AUNT KATHERINE GIVES ADVICE
The Van Buskirk dinner hour was approaching. After a heavy thunder storm
with hail, a cool breeze freshened the hot city. The dainty lace
curtains in the drawing room were blowing dangerously for their gossamer
threads. But Sylvia Van Buskirk let them blow while she threw open every
one of the long French windows which opened on the veranda. Its stone
floor was covered with rose petals and leaves from the vines that twined
around the great pillars. “What a storm it was!” she was thinking as she
looked out. An easy chair was drawn near one of the windows and she was
looking about for the evening paper when Mr. Van Buskirk appeared in
evening dress. Some little services for her husband Sylvia kept as her
own. It was not one of those houses in which the servants are always in
evidence.
Mr. Van Buskirk came smiling toward his wife and putting his arm around
her drew her to the window, while he, too, looked out upon the results
of the storm. Philip Van Buskirk Senior was a little above average
height, well built but not heavy. He did not possess the dark eyes which
were characteristic of so many of the Van Buskirks, but blue ones of the
unfading blue type, passed on to Cathalina. His hair was beginning to
show grey threads, but he looked active and well, and his air was that
of the well-poised, successful business man who is accustomed to carry
responsibility. His face was rather serious, refined, and just now very
tender; for dear as his children were to him, Sylvia had always stood
first.
“As soon as you have rested a little, I would like to talk with you
about an important matter.”
“I am rested now. Bath, shave and clean clothes always rest a man, that
is,—well, do not expect me to do any talking. I’ve been closeted, at
different times today, with half a dozen men,—each one trying to put
through some scheme.”
“Poor boy! This is a scheme of Aunt Katherine’s, but for our good, not
hers, and especially for Cathalina’s benefit. If my experience with
Cathalina today is at all suggestive, Auntie’s idea isn’t bad.”
Instead of taking chair and paper, then, Mr. Van Buskirk stretched out
upon a couch not far from the windows, and while he closed his eyes and
held his wife’s hand as if her nearness rested him, Sylvia outlined Aunt
Katherine’s plan for sending Cathalina to a girls’ school.
They had not talked long when the children appeared. Philip at seventeen
was already taller than his father. Slender, dark-eyed, his dark brown
hair cut in the latest fashion, he looked quite the dandy in his evening
clothes. Cathalina, dressed as a little girl rather than a young lady,
wore a lacy white frock, simple and pretty.
“There is your Aunt Knickerbocker, I think,” said Philip Senior, rising
quickly as the bell rang. “Go to meet her yourself, Phil; she’ll
appreciate the attention.” But Philip had already started to the hall.
“Home again, my dear boy!” was Aunt Katherine’s brisk greeting. Philip
welcomed her warmly and started to unfasten the wrap which she had worn
in the machine.
“You are an improvement on the maid, Philip, and much better looking.
No, I’ll not go upstairs, thank you,” and turning, Aunt Katherine stood
a moment before a mirror in the hall, put back a wisp or two of silvery
hair, patted her white laces and shook out the folds of her clinging
black silk draperies. A maid who had just appeared in answer to Philip’s
summons, waited a moment in the background, then vanished as Mrs.
Knickerbocker entered the room and greeted her advancing host and
hostess.
Tall and erect was Aunt Katherine, with well cut features, mouth a
little wide, perhaps, nose a trifle long, but well shaped. Nothing could
look more uncompromising than that straight, Van Buskirk back; nothing
could be more cutting on occasion than a few of her quiet, well directed
remarks. But no one in the connection was more respected and generally
beloved for her wisdom, good, common sense and real, unselfish kindness.
She put an arm around Cathalina and as Phil had done in the morning,
turned up the delicate face to look at it. Soft lights by this time had
been turned on, and shone through Cathalina’s hair, making a sort of
halo around her face. Her eyes, however, twinkled up into Aunt
Katherine’s with a glance more human than angelic.
“Nice little girl,” said Mrs. Knickerbocker, kissing Cathalina’s
forehead and turning away to accept the comfortable wicker chair just
placed for her by the elder Philip.
“Where is Ann Maria?” asked Sylvia.
“She telephoned from Libbie’s that they are keeping her there for dinner
and want Philip and Cathalina to come over as soon as possible.
Elizabeth said that she would have liked them both for dinner, but would
not expect you to give Philip up tonight. Louise came home yesterday.
John passed his examination for the bar, as we knew, of course, he
would. His Western trip, too, promises much. But Libbie can’t bear to
think of his settling so far away. I judge that nobody but Juliet will
see much of him for a while,—his sweetheart, Philip. Will’s knee is
better and they think that no serious trouble will result. Charlotte is
much better,—hives—and they are all spoiling her as usual, so Libbie
says.”
Aunt Katherine herself smiled over her own varied budget of news from
Elizabeth Van Ness, often known as “Cousin Libbie”, whose pleasant home
was in a suburb near. Cathalina and her mother had drawn their chairs
near Mrs. Knickerbocker, while Philip and his father drifted into a
little conversation of their own, as Philip recounted recent events at
the military school from which he had just returned.
Philip was not the too common prodigal son of a rich man. His father,
fond and proud of his son and heir, had studied the boy, taking him into
his confidence, and had interested him at first in the more romantic
side of his business by stories about the different products and
producers. Later Philip was given the opportunity to study different
departments and even entrusted with a little responsibility. An
allowance, small at first and increasing with the years, was made, and
within this he was supposed to bring his personal expenses. To Mr. Van
Buskirk’s great satisfaction, Philip was responding to this effort to
fit him for responsibility, and as he went about with his father he was
unconsciously absorbing much and learning to distinguish the true from
the false and the honorable from the dishonorable.
“Before you go, Philip,” said Aunt Katherine after dinner, “may I have
some music?”
“Certainly,” replied Philip promptly, seating himself at the piano.
“What will you have, Auntie? College songs and ragtime are not in your
line, are they?”
It was a pretty picture,—the beautiful room, the dark, rich wood of the
piano, Philip’s glowing face and Cathalina’s smiling one, looking over
the piano at her brother.
A sparkling, indefinite prelude passed gradually into a dreamy theme
that suited the relaxed mood of the family. Then followed several
well-known classics till Philip rose suddenly and with one hand on his
heart bowed low in exaggerated concert style to Aunt Katherine, who
laughed and tossed him a crimson rose with which she had been playing.
“What was that pretty thing you played first,—after your preliminaries?”
she asked, as Philip sat down again and began to turn the pages of a
collection of songs which Cathalina handed him.
“Something by a new composer, I believe, Auntie,” replied Philip with a
wink at Cathalina. “I couldn’t tell you the name of it.”
Cathalina could not conceal her amusement and Aunt Katherine quickly
exclaimed, “I knew it! You did it yourself! It was lovely. You play with
much expression, Philip, a great gift in these degenerate days!”
“Really, Aunt Katherine, if the children are going to Libbie’s, we shall
have to cut short the music. College songs another time, Cathalina. I’m
sorry.” Philip began to whistle softly a phrase of “Who is Sylvia,” as
Cathalina hurried off to get ready.
In the hall Watts at the telephone looked around to say, “Tire is off
the touring car, sir; can have the electric at the door in a few
minutes.”
“All right,—nobody but Cathalina and me, and Ann Maria coming back.”
At the top of the steps Cathalina gave a little skip. “O, Phil, this is
almost jolly, isn’t it? I’m so glad you and the girls are back!”
“I like that ‘almost’!” Philip took her arm down the steps and put her
carefully into the car.
“Are you glad to be home?”
“Glad!—you don’t know how awful it is sometimes,—and then again, it’s
jolly fun,” Philip smiled at the remembrance of certain pranks.
“You’re awfully nice to me,” continued Cathalina, “just as nice as you
are to Louise or Ann Maria. Rosalie Haverhill said that her brother
didn’t pay any attention to her after he had been away to school.”
Philip was still at the stage when he preferred to avoid the expression
of sentiment, though possessing his share. “O, you’re a good old scout,
Kit, that’s the reason.”
It was not a long ride to the Van Ness place, where a roomful of cousins
awaited them. Cousin Elizabeth herself, sweet and hospitable, met them
at the door.
“O, Ann Maria!—Emily Stuart, is this really you? and is Campbell—O,
there he is!” Cathalina was quite animated for a little while, as she
greeted the cousins.
Ann Maria Van Ness was an orphan, grandniece of Aunt Knickerbocker, and
lived with them, Emily, Campbell and Sara Stuart were the children of
one of Philip Van Buskirk’s sisters. Campbell was about the age of
Philip Junior; Emily scarcely a year older; Sarah, a little girl of ten
years. Emily and Louise Van Ness, who was Cousin Elizabeth’s oldest
daughter, had returned from boarding school. Ann Maria attended the same
school, but had returned earlier. She was almost as tall as Phil, an
athletic girl, with good features and an alert, vivacious manner. Her
“chum cousin” was Louise, who was short, plump, fair-haired and
blue-eyed, with charming dimples in her round cheeks. Ann, or “Nan”, Van
Ness disowned the name of Nancy, but consented to be called Nan that she
might be distinguished from her cousin Ann Maria. Nan and Cathalina were
of nearly the same age.
The eldest son of the family was not there, “making a call”, said his
father with a twinkle in answer to Philip’s inquiry. Will, a youngster
of some eleven years, who was hobbling around with one crutch, noisily
claimed Philip’s attention.
“How’d you get your game knee, Will?”
“O,—playin’ baseball; fell.”
“Am, too, goin’ to see Philly!” came in shrill tones from the hall,
before the family were well settled down for a visit.
“O, Mother, Charlotte is making trouble with Nina. You’ll have to settle
her.”
“Let her come in a minute. I don’t care for once. She had a long nap
this afternoon and I don’t blame her for not wanting to go to bed. It
was a shame to send her off when she knew that Philip and Cathalina were
coming.”
“She adores Philip,” said Louise.
“Behold Mother’s discipline,” remarked Nan wisely.
Small, fat, curly-haired, almost a tiny edition of Louise, little
Charlotte appeared in the door, having escaped her nurse. Eluding
several outstretched hands, she dashed across the room and with some
assistance perched upon Philip’s knee.
Philip placed her firmly and began to recite “There was an old woman as
I’ve heard tell.”
Charlotte chuckled and poked his face with her chubby fingers.
“Now, fee b’ind mice.”
“I don’t know that one, do I?” asked Philip, teasing.
“Why, yes you do! Don’t you know?—’Fee b’ind mice, See how ay wun!”
“I don’t think I can remember it unless you tell me first what your name
is.”
“Sh’lotte Mee-ni-a Buckets V’n Hoosen Doosen V’n Ness.”
A ripple of laughter greeted this, Will adding a boyish “haw-haw!”
“Philip Van Buskirk, did you teach her that?” came from Mrs. Van Ness.
Philip grinned broadly. “I really didn’t think she’d remember. Smart
child!”
“Why, Charlotte, your name isn’t Maria; here’s Ann Maria.”
“Yes, ’tis Meenia. Philip said,” insisted Charlotte, nodding her curls.
“Ah, Phil, now she’s let the cat out of the bag.”
“Kitty, kitty,” called Philip softly.
Charlotte jumped down and looked all round. “Why where’s a kitty? Don’t
see any kitty!”
“What does she mean by ‘Buckets,’ Philip?”
“Van Buskirk,” replied Philip, arching his black brows and drawing his
face into a comical look of pretended distress.
“Come on, Phil, play for us,” said Ann Maria. “Louise has some new
music.”
“Good; let Louise do it.”
“You first, my dear Philip!”
“O, start the victrola, girls!”
“Philip Van Buskirk! Do you mean to say that you will take piano and
organ all year of the perfectly fine professor down there and not play a
note for your suffering family?”
So Philip was escorted to the piano by Ann Maria and Louise, and played
for this family group as he had played for Aunt Katherine.
Ann Maria looked questioningly at Cathalina as Philip played his own
exquisite little theme, and receiving a confirming nod, looked
mischievous, but remained silent like the rest until Philip had
finished.
“What was that second thing you played, Phil?—I can’t think what it is,
someway, but it sounds like—” Ann Maria paused as if trying to think of
the name of a composition.
“What does it sound like?” demanded Philip, whirling around. Then he
caught the look in Ann Maria’s eyes.
“O, you Maria,” said he slangily, shaking his head at her and dashing
into popular songs in which the cousins joined.
“What is it?” asked Louise, who did not understand.
“O, just Ann Maria, as usual, teasing Philly about the piece he made
up,” replied Cathalina.
* * * * *
Meanwhile Aunt Katherine was leading the discussion at the Van
Buskirk’s.
“I have not wanted to intrude, Philip, but it has seemed to me for some
time that our very anxiety for Cathalina is spoiling her.”
“Why, Aunt Katherine!” exclaimed Sylvia in gentle protest, “Cathalina is
usually as sweet as can be.”
“I do not mean spoiled in the sense of becoming undutiful or exacting.
No child of yours, Sylvia, could be anything but sweet.” Aunt Katherine,
though never insincere, knew when to put in a judicious compliment.
Philip Junior, however, would not have thanked her for his share in this
one.
“Why, thank you, Auntie; I’m afraid I do not deserve that.”
“Yes, you do; but, my dear, do you realize that the child does almost
nothing for herself? No wonder that she is anaemic and lacks energy!
There is no real wholesome exercise that she wants to take. Isn’t that
true?”
Mr. and Mrs. Van Buskirk were both very sober. “A maid dresses her,
picks up after her and brings her meals when she is either too miserable
or too lazy to go down to the dining room. The child reads, draws and
paints a little and rides around in the car to shop. She has practically
no young companions except her cousins,—though in some respects that is
just as well here.”
“When I suggested tennis or riding or swimming lessons, she just begged
me not to make her,” said Sylvia, “and I knew she was not fit for any
real strain.”
“O, it is always ‘lessons,’ in this, that or the other,” laughed Aunt
Katherine. “I don’t know that I blame her. Perhaps you can get her to
swim if you are on the coast this summer. But I have been observing that
aside from her health you have a real problem to solve. I rather
particularly love Cathalina,—and when I received the letter from my old
friend, Ellen Randolph, with the catalogue I sent you this morning, it
occurred to me that perhaps a complete change would rouse Cathalina. If
she could see, for instance, that most girls do without many of the
luxuries which she takes for granted, it would do her good. She has had
private teaching enough, in my opinion.”
“But why not send her then to Aunt Willard’s school, where we all have
gone? Troy is so near.”
“Well, you know I think everything of that and remember Madam Willard
herself, but this is a different case. Cathalina needs to go farther
away from home and away from her cousins. She needs to be on her own
resources.”
“She is pretty young for that,” said Mr. Van Buskirk, doubtfully. “I
prefer to protect her from some things.”
“Ellen will look after her so far as she needs any real care or
sympathy. And traveling expenses mean nothing to you as they do some
people. You can reach the place in a comparatively short time.”
“There is splendid sense in what you say, Aunt Katherine, and we will
think it over carefully.”
“I will write to Ellen and tell her to send you all the information they
send out.”
“How can I spare the child!” exclaimed Sylvia.
“But her welfare? No one must grow up too dependent. There will be all
kinds of gymnastic exercises and sports and girls to whom she will be as
strange as they to her. I count on her pride and the ‘Van Buskirk grit’
to make her want to be on an equality with the rest. She will be without
a maid, and I hope it need not be known that she has one and everything
else she wants!”
“It would not be like Cathalina to plume herself upon advantages.”
“No,” put in Mr. Van Buskirk, “but those things usually leak out.”
“Yes,” said Aunt Katherine, “but not, I hope until the poor child has
had a fair start.”