AUNT JANE’S NIECES
ON THE RANCH
BY
EDITH VAN DYNE
AUTHOR OF AUNT JANE’S NIECES SERIES
THE FLYING GIRL SERIES, ETC., ETC.
The Reilly & Lee Co.
Chicago
_Copyright_, 1913
_BY_
_The Reilly & Britton Co._
AUNT JANE’S NIECES ON THE RANCH
CONTENTS
· CHAPTER I—UNCLE JOHN DECIDES
· CHAPTER II—EL CAJON RANCH
· CHAPTER III—THAT BLESSED BABY!
· CHAPTER IV—LITTLE JANE’S TWO NURSES
· CHAPTER V—INEZ THREATENS
· CHAPTER VI—A DINNER WITH THE NEIGHBORS
· CHAPTER VII—GONE!
· CHAPTER VIII—VERY MYSTERIOUS
· CHAPTER IX—A FRUITLESS SEARCH
· CHAPTER X—CONJECTURES AND ABSURDITIES
· CHAPTER XI—THE MAJOR ENCOUNTERS THE GHOST
· CHAPTER XII—ANOTHER DISAPPEARANCE
· CHAPTER XIII—THE WAY IT HAPPENED
· CHAPTER XIV—PRISONERS OF THE WALL
· CHAPTER XV—MILDRED CONFIDES IN INEZ
· CHAPTER XVI—AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL
· CHAPTER XVII—THE PRODIGAL SON
· CHAPTER XVIII—LACES AND GOLD
· CHAPTER XIX—INEZ AND MIGUEL
· CHAPTER XX—MR. RUNYON’S DISCOVERY
· CHAPTER XXI—A FORTUNE IN TATTERS
· CHAPTER XXII—FAITHFUL AND TRUE
Aunt Jane’s Nieces on the Ranch
CHAPTER I—UNCLE JOHN DECIDES
“And now,” said Major Doyle, rubbing his hands together as he half
reclined in his big chair in a corner of the sitting room, “now we shall
enjoy a nice cosy winter in dear New York.”
“Cosy?” said his young daughter, Miss Patricia Doyle, raising her head
from her sewing to cast a glance through the window at the whirling
snowflakes.
“Ab-so-lute-ly cosy, Patsy, my dear,” responded the major. “Here we are
in our own steam-heated flat—seven rooms and a bath, not counting the
closets—hot water any time you turn the faucet; a telephone call brings
the butcher, the baker, the candlestick-maker; latest editions of the
papers chucked into the passage! What more do you want?”
“Tcha!”
This scornful ejaculation came from a little bald-headed man seated in
the opposite corner, who had been calmly smoking his pipe and dreamily
eyeing the flickering gas-log in the grate. The major gave a start and
turned to stare fixedly at the little man. Patsy, scenting mischief,
indulged in a little laugh as she threaded her needle.
“Sir! what am I to understand from that brutal interruption?” demanded
Major Doyle sternly.
“You’re talking nonsense,” was the reply, uttered in a tone of cheery
indifference. “New York in winter is a nightmare. Blizzards, thaws,
hurricanes, ice, la grippe, shivers—grouches.”
“Drumsticks!” cried the major indignantly. “It’s the finest climate in
the world—bar none. We’ve the finest restaurants, the best theatres, the
biggest stores and—and the stock exchange. And then, there’s Broadway!
What more can mortal desire, John Merrick?”
The little man laughed, but filled his pipe without reply.
“Uncle John is getting uneasy,” observed Patsy. “I’ve noticed it for
some time. This is the first snowstorm that has caught him in New York
for several years.”
“The blizzard came unusually early,” said Mr. Merrick apologetically.
“It took me by surprise. But I imagine there will be a few days more of
decent weather before winter finally sets in. By that time—”
“Well, what then?” asked the major in defiant accents, as his
brother-in-law hesitated.
“By that time we shall be out of it, of course,” was the quiet reply.
Patsy looked at her uncle reflectively, while the major grunted and
shifted uneasily in his chair. Father and daughter were alike devoted to
John Merrick, whose generosity and kindliness had rescued them from
poverty and thrust upon them all the comforts they now enjoyed. Even
this pretty flat building in Willing Square, close to the fashionable
New York residence district, belonged in fee to Miss Doyle, it having
been a gift from her wealthy uncle. And Uncle John made his home with
them, quite content in a seven-room-flat when his millions might have
purchased the handsomest establishment in the metropolis. Down in Wall
Street and throughout the financial districts the name of the great John
Merrick was mentioned with awe; here in Willing Square he smoked a pipe
in his corner of the modest sitting room and cheerfully argued with his
irascible brother-in-law, Major Doyle, whose business it was to look
after Mr. Merrick’s investments and so allow the democratic little
millionaire the opportunity to come and go as he pleased.
The major’s greatest objection to Uncle John’s frequent absences from
New York—especially during the winter months—was due to the fact that
his beloved Patsy, whom he worshiped with a species of idolatry, usually
accompanied her uncle. It was quite natural for the major to resent
being left alone, and equally natural for Patsy to enjoy these travel
experiences, which in Uncle John’s company were always delightful.
Patsy Doyle was an unprepossessing little thing, at first sight. She was
short of stature and a bit plump; freckled and red-haired; neat and
wholesome in appearance but lacking “style” in either form or apparel.
But to her friends Patricia was beautiful. Her big blue eyes,
mischievous and laughing, won hearts without effort, and the girl was so
genuine—so natural and unaffected—that she attracted old and young alike
and boasted a host of admiring friends.
This girl was Uncle John’s favorite niece, but not the only one. Beth De
Graf, a year younger than her cousin Patsy, was a ward of Mr. Merrick
and lived with the others in the little flat at Willing Square. Beth was
not an orphan, but her father and mother, residents of an Ohio town, had
treated the girl so selfishly and inconsiderately that she had passed a
very unhappy life until Uncle John took her under his wing and removed
Beth from her depressing environment. This niece was as beautiful in
form and feature as Patsy Doyle was plain, but she did not possess
Patsy’s cheerful and uniform temperament and was by nature reserved and
diffident in the presence of strangers.
Yet Beth had many good qualities, among them a heart-felt sympathy for
young girls who were not so fortunate as herself. On this disagreeable
winter’s day she had set out to visit a settlement school where she had
long since proved herself the good angel of a score of struggling girls.
The blizzard had developed since she left home, but no one worried about
her, for Beth was very resourceful.
There was another niece, likewise dear to John Merrick’s heart, who had
been Louise Merrick before she married a youth named Arthur Weldon, some
two years before this story begins. A few months ago Arthur had taken
his young wife to California, where he had purchased a fruit ranch, and
there a baby was born to them which they named “Jane Merrick Weldon”—a
rather big name for what was admitted to be a very small person.
This baby, now five months old and reported to be thriving, had been
from its birth of tremendous interest to every inhabitant of the Willing
Square flat. It had been discussed morning, noon and night by Uncle John
and the girls, while even the grizzled major was not ashamed to admit
that “that Weldon infant” was an important addition to the family.
Perhaps little Jane acquired an added interest by being so far away from
all her relatives, as well as from the fact that Louise wrote such
glowing accounts of the baby’s beauty and witcheries that to believe a
tithe of what she asserted was to establish the child as an infantile
marvel.
Now, Patsy Doyle knew in her heart that Uncle John was eager to see
Louise’s baby, and long ago she had confided to Beth her belief that the
winter would find Mr. Merrick at Arthur Weldon’s California ranch, with
all his three nieces gathered around him and the infantile marvel in his
arms. The same suspicion had crept into Major Doyle’s mind, and that is
why he so promptly resented the suggestion that New York was not an
ideal winter resort. Somehow, the old major “felt in his bones” that his
beloved Patsy would be whisked away to California, leaving her father to
face the tedious winter without her; for he believed his business duties
would not allow him to get away to accompany her.
Yet so far Uncle John, in planning for the winter, had not mentioned
California as even a remote possibility. It was understood he would go
somewhere, but up to the moment when he declared “we will be out of it,
of course, when the bad weather sets in,” he had kept his own counsel
and forborne to express a preference or a decision.
But now the major, being aroused, decided to “have it out” with his
elusive brother-in-law.
“Where will ye go to find a better place?” he demanded.
“We’re going to Bermuda,” said Uncle John.
“For onions?” asked the major sarcastically.
“They have other things in Bermuda besides onions. A delightful climate,
I’m told, is one of them.”
The major sniffed. He was surprised, it is true, and rather pleased,
because Bermuda is so much nearer New York than is California; but it
was his custom to object.
“Patsy can’t go,” he declared, as if that settled the question for good
and all. “The sea voyage would kill her. I’m told by truthful persons
that the voyage to Bermuda is the most terrible experience known to
mortals. Those who don’t die on the way over positively refuse ever to
come back again, and so remain forever exiled from their homes and
families—until they have the good luck to die from continually eating
onions.”
Mr. Merrick smiled as he glanced at the major’s severe countenance.
“It can’t be as bad as that,” said he. “I know a man who has taken his
family to Bermuda for five winters, in succession.”
“And brought ’em back alive each time?”
“Certainly. Otherwise, you will admit he couldn’t take them again.”
“That family,” asserted the major seriously, “must be made of cast-iron,
with clockwork stomachs.”
Patsy gave one of her low, musical laughs.
“I think I would like Bermuda,” she said. “Anyhow, whatever pleases
Uncle John will please me, so long as we get away from New York.”
“Why, ye female traitor!” cried the major; and added, for Uncle John’s
benefit: “New York is admitted by men of discretion to be the modern
Garden of Eden. It’s the one desideratum of—”
Here the door opened abruptly and Beth came in. Her cheeks were glowing
red from contact with the wind and her dark tailor-suit glistened with
tiny drops left by the melted snow. In her mittened hand she waved a
letter.
“From Louise, Patsy!” she exclaimed, tossing it toward her cousin; “but
don’t you dare read it till I’ve changed my things.”
Then she disappeared into an inner room and Patsy, disregarding the
injunction, caught up the epistle and tore open the envelope.
Uncle John refilled his pipe and looked at Patsy’s tense face
inquiringly. The major stiffened, but could not wholly repress his
curiosity. After a moment he said:
“All well, Patsy?”
“How’s the baby?” asked Uncle John.
“Dear me!” cried Patsy, with a distressed face; “and no doctor nearer
than five miles!”
Both men leaped from their chairs.
“Why don’t they keep a doctor in the house?” roared the major.
“Suppose we send Dr. Lawson, right away!” suggested Uncle John.
Patsy, still holding up the letter, turned her eyes upon them
reproachfully.
“It’s all over,” she said with a sigh.
The major dropped into a chair, limp and inert. Uncle John paled.
“The—the baby isn’t—dead!” he gasped.
“No, indeed,” returned Patsy, again reading. “But it had colic most
dreadfully, and Louise was in despair. But the nurse, a dark-skinned
Mexican creature, gave it a dose of some horrid hot stuff—”
“Chile con carne, most likely!” ejaculated the major.
“Horrible!” cried Uncle John.
“And that cured the colic but almost burned poor little Jane’s insides
out.”
“Insides out!”
“However, Louise says the dear baby is now quite well again,” continued
the girl.
“Perhaps so, when she wrote,” commented the major, wiping his forehead
with a handkerchief; “but that’s a week ago, at least. A thousand things
might have happened to that child since then. Why was Arthur Weldon such
a fool as to settle in a desert place, far away from all civilization?
He ought to be prosecuted for cruelty.”
“The baby’s all right,” said Patsy, soothingly. “If anything serious
happened, Louise would telegraph.”
“I doubt it,” said the major, walking the floor. “I doubt if there’s
such a thing as a telegraph in all that forsaken country.”
Uncle John frowned.
“You are getting imbecile, Major. They’ve a lot more comforts and
conveniences on that ranch than we have here in New York.”
“Name ’em!” shouted the Major. “I challenge ye to mention one thing we
haven’t right here in this flat.”
“Chickens!” said Beth, re-entering the room in time to hear this
challenge. “How’s the baby, Patsy?”
“Growing like a weed, dear, and getting more lovely and cunning every
second. Here—read the letter yourself.”
While Beth devoured the news from California Uncle John replied to the
major.
“At El Cajon Ranch,” said he, “there’s a fine big house where the
sunshine peeps in and floods the rooms every day in the year. Hear that
blizzard howl outside, and think of the roses blooming this instant on
the trellis of Louise’s window. Arthur has two automobiles and can get
to town in twenty minutes. They’ve a long-distance telephone and I’ve
talked with ’em over the line several times.”
“You have!” This in a surprised chorus.
“I have. Only last week I called Louise up.”
“An expensive amusement, John,” said the major grimly.
“Yes; but I figured I could afford it. I own some telephone stock, you
know, so I may get part of that investment back. They have their own
cows, and chickens—as Beth truly says—and any morning they can pick
oranges and grapefruit from their own trees for breakfast.”
“I’d like to see that precious baby,” remarked Beth, laying the letter
on her lap to glance pleadingly at her uncle.
“Uncle John is going to take us to Bermuda,” said Patsy in a serious
voice.
The little man flushed and sat down abruptly. The major, noting his
attitude, became disturbed.
“You’ve all made the California trip,” said he. “It doesn’t pay to see
any country twice.”
“But we haven’t seen Arthur’s ranch,” Beth reminded him.
“Nor the baby,” added Patsy, regarding the back of Uncle John’s head
somewhat wistfully.
The silence that followed was broken only by the major’s low growls. The
poor man already knew his fate.
“That chile-con-carne nurse ought to be discharged,” mumbled Uncle John,
half audibly. “Mexicans are stupid creatures to have around. I think we
ought to take with us an experienced nurse, who is intelligent and
up-to-date.”
“Oh, I know the very one!” exclaimed Beth. “Mildred Travers. She’s
perfectly splendid. I’ve watched her with that poor girl who was hurt at
the school, and she’s as gentle and skillful as she is refined. Mildred
would bring up that baby to be as hearty and healthful as a young
savage.”
“How soon could she go?” asked Uncle John.
“At an hour’s notice, I’m sure. Trained nurses are used to sudden calls,
you know. I’ll see her to-morrow—if it’s better weather.”
“Do,” said Uncle John. “I suppose you girls can get ready by Saturday?”
“Of course!” cried Patsy and Beth in one voice.
“Then I’ll make the reservations. Major Doyle, you will arrange your
business to accompany us.”
“I won’t!”
“You will, or I’ll discharge you. You’re working for me, aren’t you?”
“I am, sir.”
“Then obey orders.”