Uncle John always traveled comfortably and even luxuriously, but without
ostentation. Such conveniences as were offered the general public he
indulged in, but no one would suspect him of being a multi-millionaire
who might have ordered a special train of private cars had the
inclination seized him. A modest little man, who had made an enormous
fortune in the far Northwest—almost before he realized it—John Merrick
had never allowed the possession of money to deprive him of his simple
tastes or to alter his kindly nature. He loved to be of the people and
to mingle with his fellows on an equal footing, and nothing distressed
him more than to be recognized by some one as the great New York
financier. It is true that he had practically retired from business, but
his huge fortune was invested in so many channels that his name remained
prominent among men of affairs and this notoriety he was unable wholly
to escape.
The trip to California was a delight because none of his fellow
passengers knew his identity. During the three days’ jaunt from Chicago
to Los Angeles he was recognized only as an engaging little man who was
conducting a party of three charming girls, as well as a sedate,
soldierly old gentleman, into the sunny Southland for a winter’s
recreation.
Of these three girls we already know Patsy Doyle and Beth DeGraf, but
Mildred Travers remains to be introduced. The trained nurse whom Beth
had secured was tall and slight, with a sweet face, a gentle expression
and eyes so calm and deep that a stranger found it disconcerting to gaze
within them. Beth herself had similar eyes—big and fathomless—yet they
were so expressive as to allure and bewitch the beholder, while Mildred
Travers’ eyes repelled one as being masked—as concealing some well
guarded secret. Both the major and Uncle John had felt this and it made
the latter somewhat uneasy when he reflected that he was taking this
girl to be the trusted nurse of Louise’s precious baby. He questioned
Beth closely concerning Mildred and his niece declared that no kindlier,
more sympathetic or more skillful nurse was ever granted a diploma. Of
Mildred’s history she was ignorant, except that the girl had confided to
her the story of her struggles to obtain recognition and to get
remunerative work after graduating from the training school.
“Once, you know,” explained Beth, “trained nurses were in such demand
that none were ever idle; but the training schools have been turning
them out in such vast numbers that only those with family influence are
now sure of work. Mildred is by instinct helpful and sympathetic—a
natural born nurse, Uncle John—but because she was practically a
stranger in New York she was forced to do charity and hospital work, and
that is how I became acquainted with her.”
“She seems to bear out your endorsement, except for her eyes,” said
Uncle John. “I—I don’t like—her eyes. They’re hard. At times they seem
vengeful and cruel, like tigers’ eyes.”
“Oh, you wrong Mildred, I’m sure!” exclaimed Beth, and Uncle John
reluctantly accepted her verdict. On the journey Miss Travers appeared
well bred and cultured, conversing easily and intelligently on a variety
of subjects, yet always exhibiting a reserve, as if she held herself to
be one apart from the others. Indeed, the girl proved so agreeable a
companion that Mr. Merrick’s misgivings gradually subsided. Even the
major, still suspicious and doubtful, admitted that Mildred was “quite a
superior person.”
Louise had been notified by telegraph of the coming of her relatives,
but they had withheld from her the fact that they were bringing a
“proper” nurse to care for the Weldon baby. The party rested a day in
Los Angeles and then journeyed on to Escondido, near which town the
Weldon ranch was located.
Louise and Arthur were both at the station with their big
seven-passenger touring car. The young mother was promptly smothered in
embraces by Patsy and Beth, but when she emerged from this ordeal to be
hugged and kissed by Uncle John, that observing little gentleman decided
that she looked exactly as girlish and lovely as on her wedding day.
This eldest niece was, in fact, only twenty years of age—quite too young
to be a wife and mother. She was of that feminine type which matures
slowly and seems to bear the mark of perpetual youth. Mrs. Weldon’s
slight, willowy form was still almost childlike in its lines, and the
sunny, happy smile upon her face seemed that of a school-maid.
That tall, boyish figure beside her, now heartily welcoming the guests,
would scarcely be recognized as belonging to a husband and father. These
two were more like children playing at “keeping house” than sedate
married people. Mildred Travers observed the couple with evident
surprise; but the others, familiar with the love story of Arthur and
Louise, were merely glad to find them unchanged and enjoying their
former health and good spirits.
“The baby!”
That was naturally the first inquiry, voiced in concert by the late
arrivals; and Louise, blushing prettily and with a delightful air of
proprietorship, laughingly assured them that “Toodlums” was very well.
“This is such a glorious country,” she added as the big car started off
with its load, to be followed by a wagon with the baggage, “that every
living thing flourishes here like the green bay trees—and baby is no
exception. Oh, you’ll love our quaint old home, Uncle John! And, Patsy,
we’ve got such a flock of white chickens! And there’s a new baby calf,
Beth! And the major shall sleep in the Haunted Room, and—”
“Haunted?” asked the major, his eyes twinkling.
“I’m sure they’re rats,” said the little wife, “but the Mexicans claim
it’s the old miser himself. And the oranges are just in their prime and
the roses are simply magnificent!”
So she rambled on, enthusiastic over her ranch home one moment and the
next asking eager questions about New York and her old friends there.
Louise had a mother, who was just now living in Paris, much to Arthur
Weldon’s satisfaction. Even Louise did not miss the worldly-minded,
self-centered mother with whom she had so little in common, and perhaps
Uncle John and his nieces would never have ventured on this visit had
Mrs. Merrick been at the ranch.
The California country roads are all “boulevards,” although they are
nothing more than native earth, rolled smooth and saturated with heavy
oil until they resemble asphalt. The automobile was a fast one and it
swept through the beautiful country, all fresh and green in spite of the
fact that it was December, and fragrant with the scent of roses and
carnations, which bloomed on every side, until a twenty-minute run
brought them to an avenue of gigantic palms which led from the road up
to the ranch house of El Cajon.
Originally El Cajon had been a Spanish grant of several thousand acres,
and three generations of Spanish dons had resided there. The last of
these Cristovals had erected the present mansion—a splendid, rambling
dwelling built around an open court where a fountain splashed and tall
palms shot their swaying crowns far above the housetop. The South Wing
was the old dwelling which the builder had incorporated into the present
scheme, but the newer part was the more imposing.
The walls were of great thickness and composed of adobe blocks of huge
size. These were not sun-baked, as is usual in adobe dwellings, but had
been burned like brick in a furnace constructed for the purpose by the
first proprietor, and were therefore much stronger and harder than
ordinary brick. In this climate there is no dampness clinging to such a
structure and the rooms were extraordinarily cool in summer and warm in
the chill winter season. Surrounding the house were many magnificent
trees of tropical and semi-tropical nature, all of which had now
attained their full prime. On the south and east sides were extensive
rose gardens and beds of flowers in wonderful variety.
It was here that the last Señor Cristoval had brought his young bride, a
lady of Madrid who was reputed to have possessed great beauty; but
seclusion in this retired spot, then much isolated, rendered her so
unhappy that she became mentally unbalanced and in a fit of depression
took her own life. Cristoval, until then a generous and noble man, was
completely changed by this catastrophe. During the remainder of his life
he was noted for parsimony and greed for money, not unmixed with
cruelty. He worked his ignorant Indian and Mexican servants mercilessly,
denying them proper food or wage, and his death was a relief to all.
Afterward the big estate was cut up and passed into various hands. Three
hundred acres of fine orange and olive groves, including the spacious
mansion, were finally sold to young Arthur Weldon.
“It’s an awfully big place,” said Louise, as the party alighted and
stood upon the broad stone veranda, “but it is so quaint and charming
that I love every stick and stone of it.”
“The baby!” shrieked Patsy.
“Where’s that blessed baby?” cried Beth.
Then came from the house a dusky maid bearing in her arms a soft, fluffy
bundle that was instantly pounced upon by the two girls, to Uncle John’s
horror and dismay.
“Be careful, there!” he called. “You’ll smother the poor thing.” But
Louise laughed and regarded the scene delightedly. And little Jane
seemed to appreciate the importance of the occasion, for she waved her
tiny hands and cooed a welcome to her two new aunties.