Complete Works of L. Frank Baum, page 491
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.”
CHAPTER II — EL CAJON RANCH
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.
