Aunt Janes Nieces Abroad | Page 6

"We sail Tuesday," continued Uncle John, "and you must have my
niece ready in time and deliver her on board the 'Princess Irene' at
Hoboken at nine o'clock, sharp."
"But John--John!" gasped Mrs. Merrick, feebly, "it will take a month,
at least, to make her gowns, and--"
"Stuff and rubbish!" he growled. "That shows, Martha, how little you
know about European trips. No one makes gowns to go abroad with;
you buy 'em in Paris to bring home."
"Ah, yes; to be sure," she muttered. "Perhaps, then, it can be done, if
Louise, has no other engagements."
"Just what Patsy said. See here, Martha, do you imagine that any girl
who is half human could have engagements that would keep her from
Europe?"
"But the requirements of society--"
"You'll get me riled, pretty soon, Martha; and if you do you'll wish you
hadn't."
This speech frightened the woman. It wouldn't do to provoke Uncle
John, however unreasonable he happened to be. So she said, meekly:
"I've no doubt Louise will be delighted to go, and so will I."
"You!"
"Why--why--whom do you intend taking?"

"Just the three girls--Aunt Jane's three nieces. Also mine."
"But you'll want a chaperone for them."
"Why so?"
"Propriety requires it; and so does ordinary prudence. Louise, I know,
will be discreet, for it is her nature; but Patsy is such a little flyaway
and Beth so deep and demure, that without a chaperone they might
cause you a lot of trouble."
Uncle John grew red and his eyes flashed.
"A chaperone!" he cried, contemptuously; "not any in mine, Martha
Merrick. Either we young folks go alone, without any death's head to
perpetually glower at us, or we don't go at all! Three better girls never
lived, and I'll trust 'em anywhere. Besides that, we aren't going to any
of your confounded social functions; we're going on a reg'lar picnic,
and if I don't give those girls the time of their lives my name ain't John
Merrick. A chaperone, indeed!"
Mrs. Merrick held up her hands in horror.
"I'm not sure, John," she gasped, "that I ought to trust my dear child
with an uncle who disregards so openly the proprieties."
"Well, I'm sure; and the thing's settled," he said, more calmly. "Don't
worry, ma'am. I'll look after Patsy and Beth, and Louise will look after
all of us--just as she does after you--because she's so discreet. Talk
about your being a chaperone! Why, you don't dare say your soul's your
own when Louise is awake. That chaperone business is all
humbuggery--unless an old uncle like me can be a chaperone. Anyhow,
I'm the only one that's going to be appointed. I won't wait for Louise to
wake up. Just tell her the news and help her to get ready on time. And
now, I'm off. Good morning, Martha."
She really had no words of protest ready at hand, and it was long after
queer old John Merrick had gone away that she remembered a dozen

effective speeches that she might have delivered.
"After all," she sighed, taking up her cup again, "it may be the best
thing in the world for Louise. We don't know whether that young
Weldon, who is paying her attentions just now, is going to inherit his
father's money or not. He's been a bit wild, I've heard, and it is just as
well to postpone any engagement until we find out the facts. I can do
that nicely while my sweet child is in Europe with Uncle John, and
away from all danger of entanglements. Really, it's an ill wind that
blows no good! I'll go talk with Louise."
CHAPTER III
"ALL ASHORE"
Beth De Graf was a puzzle to all who knew her. She was a puzzle even
to herself, and was wont to say, indifferently, that the problem was not
worth a solution. For this beautiful girl of fifteen was somewhat bitter
and misanthropic, a condition perhaps due to the uncongenial
atmosphere in which she had been reared. She was of dark complexion
and her big brown eyes held a sombre and unfathomable expression.
Once she had secretly studied their reflection in a mirror, and the eyes
awed and frightened her, and made her uneasy. She had analyzed them
much as if they belonged to someone else, and wondered what lay
behind their mask, and what their capabilities might be.
But this morbid condition mostly affected her when she was at home,
listening to the unpleasant bickerings of her father and mother, who
quarrelled constantly over trifles that Beth completely ignored. Her
parents seemed like two ill tempered animals confined in the same cage,
she thought, and their snarls had long since ceased to interest her.
This condition had, of course, been infinitely worse in all those
dreadful years when