow up, Uncle Kyrle is, sixty-odd and
still a kid; always springin' some josh or other, and disguisin' the
good turns he does with foolish remarks. And to hear him string Aunt
Martha along from one thing to another is sure a circus.
"Good morning, Sister Martha," says he, blowin' in to a late Sunday
breakfast, all pinked up in the cheeks from a cold tub and a clean
shave. "I trust that you begin the day with a deep conviction of sin?"
"Why, I--I suppose I do, Kyrle," says she, gettin' fussed. "That is, I
try to."
"Good!" says Uncle Kyrle. "It is important that some one in this family
should recognize that this is a sad and wicked world, with Virtue below
par and Honest Worth going baggy at the knees. Zenobia here has no
conviction of sin whatever. Mine is rather weak at times. So you,
Martha, must do the piety for all of us. And please ring for the griddle
cakes and sausage."
Then he winks at Zenobia, gives his grapefruit a sherry bath, and
proceeds to tackle a hearty breakfast.
A few days after him and Zenobia got back from their runaway honeymoon
trip he calls her to the front door. "There's a person out here who says
he has a car for you," says he.
"Nonsense!" says Zenobia. "Why, I haven't ordered a car."
"The impudent rascal!" says Uncle Kyrle. "I'll send him off, then. The
idea!"
"Oh, but isn't it a beauty?" says Zenobia, peekin' out. "Let's see what
he says about it first."
So they go out to the curb, while Uncle Kyrle demands violent of the
young chap in charge what he means by such an outrage. At which the
party grins and shows the tag on the steerin' wheel.
"Why!" says Zenobia. "It has my name on it. Oh, Kyrle, you dear man!
I've a notion to hug you."
"Tut, tut!" says he. "Such a bad example to set the neighbors! Besides,
this young man may object. He has a Y. M. C. A. certificate as a
first-class chauffeur."
That's the way he springs on Aunt Zenobia an imported landaulet, this
year's model, all complete even to monogrammed laprobes and a morocco
vanity case in the tonneau. It's one of these low-hung French cars, with
an eight-cylinder motor that runs as sweet as the purr of a kitten.
Then here Sunday noon he takes me one side confidential. "Torchy," says
he, "could you assist a poor but deserving citizen to retain the respect
of his chauffeur!"
"Go on, shoot it," says I.
"Don't be rash, young man," says he, "for the situation is desperate.
You see, Herman seems to think we ought to use the machine more than we
do. Just to please him we have been whirled through thousands of miles
of adjacent suburbs during the last week. Still Herman is unsatisfied.
Would it be asking too much if I requested you to let him take you out
for the afternoon?"
I gives him the grin. "Maybe I could stand it for this once," says I.
"Noble youth!" says he. "You deserve the iron cross. And should there be
perchance anyone who could be induced to share your self-sacrifice----"
The grin plays tag with my ears. "How'd you guess?" says I.
Uncle Kyrle winks and pikes off.
So about two-thirty P.M. I'm landed at a certain number on Madison-ave.
and runs jaunty up the front steps. I was hopin' Aunty would either be
out or takin' her after-dinner nap. But when it comes to forecastin' her
moves you got to figure on reverse English nine cases out of ten. And if
ever you want a picture of bad luck to hang up anywhere, get a portrait
of Aunty. Out? She's right on hand, as stiff and sour as a frozen dill
pickle. Her way of greetin' me cordial as I'm shown into the drawin'
room is by humping her eyebrows and passin' me the marble stare.
"Well, young man?" says she.
"Why," says I, "not so well as I was a couple of minutes--er--that it's
a fine, spiffy afternoon, ain't it?"
"Spiffy!" says she, drawin' in her breath menacin'.
"Vassarese for lovely," says I. "But I don't insist on the word. By the
way, is Miss Vee in?"
"She is," says Aunty. "This is not Friday evening, however."
"Ah, say!" says I. "Can't we suspend the rules and regulations for once?
You see, I got a machine outside that's a reg'lar--well, it's some car,
believe me!--and seein' how there couldn't be a slicker day for a spin,
I didn't know but what you'd let Vee off for an hour or so."
"Just you and Verona?" demands Aunty, stiffenin'.
It was some pill to swallow, but after a few uneasy throat wiggles I got
it down. "Unless," says I, "you--you'd like to go along too. You
wouldn't, would you?"
Aunty indulges in one of them tight-lipped smiles of hers that's about
as merry as a crack in a vinegar cruet. "How thoughtful of you!" says
she. "However, I am not fond of motoring."
I don't know whether someone punctured an air cushion just then, or
whether it was me heavin' a sigh of relief. "Ain't you?" says I. "But
Vee's strong for it, and if you don't mind----"
"My niece is writing letters," says Aunty, "and asked not to be
disturbed until after five o'clock."
"But in this case," I goes on, "maybe she'd sidetrack the letters if
you'd send up word how----"
"Young man," says Aunty, settin' her chin firm, "I think you are quite
aware of my attitude. Your persistent attentions to my niece are wholly
unwelcome. True, you are no longer a mere office boy; but--well, just
who are you?"
"Private sec. of Mutual Funding," says I.
"And a youth known as Torchy?" she adds sarcastic.
"Yes; but see here!" says I. "I've just dug up a----"
"That will do," she breaks in. "We have discussed all this before. And
I've no doubt you think me simply a disagreeable, crotchety old person.
Has it ever occurred to you, however, that you may have failed to get my
point of view? Can you not conceive then that it might be somewhat
humiliating to me to know that my maids suppress a smile as they
announce--Mr. Torchy? Understand, I am not censuring you for being a
nameless waif. No, do not interrupt. I realize that this is something
for which you should not be held responsible. But can't you see, young
man----"
"If I can't," I cuts in, "I need an eye doctor bad. I'll tell you what
I'll do about this name business, though. I'm going to issue a white
paper on the subject."
"A--a what?" says Aunty.
"Seein' you ain't much of a listener," says I, "I'll submit the case in
writin'. You win the round, though. And if it don't hurt you too much,
you might tell Vee I was here. You can use a bichloride of mercury mouth
wash afterwards, you know."
Saying which, I does the young hero act, swings proudly on muh heel, and
exits left center, leavin' Aunty speechless in her chair.
So Herman and me starts off all by our lonesome, swings into the Grand
Boulevard and out through Pelham Parkway to the Boston Post Road. Deep
glooms for me! Even the way we breezed by speedy roadsters don't bring
me any thrills.
I was still chewin' over that zippy roast Aunty had handed me. Nameless
waif, eh? Say, that's the rawest she'd ever stated it. Course I was
fixed now to show her where she'd overdone the part; but somehow I
couldn't seem to frame up any way of gettin' my fam'ly tree on record
without seemin' to do it boastful. Besides, Aunty wouldn't take my word
for Uncle Kyrle and all the rest. She'd want an affidavit, at least.
But I had made up my mind to have a talk with Vee. I hadn't had more'n a
glimpse of her for weeks now, and while I might not feel like givin'
her complete details of all that had happened to me recent, I thought I
might drop an illuminatin' hint or so. Was I goin' to let a gimlet-eyed
old dame with an acetic acid disposition block me off as easy as that?
"Herman," says I, "you can just drop me on Madison-ave. as we go down.
And you better report at the house before you put up the machine. They
may want to be goin' somewhere."
I'd heard Uncle Kyrle speak of promisin' to make a call on someone he'd
met lately that he'd known abroad. As for me, I just strolls up and down
two or three blocks, takin' a chance that Vee might drift out. But I
sticks around near an hour without any luck.
"Huh!" says I to myself at last. "Might as well risk it again, and if I
can't run the gate--well, swappin' a few more plain words with Aunty'll
relieve my feelin's some, anyway."
With that I marches up bold and presses the button. "Say," says I to the
maid, "don't tell me Aunty's gone out since I left!"
Selma shakes her head solemn as her mighty Swedish intellect struggles
to surround the situation. "Meesis she dress by supper in den room yet,"
says she.
"Such sadness!" says I. "Maybe there's nobody but Miss Vee downstairs?"
"_Ja_," says Selma, starin' stupid. "Not nobody else but Miss Verona,
no."
"You're a bright girl--from the feet down," says I, pushin' in past her.
"Shut the door easy so as not to disturb Aunty, and I'll try to cheer up
Miss Verona until she comes down. She's in the lib'ry, eh?"
Yep, I was doin' my best. We'd exchanged the greetin's of the season and
was camped cozy in a corner davenport just big enough for two, while I
was explainin' how tough it was not havin' her along for the drive, and
I'd collected one of her hands casual, pattin' it sort of absent-minded,
when--say, no trained bloodhound has anything on Aunty! There she is,
standin' rigid between the double doors glarin' at us accusin'.
"So you returned after all that, did you?" she demands.
"I didn't know but you might want to tack on a postscript," says I.
"Young man," says she, just as friendly as a Special Sessions Judge
callin' the prisoner to the bar, "you are quite right. And I wish to say
to you now, in the presence of my niece, that----"
"Now, Aunty! Please!" breaks in Verona, shruggin' her shoulders
expressive.
"Verona, kindly be silent," goes on Aunty. "This young person known as
Torchy has----"
When in drifts Selma and sticks out the silver card plate like she was
presentin' arms.
"What is it?" asks Aunty. "Oh!" Then she inspects the names.
For half a minute she stands there, glancin' from me to the cards
undecided, and I expect if she could have electrocuted me with a look
I'd have sizzled once or twice and then disappeared in a puff of smoke.
But her voltage wa'n't quite high enough for that. Instead she turns to
Selma and gives some quick orders.
"Draw these draperies," says she; "then show in the guests. As for you,
young man, wait!"
"Gee!" I whispers, as we're shut in. "I wish I knew how to draw up a
will."
Vee snickers. "Silly!" says she. "Whatever have you been saying to Aunty
now?"
"Me?" says I. "Why, not much. Just a little chat about fam'ly trees and
so on, durin' which she----"
Then the arrival chatter in the next room breaks loose, and I stops
sudden, starin' at the closed portières with my mouth open.
"Hello!" says I. "Listen who's here!"
"Who?" says Vee.
"That's so," says I. "You don't know 'em, do you? Well, this adds
thickenin' to the plot for fair. Remember hearin' me tell of Aunt
Zenobia and her new hubby? Well, that's 'em."
"How odd!" says Vee. "But--why, I've heard his voice before! It was
at--oh, I know! The nice old gentleman who had the villa next to ours at
Mentone."
"Ballard?" I suggests.
"That's it!" says Vee. "And you say he is----"
"My Uncle Kyrle," says I. "My reg'lar uncle, you know."
"Why, Torchy!" gasps Vee, grabbin' me by the arm. "Then--then you----"
"Listen!" says I. "Hear your Aunty usin' her comp'ny voice. My! ain't
she the gentle, cooin' dove, though? Now they're gettin' acquainted. So
this was where Uncle Kyrle spoke of callin'! Hot time he picked out for
it, didn't he, with me here in the condemned cell? Say, what do you know
about that, eh?"
Vee smothers another giggle, and slips one of her hands into mine.
"Don't you care!" says she, whisperin'. "And isn't it thrilling? But
what shall we do?"
"It's by me," says I. "Aunty told me to wait, didn't she? Well, let's."
Which we done, sittin' there sociable, and every now and then swappin'
smiles as the conversation in the next room took a new turn.
Fin'lly Uncle Kyrle remarks: "You had your little niece with you then,
didn't you?"
"Little Verona? Oh, yes," says Aunty. "She is still with me. Rather
grown up now, though. I must send for her. Pardon me." And she rings for
Selma.
Well, that queers the game entirely. Two minutes more, and Vee has been
towed in for inspection and I'm left alone in banishment.
"Well, well!" I can hear Uncle Kyrle sing out. "Why, young lady, what
right had you to change from a tow-headed schoolgirl into such
a--Zenobia, please face the other way and don't listen, while I try to
tell this radiant young person how utterly charming she has become. No,
I can't begin to do the subject justice. Twenty or thirty years ago I
might have had some success. Ah, me! Those gray eyes of yours, my dear,
hold mischief enough to wreck a convention of saints. Ah, blushing, are
you? Forgive me. I ought to know better. Let me tell you, though, I've a
young nephew with a pair of blue eyes that might be a match for your
gray ones. You must allow me to bring him up some day."
And I'd like to have had a glimpse of Vee's face just then. About there,
though, Aunty breaks in.
"A nephew, Mr. Ballard?" says she.
"Poor Dick's boy," says he. "The one we hunted all over the States for
after Dick took him on that wild goose chase from which he never came
back. Let's see, you must have known the youngster's mother,--Irene
Ballard."
"That stunning young woman with the copper-red hair whom you introduced
at Palermo?" asks Aunty. "Is--is she----"
"No," says Uncle Kyrle. "Poor Irene! She was always doing something for
someone, you know, and when this big war got under way--well, she went
to the front at the first call from the Red Cross. I might have known
she would. I suppose she simply couldn't bear to keep out of it--all
that suffering, and so much help needed. No more skillful or efficient
hands than hers, I'll wager, Madam, were ever volunteered, nor any
braver soul. She was pure gold, Irene."
"And," puts in Aunty, "she was--er----"
Uncle Kyrle nods. "In a field hospital, under fire," says he, "late last
September. That's all we know. Where do you think, though, I ran across
that boy of hers? Found him at Zenobia's; found them both rather, at a
theater. Sheer luck. For if you'll pardon my saying it, that youth is a
nephew I'm going to be proud of some of these days unless I am----"
Say, this was gettin' a little too personal for me. I'd been shiftin'
around uneasy for a minute or two, and about then I decided it wouldn't
be polite to listen any longer. So I make a dash out the side door into
the hall, not knowin' just what to do or where to go. And I bumps into
Selma wheelin' in the tea wagon. That gives me a hunch.
"Say, Bright Eyes," says I, pushin' a dollar at her, "take this and
ditch that tea stuff for a minute, can't you? Harken! There's goin' to
be a new arrival at the front door in about a minute, and you must
answer the bell. No, don't indulge in that open-face movement. Just
watch me close!"
With that I clips past the drawin'-room entrance, opens the front door
gentle, and gives the button a good long push. Then I slides back and
digs up a card case that Aunt Zenobia has presented me with only a
couple of days ago.
"Here!" says I. "Get out your plate and pass one of these to the Missus.
That's it. Push it right on her conspicuous. Now! On your way!"
She's real quick at startin', Selma is, when she's shoved brisk from
behind. And as she goes through the doorway I stretches my ear to hear
what Aunty will say to the new arrival. And, believe me, if I'd given
her the lines myself, she couldn't have done it better!
"Mr. Richard Taber Ballard?" says she, readin' the card. Then she turns
to Uncle Kyrle. "Why, this must be some----"
"Eh?" says he. "Did you hear that, Zenobia? Torchy, you young rascal,
come in here and explain yourself!"
"Torchy!" gasps Aunty. "Did--did you say--Torchy?"
"Anybody callin' for me?" says I, steppin' into the room with a grin on.
And to watch that stary look settle in Aunty's eyes, and see the purple
tint spread back to her ears, was worth standin' for all the rough deals
I'd ever had from her. At last I had her bumpin' the bumps! Sort of
dazed she inspects the card once more, and then glances at me. Do you
wonder? Richard Taber Ballard! I ain't got used to it myself.
"Here he is," says Uncle Kyrle jovial, draggin' me to the front, "that
scamp nephew I was telling you about. The Richard is for his father, you
know; the Taber he gets from his mother--also his red hair. Eh,
Torchy? And this, young man, is Miss Verona."
He swings me around facin' her, and I expect I must have acted some
sheepish. But trust Vee! What does she do but let loose one of them
ripply laughs of hers. Then she steps up, pulls my head down playful
with both hands, and looks me square in the eyes.
"Why didn't you tell me before, Torchy," says she, "that you had such a
perfectly grand name as all that?"
"Huh!" says I. "A swell chance I've had to tell you anything, ain't I?
But if the folks will excuse us for half an hour, I'll tell you all I
know about a lot of things."
And, say, Aunty don't even glare after us as we slips through the
draperies into the lib'ry, leavin' 'em to explain to each other how I
come to be on hand so accidental. The only disturbance comes when Selma
butts in pushin' the tea cart, and, just from force of habit, I makes a
panicky breakaway. After she's insisted on loadin' us up with sandwiches
and so forth, though, I slips my arm back where it fits the snuggest.
"Now, Sir," says Vee, "how are you going to hold your cup?"
"I'd be willin' to miss out on tea forever," says I, "for a chance like
this."