AN ARRIVAL.
Dinner was nearly over when Mr. Merrick suddenly laid down his knife
and fork and began searching vainly in the pockets of his coat for
something. “Hugh,” he said, “run up-stairs and go to my dressing-room
and bring down a letter you will find in the outside pocket of my
overcoat. I had a letter from Tom, my dear,” he continued, addressing
his wife. “His little girl is coming here to spend the winter with us.”
Mrs. Merrick dropped her fork in her turn. “Coming here? Tom’s little
girl?” she gasped.
“Yes,” Mr. Merrick said. “Coming here. Tom wrote me last summer saying
he wanted to send her to school somewhere in New York; but the girl did
not like the idea of leaving home; besides, he was afraid it would
cost a good deal, so he asked my advice.”
“Did you ask her here then?” inquired Mrs. Merrick with unmistakable
disapproval.
“Yes, Clara, I asked her here,” Mr. Merrick answered. “I told him that
she could go to school with our children, and it would be pleasanter
than going to a boarding-school, be more like home to her, and to send
her on. This was last summer; and I had forgotten all about it when
this letter came, accepting the offer.”
“It is most annoying!” exclaimed Mrs. Merrick.
“Why, in a big house like this, with so many children in it, one
more or less can make no difference,” said Mr. Merrick. “Tom says
Minnie--no, Bessie--no, that’s not her name either. Oh, here’s the
letter. Thank you, Hugh. Oh, yes, Nellie. Tom says Nellie is a pretty
girl and a wonderfully good one, with such a sweet temper that no
one can help loving her. I’ve no doubt the children will enjoy her
tremendously.”
The children had been listening to this conversation in such amazement
that they forgot to eat, and at this point a chorus of questions burst
forth.
“Who’s Tom, papa?”
“How old is she?”
“Is a little girl coming here to live?”
“When is she coming?”
Mrs. Merrick answered the first question. “Tom, children, is your Uncle
Tom, who lives in some dreadful little Western town, and is quite poor.
This little girl is his daughter, whom your father has brought among
us.”
“Tom is not very poor, Clara,” her husband corrected her. “He says he
has a comfortable home.”
“How horrid!” Inez cried petulantly. “I shall be ashamed to be seen
with her, I know, and I shall never introduce a girl like that to nice
people as my cousin.”
“She is your cousin, Inez,” said her father sternly, “and you will
treat her with all kindness. I will have no such nonsense as this in my
house; so remember to behave yourself properly to your guest.”
When Mr. Merrick did arouse himself to lay down commands to his
children they dared not disobey; but there was a look around Inez’s
mouth that indicated anything but cheerful obedience, and boded ill for
the comfort of the coming cousin.
“After all,” said Marcy, with a look of amused contempt at her sister,
“she may not dress in feathers and buffalo skins, Inez. And, perhaps,
after she has been here a while we can get her to eat roast beef
instead of dog meat. How old is she, father? And when is she coming?”
Mr. Merrick smiled. It often occurred to him that when he could so
arrange his business as to have more leisure for his family he might
find his eldest daughter good company. “She is just your age, Marcy,”
he said. “And she is coming--let me see. Your uncle writes she leaves
Monday--that was yesterday. She will be here to-morrow.”
“I can only repeat that it is most annoying,” said Mrs. Merrick, rising.
“Well, all I say is it’s a pity she’s not a boy,” said Bob, taking a
hasty drink of water before sliding sideways out of his chair. “We’ve
got too many girls here now.”
“Of course it’s a pity,” said Inez sharply; “for you don’t have to
introduce boys to your friends.”
“W-ell, I’m sorry she’s so big,” remarked six-year-old Grace, the quiet
member of the family. “Marcy and Inez are big, and Lulie’s a baby, and
Bob and Hugh are boys, and there’s no one for me at all. Papa, hasn’t
Uncle Tom got a nice little girl about six?”
“I’ve no doubt he has, Gracie,” her father replied, smiling. “I believe
your Uncle Tom has children of all ages, to suit all demands.”
“Well, please ask him to lend us a little one next time,” said Grace
mournfully.
The next afternoon Marcy, and Inez, and Bob were watching eagerly
behind the lace curtains of the sitting-room for the arrival of “the
prairie chicken,” as Bob had christened her. Faithful nurse Norah had
gone to the station to meet the little traveller. Mrs. Merrick had a
club meeting to attend, and Mr. Merrick could not leave his business.
When the carriage drove up the children saw Norah’s portly form descend
first, and after her came a little figure all in brown, which stood
looking up and down the tall gray stone house, with every shade drawn
on a level with the upper sash and every window veiled in lace, with no
living thing to be seen that seemed to be looking for or thinking of a
homesick, frightened little stranger.
“I guess she doesn’t know whether she ought to go in the front door or
the basement,” laughed Bob.
“She really is pretty,” said Marcy. “Look, Inez, what big brown eyes
she has, and how prettily her hair curls round her forehead.”
“Well, so it does,” admitted Inez grudgingly. “But for pity’s sake,
where did she get that hat? What will the Hales say to her?”
“They wouldn’t be the Hales if they didn’t say something rude,” said
Marcy.
And Bob added: “H’m! they needn’t talk, if they have got lots of money.
I’ve seen some of their relations, and they were a queer lot.”
The sitting-room door opened at this point, and Norah looked in.
“Oh, here they are. Come in, Miss Nellie, dear. Miss Marcy, Miss Inez,
Master Bob, here’s your cousin all safe, and glad to get here, I’ll be
bound.”
The children turned to meet a wistful and very pretty childish face
surmounting a slender figure taller than either of theirs.
“How do you do?” said Inez in her most grown-up and fashionable air.
“Hope you’re not too tired.” She gave her cousin her hand, and pecked
one cheek, which reddened fiercely at her greeting.
“How are you, Cousin Nellie? I am Marcy,” said Marcy with cordiality,
much heightened by Inez’s foolish airs. “You must be half dead after
such a journey.”
“No, I’m not,” said Nellie, kissing Marcy heartily. “I was dreadfully
scared at first, for I’d never been more than an hour on the train
before. But it’s grand in those sleepers, isn’t it? Only I didn’t dare
sleep the first night. I had to say my beads all night, it joggled so.
Last night I never waked up once. I suppose you get used to it.”
“They serve pretty good dinners on those trains,” remarked Inez with
the air of one who had been around the globe.
“I shouldn’t wonder,” laughed Nellie. “I didn’t try them. I had my food
in a box. Ma had a whole chicken roasted for me, and lots of cake, and
bread and butter, so I got on fine. I couldn’t afford to buy dinners.
It’s dreadfully expensive coming East anyhow. It’ll cost pa more than
fifty dollars just for my travelling both ways. I wrote postal-cards
home all the way along, and posted them in Chicago, and Cleveland,
and Buffalo, and told them I was beginning to count on going back
already.” The pretty face flushed and looked distressed, and Nellie
added hastily: “Not but that I shall be real happy here with you all.
I think it was awfully good of Uncle Richard and Aunt Clara to ask me
here, because, of course, it’s like being with brothers and sisters to
be with cousins, or most like it. Only I’m awfully fond of my home, and
it’s just the cutest little house anywhere round there. But isn’t New
York grand though? And what a magnificent house you’ve got! Pa said
Uncle Dick was rich; but I reckon he don’t know what a fine house this
is. I’m most certain I won’t know how to behave among such big rooms
and fine things; but you’ll pull me through, won’t you?” And Nellie
gave a happy laugh, being full of affection for her cousins and feeling
no envy of their greater possessions, nor shame for her own humbler but
beloved home.
“You’ll find New York very different, of course,” said Inez scornfully.
She thought Nellie was even worse than she feared.
But Marcy, with a share of Nellie’s honesty, and a sharpness of insight
that made her see that true dignity lay in being free from false
pretence, said heartily: “You’ll be all right, Nellie. I don’t suppose
we’d know how to act in Kansas either.”
“Oh, I reckon Kansas, and Paris, and New York, and everywhere are about
the same,” said Nellie with happy unconsciousness of little things. “Ma
says if you’re good and try to make people happy you’re bound to have
good manners.”
Inez tossed her head. “You have to do more than that,” she began; but
Marcy interrupted her.
“No you don’t,” she said decidedly. “I never thought of it before; but
Aunt--Aunt--Nellie’s mother is right.”
A look of pain came over Nellie’s face. “Why, don’t you know my
mother’s name?” she asked wonderingly. “It’s Mary. We know all your
names, and we talk lots about you, and I’ve been dying to see you ever
since I can remember.”
“We never heard of you,” said Bob before Marcy could stop him. “We
never talk about you, and I never thought before I had any cousins out
West.”
Nellie turned to the girls in mute appeal.
Inez said: “You see, Nellie, we’ve lots of things to think about.”
But Marcy put her arm around her cousin. “Come to your room,” she said,
“and take your things off. I’ll show you the way. You see, Nellie,” she
added as they went up the broad stairs side by side, “father’s so busy
we hardly see him; and mamma is fond of society, and taken up with all
kinds of clubs and things, so we don’t hear much about our relations.”
Nellie shivered as though she had stepped from Florida to the North
Pole. “It’s dreadful!” she cried. “If that’s the way you do in New
York, I’d rather live in Prairie Rest--that’s the name of our town. I
suppose you didn’t know where we lived either.”
Marcy discreetly refrained from saying that she did not. “It’s not New
York, it’s just ourselves,” she said. “You know father made all his
money; he didn’t have any more than Uncle Tom when he began. I think
the reason we live so separate from one another is because they’ve all
got so taken up with money, and society, and such things.”
“Then I hope I’ll always be poor,” exclaimed Nellie energetically. “Oh,
what a lovely room!”
“This is your room,” said Marcy. “I don’t care one bit about parties,
and knowing fashionable people, and all that,” she continued, seating
herself on the edge of the bed. “Inez is the one for that. I mean to
be great and famous some way. I haven’t just decided how.”
“Yes, I know,” said Nellie, taking her hat off and shaking a bright
mass of waving brown hair over her shoulders. “You’re the clever one.
Uncle Richard sent us some of your writings long ago, when you were
little, and they were grand. I would give anything if I were so gifted.
I can’t do one thing,” Nellie continued cheerfully. “I can dust, and
clean, and look after children, and cook a little bit, and darn pretty
well, but I haven’t any accomplishments.”
“Oh, never mind,” said Marcy with kindly condescension. “I should think
those were good things too if there’s no one else to do them. You won’t
see much of me, I suppose, because out of school I like to stay by
myself and write, or think, or draw. I’m not sure I shall write when I
grow up. I may be a great artist, or a very great actress, like Duse,
you know.”
“Well, I’ll tell you the only great thing I ever thought I’d like to
be,” said Nellie, “and that is a great saint.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Marcy, staring a little. “Are you pious? We’re not
very pious here. We go to church, of course, every Sunday; and we
children go to convent schools, and we’re good Catholics, but we’re not
thinking of being saints.”
“I don’t mean doing something wonderful,” explained Nellie. “I mean
being what pa calls a little cricket-on-the-hearth kind of saint--never
thinking of yourself, or what you want at all, but trying to do
something for others all the while, until every one feels as though
they’d never be able to breathe another minute if you weren’t around. I
think it’s simply grand to be that kind of person; don’t you?”
“I never thought about it at all,” Marcy said honestly. “I shouldn’t
wonder if that would be a great thing if you thought it all out. Now
I’m going to let you rest. Your trunk will be here soon, and we dine at
seven. If you want anything, just ring or call Norah; she’s generally
at the end of this hall. Good-by for awhile,” and Marcy kissed her.
“I wonder where Aunt Clara is?” thought Nellie. “Nobody seemed to think
it queer she wasn’t around to see me. If they came out to Kansas,
my, wouldn’t ma look after them! Now, Nellie Merrick, stop that!” she
added, shaking her head at two brown eyes that looked at her in the
glass through a mist of tears. “It’s simply grand here, and Marcy was
very nice.”