Aunt Jane\'s Nieces at Millville - Edith Van Dyne
AUNT JANE'S NIECES AT MILLVILLE
BY
EDITH VAN DYNE
1908
LIST OF CHAPTERS
I UNCLE JOHN'S FARM
II THE AGENT
III _MILLVILLE HEARS EXCITING NEWS_
IV ETHEL MAKES PREPARATION
V THE ARRIVAL OF THE NABOBS
VI PEGGY PRESENTS HIS BILL
VII LOUISE SCENTS A MYSTERY
VIII THE LITTLE SCHOOL-MA'AM
IX THE "LIVES OF THE SAINTS"
X THE MYSTERY DEEPENS
XI THREE AMATEUR DETECTIVES
XII THE BAITING OF PEGGY McNUTT
XIII BOB WEST, HARDWARE DEALER
XIV THE MAJOR IS PUZZLED
XV THE MAN IN HIDING
XVI A MATTER OF SPECULATION
XVII JOE TELLS OF "THE GREAT TROUBLE"
XVIII THE LOCKED CUPBOARD
XIX THE COURT'N' OF SKIM CLARK
XX A LOST CAUSE
XXI THE TRAP IS SET
XXII CAUGHT!
XXIII MR. WEST EXPLAINS
XXIV PEGGY HAS REVENGE
XXV GOOD NEWS AT LAST
CHAPTER I.
UNCLE JOHN'S FARM.
"How did I happen to own a farm?" asked Uncle John, interrupting his
soup long enough to fix an inquiring glance upon Major Doyle, who
sat opposite.
"By virtue of circumstance, my dear sir," replied the Major, composedly.
"It's a part of my duty, in attending to those affairs you won't look
afther yourself, to lend certain sums of your money to needy and
ambitious young men who want a start in life."
"Oh, Uncle! Do you do that?" exclaimed Miss Patricia Doyle, who sat
between her uncle and father and kept an active eye upon both.
"So the Major says," answered Uncle John, dryly.
"And it's true," asserted the other. "He's assisted three or four score
young men to start in business in the last year, to my certain
knowledge, by lending them sums ranging from one to three thousand
dollars. And it's the most wasteful and extravagant charity I ever
heard of."
"But I'm so glad!" cried Patsy, clapping her hands with a delighted
gesture. "It's a splendid way to do good--to help young men to get a
start in life. Without capital, you know, many a young fellow would
never get his foot on the first round of the ladder."
"And many will never get it there in any event," declared the Major,
with a shake of his grizzled head. "More than half the rascals that John
helps go to the dogs entirely, and hang us up for all they've borrowed."
"I told you to help _deserving_ young men," remarked Uncle John, with a
scowl at his brother-in-law.
"And how can I tell whether they're desarving or not?" retorted Major
Doyle, fiercely. "Do ye want me to become a sleuth, or engage detectives
to track the objects of your erroneous philanthropy? I just have to form
a judgment an' take me chances; and whin a poor devil goes wrong I
charge your account with the loss."
"But some of them must succeed," ventured Patsy, in a conciliatory tone.
"Some do," said John Merrick; "and that repays me for all my trouble."
"All _your_ throuble, sir?" queried the Major; "you mane all _my_
throuble--well, and your money. And a heap of throuble that confounded
farm has cost me, with one thing and another."
"What of it?" retorted the little round faced millionaire, leaning back
in his chair and staring fixedly at the other. "That's what I employ
you for."
"Now, now, gentlemen!" cried Patsy, earnestly. "I'll have no business
conversation at the table. You know my rules well enough."
"This isn't business," asserted the Major.
"Of course not," agreed Uncle John, mildly. "No one has any business
owning a farm. How did it happen. Major?"
The old soldier had already forgotten his grievance. He quarreled
persistently with his wealthy employer and brother-in-law--whom he
fairly adored--to prevent the possibility (as he often confided to
Patsy) of his falling down and worshiping him. John Merrick was a
multi-millionaire, to be sure; but there were palliating circumstances
that almost excused him. He had been so busily occupied in industry that
he never noticed how his wealth was piling up until he discovered it by
accident. Then he promptly retired, "to give the other fellows a
chance," and he now devoted his life to simple acts of charity and the
welfare and entertainment of his three nieces. He had rescued Major
Doyle and his daughter from a lowly condition and placed the former in
the great banking house of Isham, Marvin & Company, where John Merrick's
vast interests were protected and his income wisely managed. He had
given Patsy this cosy little apartment house at 3708 Willing Square and
made his home with her, from which circumstance she had come to be
recognized as his favorite niece.
John Merrick was sixty years old. He was short, stout and chubby-faced,
with snow-white hair, mild blue eyes and an invariably cheery smile.
Simple in his tastes, modest and retiring, lacking the education and
refinements of polite society, but shrewd and experienced in the affairs
of the world, the little man found his greatest enjoyment in the family
circle that he had been instrumental in founding. Being no longer
absorbed in business, he had come to detest its every detail, and so
allowed his bankers to care for his fortune and his brother-in-law to
disburse his income, while he himself strove to enjoy life in a shy and
boyish fashion that was as unusual in a man of his wealth as it was
admirable. He had never married.
Patricia was the apple of Uncle John's eye, and the one goddess
enshrined in her doting father's heart. Glancing at her, as she sat here
at table in her plain muslin gown, a stranger would be tempted to wonder
why. She was red-haired, freckled as a robin's egg, pug-nosed and
wide-mouthed. But her blue eyes were beautiful, and they sparkled with a
combination of saucy mischief and kindly consideration for others that
lent her face an indescribable charm.
Everyone loved Patsy Doyle, and people would gaze longer at her
smiling-lips and dancing eyes than upon many a more handsome but less
attractive face. She was nearly seventeen years old, not very tall, and
her form, to speak charitably, was more neat than slender.
"A while ago," said the Major, resuming the conversation as he carved
the roast, "a young fellow came to me who had invented a new sort of
pump to inflate rubber tires. He wanted capital to patent the pump and
put it on the market. The thing looked pretty good, John; so I lent him
a thousand of your money."
"Quite right," returned Uncle John, nodding.
"But pretty soon he came back with a sad tale. He was in a bad fix.
Another fellow was contesting his patent and fighting hard to head him
off. It would take a lot of money to fight back--three thousand, at
least. But he was decent about it, after all. His father had left him a
little farm at Millville. He couldn't say what it was worth, but there
were sixty acres and some good buildings, and he would deed it to you as
security if you would let him have three thousand more."
"So you took the farm and gave him the money?"
"I did, sir. Perhaps I am to blame; but I liked the young fellow's
looks. He was clean-cut and frank, and believed in his pump. I did more.
At the climax of the struggle I gave another thousand, making five
thousand in all."
"Well?"
"It's gone, John; and you've got the farm. The other fellows were too
clever for my young friend, Joseph Wegg, and knocked out his patent."
"I'm so sorry!" said Patsy, sympathetically.
The Major coughed.
"It's not an unusual tale, my dear; especially when John advances the
money," he replied.
"What became of the young man?" asked the girl.
"He's a competent chauffeur, and so he went to work driving an
automobile."
"Where is Millville?" inquired Uncle John, thoughtfully.
"Somewhere at the north of the State, I believe."
"Have you investigated the farm at all?"
"I looked up a real estate dealer living at Millville, and wrote him
about the Wegg farm. He said if any one wanted the place very badly it
might sell for three thousand dollars."
"Humph!"
"But his best information was to the effect that no one wanted it at
all."
Patsy laughed.
"Poor Uncle John!" she said.
The little man, however, was serious. For a time he ate with great
deliberation and revolved an interesting thought in his mind.
"Years ago." said he, "I lived in a country town; and I love the smell
of the meadows and the hum of the bees in the orchards. Any orchards at
my farm, Major?"
"Don't know, sir."
"Pretty soon," continued Uncle John, "it's going to be dreadfully hot in
New York, and we'll have to get away."
"Seashore's the place," remarked the Major. "Atlantic City, or
Swampscott, or--"
"Rubbish!" growled the other man, impatiently. "The girls and I have
just come from Europe. We've had enough sea to last us all _this_
season, at least. What we pine for is country life--pure milk, apple
trees and new mown hay."
"We, Uncle?" said Patsy.
"Yes, my dear. A couple of months on the farm will do all of my nieces
good. Beth is still with Louise, you know, and they must find the city
deadly dull, just now. The farm's the thing. And the Major can run up to
see us for a couple of weeks in the hot weather, and we'll all have a
glorious, lazy time."
"And we can take Mary along to do the cooking," suggested Patsy,
entering into the idea enthusiastically.
"And eat in our shirt-sleeves!" said Uncle John, with a glowing face.
"And have a cow and some pigs!" cried the girl.
"Pah!" said the Major, scornfully. "You talk as if it were a real farm,
instead of a place no one would have as a gift."
Uncle John looked sober again.
"Anyone live on the place, Major?" he inquired.
"I believe not. It's gone to ruin and decay the last few years."
"But it could be put into shape?"
"Perhaps so; at an expense that will add to your loss."
"Never mind that."
"If you want farm life, why don't you rent a respectable farm?" demanded
the Major.
"No; this is my farm. I own it, and it's my bounded duty to live on it,"
said Uncle John, stubbornly. "Write to that real estate fellow at
Millville tomorrow and tell him to have the place fixed up and put into
ship-shape order as quickly as possible. Tell him to buy some cows and
pigs and chickens, and hire a man to look after them. Also a horse and
buggy, some saddle horses----"
"Go slow, John. Don't leave such a job to a country real estate dealer.
If I remember right the fellow wrote like a blacksmith. If you want
horses and rigs, let Hutchinson send you down the right sort, with an
experienced groom and stable hands. But I'm not sure there will be a
place to put them."
"Oh, Uncle!" exclaimed Patsy; "don't let us have all those luxuries. Let
us live a simple life on the farm, and not degrade its charms by adding
city fixin's. The cow and the chickens are all right, but let's cut out
the horses until we get there. Don't you know, dear, that a big
establishment means lots of servants, and servants mean worry and
strife? I want to let down the bars for the cow when she moos, and milk
her myself."
"It takes a skilled mechanic to milk a cow," objected the Major.
"But Patsy's right!" cried her uncle, with conviction. "We don't want
any frills at all. Just tell your man, Major, to put the place into good
living condition."
"Patrichia," softly remarked the Major, with an admiring glance at his
small daughter, "has more sinse in her frizzled head than both of us put
together."
"If she hadn't more than you," retorted Uncle John, with a grin, "I'd
put a candle inside her noodle and call her a Jack-Lantern."
CHAPTER II.
THE AGENT.
The Major hunted up the real estate dealer's former letter as soon as he
reached his office next morning. The printed letter-head, somewhat
blurred, because too much ink had been used, read as follows:
Marshall McMahon McNutt,
Real Estate Dealer & Horses to Pasture
by the week or month.
Also Plymouth Rock Hens & Road Commissioner
Agent for Radley's Lives of the Saints
Insurance and Watermelons My Specialty
Millville, Mount County, N.Y.
The Major shook his head doubtfully as he read the above announcement;
but Mr. McNutt was the only known person to whom he could appeal to
carry out John Merrick's orders. So he dictated the following letter:
_Dear Sir_:
_Mr. John Merrick, the present owner of the Wegg farm at Millville,
desires to spend his summer vacation on the premises, and therefore
requests you to have the house and grounds put in first-class shape as
soon as possible, and to notify me directly the work is done. Have the
house thoroughly cleaned, the grass mowed around it and the barns and
outbuildings repaired wherever it may be necessary. You are also
instructed to procure for Mr. Merrick's use a good Jersey cow, some pigs
and a dozen or so barnyard fowls. As several ladies will accompany the
owner and reside with him on the place, he would like you to report what
necessary furniture, if any, will be required for their comfort. Send
your bill to me and it will receive prompt attention_.
After several days this reply came:
_Mister Doyle you must be crazy as a loon. Send me fifty cold dollars as
an evvidence of good fayth and I wull see what can be done. Old Hucks is
livin on the place yit do you want him to git out or what? Yours fer a
square deal Marshall McMahon McNutt_.
"John," said the Major, exhibiting this letter, "you're on the wrong
tack. The man is justified in thinking we're crazy. Give up this idea
and think of something else to bother me."
But the new proprietor of the Wegg farm was obdurate. During the past
week he had indulged in sundry sly purchases, which had been shipped, in
his name to Chazy Junction, the nearest railway station to Millville.
Therefore, the "die had been cast," as far as Mr. Merrick was concerned,
for the purchases were by this time at the farm, awaiting him, and he
could not back out without sacrificing them. They included a set of
gardening tools, several hammocks, croquet and tennis sets, and a
remarkable collection of fishing tackle, which the sporting-goods man
had declared fitted to catch anything that swam, from a whale to a
minnow. Also, Uncle John decided to dress the part of a rural gentleman,
and ordered his tailor to prepare a corduroy fishing costume, a suit of
white flannel, one of khaki, and some old-fashioned blue jean overalls,
with apron front, which, when made to order by the obliging tailor, cost
about eighteen dollars a suit. To forego the farm meant to forego all
these luxuries, and Mr. Merrick was unequal to the sacrifice. Why, only
that same morning he had bought a charming cottage piano and shipped it
to the Junction for Patsy's use. That seemed to settle the matter
definitely. To be balked of his summer vacation on his own farm was a
thing Mr. Merrick would not countenance for a moment.
"Give me that letter, Major," he said; "I'll run this enterprise
myself."
The Major resigned with a sigh of relief.
Uncle John promptly sent the real estate agent a draft for five hundred
dollars, with instructions to get the farm in shape for occupancy at the
earliest possible day.
"If Old Hucks is a farm hand and a bachelor," he wrote, "let him stay
till I come and look him over. If he's a married man and has a family,
chuck him out at once. I'm sure you are a man of good taste and
judgment. Look over the furniture in the house and telegraph me what
condition it is in. Everything about the place must be made cozy and
comfortable, but I wish to avoid an appearance of vulgarity or
extravagance."
The answer to this was a characteristic telegram:
_Furniture on the bum, like everything else. Will do the best I can.
McNutt_.
Uncle John did not display this discouraging report to Patsy or her
father. A little thought on the matter decided him to rectify the
deficiencies, in so far as it lay in his power. He visited a large
establishment making a specialty of "furnishing homes complete," and
ordered a new kitchen outfit, including a modern range, a mission style
outfit for a dining-room, dainty summer furniture for the five chambers
to be occupied by his three nieces, the Major and himself, and a variety
of lawn benches, chairs, etc.
"Look after the details," he said to the dealer. "Don't neglect anything
that is pretty or useful."
"I won't, sir," replied the man, who knew his customer was "the great
John Merrick," who could furnish a city "complete," if he wished to, and
not count the cost.
Everything was to be shipped in haste to the Junction, and Uncle John
wrote McNutt to have it delivered promptly to the farm and put in order.
"As soon as things are in shape," he wrote, "wire me to that effect and
I'll come down. But don't let any grass grow under your feet. I'm a man
who requires prompt service."
The days were already getting uncomfortably warm, and the little man was
nervously anxious to see his farm. So were the nieces, for that matter,
who were always interested in the things that interested their eccentric
uncle. Besides Patricia Doyle, whom we have already introduced, these
nieces were Miss Louise Merrick, who had just celebrated her eighteenth
birthday, and Miss Elizabeth--or "Beth"--De Graf, now well past fifteen.
Beth lived in a small town in Ohio, but was then visiting her city
cousin Louise, so that both girls were not only available but eager to
accompany Uncle John to his new domain and assist him to enjoy his
summer outing.
CHAPTER III.
MILLVILLE HEARS EXCITING NEWS.
Millville is rather difficult to locate on the map, for the railroads
found it impossible to run a line there, _Chazy_ Junction, the nearest
station, is several miles away, and the wagon road ascends the foothills
every step of the distance. Finally you pass between Mount Parnassus
(whoever named it that?) and Little Bill Hill and find yourself on an
almost level plateau some four miles in diameter, with a placid lake in
the center and a fringe of tall pines around the edge. At the South,
where tower the northern sentries of the Adirondacks, a stream called
Little Bill Creek comes splashing and dashing over the rocks to force
its way noisily into the lake. When it emerges again it is humble and
sedate, and flows smoothly to Hooker's Falls, from whence it soon joins
a tributary that leads it to far away Champlain.
Millville is built where the Little Bill rushes into the lake. The old
mill, with its race and sluice-gates, still grinds wearily the scanty
dole of grain fed into its hoppers and Silas Caldwell takes his toll and
earns his modest living just as his father did before him and "Little
Bill" Thompson did before him.
Above the mill a rickety wooden bridge spans the stream, for here the
highway from Chary Junction reaches the village of Millville and passes
the wooden structures grouped on either side its main street on the way
to Thompson's Crossing, nine miles farther along. The town boasts
exactly eleven buildings, not counting the mill, which, being on the
other side of the Little Bill, can hardly be called a part of Millville
proper. Cotting's Store contains the postoffice and telephone booth, and
is naturally the central point of interest. Seth Davis' blacksmith shop
comes next; Widow Clark's Emporium for the sale of candy, stationery and
cigars adjoins that; McNutt's office and dwelling combined is next, and
then Thorne's Livery and Feed Stables. You must understand they are not
set close together, but each has a little ground of its own. On the
other side of the street is the hardware store, with farm machinery
occupying the broad platform before it, and then the Millville House, a
two-storied "hotel" with a shed-like wing for the billiard-room and card
tables. Nib Corkins' drug store, jewelry store and music store combined
(with sewing machines for a "side line"), is the last of the "business
establishments," and the other three buildings are dwellings occupied by
Sam Cotting, Seth Davis and Nick Thorne.
Dick Pearson's farm house is scarcely a quarter of a mile up the
highway, but it isn't in Millville, for all that. There's a cross lane
just beyond Pearson's, leading east and west, and a mile to westward is
the Wegg Farm, in the wildest part of the foothills.
It is a poor farming country around Millville. Strangers often wonder
how the little shops of the town earn a living for their proprietors;
but it doesn't require a great deal to enable these simple folk to live.
The tourist seldom penetrates these inaccessible foothills; the roads
are too rough and primitive for automobiles; so Millville is shamefully
neglected, and civilization halted there some half a century ago.
However, there was a genuine sensation in store for this isolated
hamlet, and it was the more welcome because anything in the way of a
sensation had for many years avoided the neighborhood.
Marshall McMahon McNutt, or, as he was more familiarly called by those
few who respected him most highly, "Marsh" McNutt (and sundry other
appellations by those who respected him not at all), became the
recipient of a letter from New York announcing the intention of a
certain John Merrick, the new owner of the Wegg Farm, to spend the
summer on the place. McNutt was an undersized man of about forty, with a
beardless face, scraggly buff-colored hair, and eyes that were big,
light blue and remarkably protruding. The stare of those eyes was
impenetrable, because observers found it embarrassing to look at them.
"Mac's" friends had a trick of looking away when they spoke to him, but
children gazed fascinated at the expressionless blue eyeballs and
regarded their owner with awe.
The "real estate agent" was considered an enterprising man by his
neighbors and a "poor stick" by his wife. He had gone to school at
Thompson's Crossing in his younger days; had a call to preach, but
failed because he "couldn't get religion"; inherited a farm from his
uncle and married Sam Cotting's sister, whose tongue and temper were so
sharp that everyone marveled at the man's temerity in acquiring them.
Finally he had lost one foot in a mowing machine, and the accident
destroyed his further usefulness to the extent of inducing him to
abandon the farm and move into town. Here he endeavored to find
something to do to eke out his meagre income; so he raised "thoroughbred
Plymouth Rocks," selling eggs for hatching to the farmers; doctored sick
horses and pastured them in the lot back of his barn, the rear end of
which was devoted to "watermelons in season"; sold subscription books to
farmers who came to the mill or the village store; was elected "road
commissioner" and bossed the neighbors when they had to work out their
poll-tax, and turned his hand to any other affairs that offered a
penny's recompense. The "real estate business" was what Seth Davis
labeled "a blobbering bluff," for no property had changed hands in the
neighborhood in a score of years, except the lot back of the mill, which
was traded for a yoke of oxen, and the Wegg farm, which had been sold
without the agent's knowledge or consent.
The only surprising thing about the sale of the Wegg farm was that
anyone would buy it. Captain Wegg had died three years before, and his
son Joe wandered south to Albany, worked his way through a technical
school and then disappeared in the mazes of New York. So the homestead
seemed abandoned altogether, except for the Huckses.
When Captain Wegg died Old Hucks, his hired man, and Hucks' blind wife
Nora were the only dependents on the place, and the ancient couple had
naturally remained there when Joe scorned his inheritance and ran away.
After the sale they had no authority to remain but were under no
compulsion to move out, so they clung to their old quarters.
When McNutt was handed his letter by the postmaster and storekeeper he
stared at its contents in a bewildered way that roused the loungers to
amused laughter.
"What's up, Peggy?" called Nick Thorne from his seat on the counter.
"Somebody gone off'n me hooks an' left ye a fortun'?"
"Peggy" was one of McNutt's most popular nicknames, acquired because he
wore a short length of pine where his absent foot should have been.
"Not quite," was the agent's slow reply; "but here's the blamedest
funniest communicate a man ever got! It's from some critter that knows
the man what bought the Wegg farm."
"Let's hear it," remarked Cotting, the store-keeper, a fat individual
with a bald head, who was counting matches from a shelf into the public
match-box. He allowed "the boys" just twenty free matches a day.
So the agent read the letter in an uncertain halting voice, and when he
had finished it the little group stared at one another for a time in
thoughtful silence.
"Wall, I'll be plunked," finally exclaimed the blacksmith. "Looks like
the feller's rich, don't it?"
"Ef he's rich, what the tarnation blazes is he comin' here for?"
demanded Nib Corkins, the dandy of the town. "I was over t' Huntingdon
las' year, 'n' seen how the rich folks live. Boys, this h'ain't no place
for a man with money."
"That depends," responded Cotting, gravely. "I'm sure we'd all be better
off if we had a few real bloods here to squander their substance."
"Well, here's a perposal to squander, all right," said McNutt. "But the
question is, Does he know what he's runnin' up agin', and what it'll
cost to do all the idiotic things as he says?"