Author: Sewell Ford
Category: Humorous
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CHAPTER XIV
HOW AUNTY GOT THE NEWS
Say, I expect it ain't good form to get chesty over your relations,specially when they're so new as mine; but I've got to hand it to Mr.Kyrle Ballard. After three weeks' tryout he shapes up as some grandlittle great-uncle, take it from me!
First off, you know, I had him card indexed as havin' more or lesstabasco in his temper'ment, with a wide grumpy streak runnin' throughhis ego. And he is kind of crisp and snappy in his talk, I'll admit.Strangers might think he was a grouch toter. But that's just his way.It's all on the outside. Back of that gruff, offhand talk and behindthem bushy, gray eyebrows there's a lot of fun and good nature. One ofthe kind that's never seemed to grow up, Uncle Kyrle is, sixty-odd andstill a kid; always springin' some josh or other, and disguisin' thegood turns he does with foolish remarks. And to hear him string AuntMartha along from one thing to another is sure a circus.
"Good morning, Sister Martha," says he, blowin' in to a late Sundaybreakfast, all pinked up in the cheeks from a cold tub and a cleanshave. "I trust that you begin the day with a deep conviction of sin?"
"Why, I--I suppose I do, Kyrle," says she, gettin' fussed. "That is, Itry to."
"Good!" says Uncle Kyrle. "It is important that some one in this familyshould recognize that this is a sad and wicked world, with Virtue belowpar and Honest Worth going baggy at the knees. Zenobia here has noconviction of sin whatever. Mine is rather weak at times. So you,Martha, must do the piety for all of us. And please ring for the griddlecakes and sausage."
Then he winks at Zenobia, gives his grapefruit a sherry bath, andproceeds to tackle a hearty breakfast.
A few days after him and Zenobia got back from their runaway honeymoontrip he calls her to the front door. "There's a person out here who sayshe has a car for you," says he.
"Nonsense!" says Zenobia. "Why, I haven't ordered a car."
"The impudent rascal!" says Uncle Kyrle. "I'll send him off, then. Theidea!"
"Oh, but isn't it a beauty?" says Zenobia, peekin' out. "Let's see whathe says about it first."
So they go out to the curb, while Uncle Kyrle demands violent of theyoung chap in charge what he means by such an outrage. At which theparty grins and shows the tag on the steerin' wheel.
"Why!" says Zenobia. "It has my name on it. Oh, Kyrle, you dear man!I've a notion to hug you."
"Tut, tut!" says he. "Such a bad example to set the neighbors! Besides,this young man may object. He has a Y. M. C. A. certificate as afirst-class chauffeur."
That's the way he springs on Aunt Zenobia an imported landaulet, thisyear's model, all complete even to monogrammed laprobes and a moroccovanity case in the tonneau. It's one of these low-hung French cars, withan eight-cylinder motor that runs as sweet as the purr of a kitten.
Then here Sunday noon he takes me one side confidential. "Torchy," sayshe, "could you assist a poor but deserving citizen to retain the respectof his chauffeur!"
"Go on, shoot it," says I.
"Don't be rash, young man," says he, "for the situation is desperate.You see, Herman seems to think we ought to use the machine more than wedo. Just to please him we have been whirled through thousands of milesof adjacent suburbs during the last week. Still Herman is unsatisfied.Would it be asking too much if I requested you to let him take you outfor the afternoon?"
I gives him the grin. "Maybe I could stand it for this once," says I.
"Noble youth!" says he. "You deserve the iron cross. And should there beperchance anyone who could be induced to share your self-sacrifice----"
The grin plays tag with my ears. "How'd you guess?" says I.
Uncle Kyrle winks and pikes off.
So about two-thirty P.M. I'm landed at a certain number on Madison-ave.and runs jaunty up the front steps. I was hopin' Aunty would either beout or takin' her after-dinner nap. But when it comes to forecastin' hermoves you got to figure on reverse English nine cases out of ten. And ifever you want a picture of bad luck to hang up anywhere, get a portraitof Aunty. Out? She's right on hand, as stiff and sour as a frozen dillpickle. Her way of greetin' me cordial as I'm shown into the drawin'room is by humping her eyebrows and passin' me the marble stare.
"Well, young man?" says she.
"Why," says I, "not so well as I was a couple of minutes--er--that it'sa fine, spiffy afternoon, ain't it?"
"Spiffy!" says she, drawin' in her breath menacin'.
"Vassarese for lovely," says I. "But I don't insist on the word. By theway, is Miss Vee in?"
"She is," says Aunty. "This is not Friday evening, however."
"Ah, say!" says I. "Can't we suspend the rules and regulations for once?You see, I got a machine outside that's a reg'lar--well, it's some car,believe me!--and seein' how there couldn't be a slicker day for a spin,I didn't know but what you'd let Vee off for an hour or so."
"Just you and Verona?" demands Aunty, stiffenin'.
It was some pill to swallow, but after a few uneasy throat wiggles I gotit down. "Unless," says I, "you--you'd like to go along too. Youwouldn't, would you?"
Aunty indulges in one of them tight-lipped smiles of hers that's aboutas merry as a crack in a vinegar cruet. "How thoughtful of you!" saysshe. "However, I am not fond of motoring."
I don't know whether someone punctured an air cushion just then, orwhether it was me heavin' a sigh of relief. "Ain't you?" says I. "ButVee's strong for it, and if you don't mind----"
"My niece is writing letters," says Aunty, "and asked not to bedisturbed until after five o'clock."
"But in this case," I goes on, "maybe she'd sidetrack the letters ifyou'd send up word how----"
"Young man," says Aunty, settin' her chin firm, "I think you are quiteaware of my attitude. Your persistent attentions to my niece are whollyunwelcome. True, you are no longer a mere office boy; but--well, justwho are you?"
"Private sec. of Mutual Funding," says I.
"And a youth known as Torchy?" she adds sarcastic.
"Yes; but see here!" says I. "I've just dug up a----"
"That will do," she breaks in. "We have discussed all this before. AndI've no doubt you think me simply a disagreeable, crotchety old person.Has it ever occurred to you, however, that you may have failed to get mypoint of view? Can you not conceive then that it might be somewhathumiliating to me to know that my maids suppress a smile as theyannounce--Mr. Torchy? Understand, I am not censuring you for being anameless waif. No, do not interrupt. I realize that this is somethingfor which you should not be held responsible. But can't you see, youngman----"
"If I can't," I cuts in, "I need an eye doctor bad. I'll tell you whatI'll do about this name business, though. I'm going to issue a whitepaper on the subject."
"A--a what?" says Aunty.
"Seein' you ain't much of a listener," says I, "I'll submit the case inwritin'. You win the round, though. And if it don't hurt you too much,you might tell Vee I was here. You can use a bichloride of mercury mouthwash afterwards, you know."
Saying which, I does the young hero act, swings proudly on muh heel, andexits left center, leavin' Aunty speechless in her chair.
So Herman and me starts off all by our lonesome, swings into the GrandBoulevard and out through Pelham Parkway to the Boston Post Road. Deepglooms for me! Even the way we breezed by speedy roadsters don't bringme any thrills.
I was still chewin' over that zippy roast Aunty had handed me. Namelesswaif, eh? Say, that's the rawest she'd ever stated it. Course I wasfixed now to show her where she'd overdone the part; but somehow Icouldn't seem to frame up any way of gettin' my fam'ly tree on recordwithout seemin' to do it boastful. Besides, Aunty wouldn't take my wordfor Uncle Kyrle and all the rest. She'd want an affidavit, at least.
But I had made up my mind to have a talk with Vee. I hadn't had more'n aglimpse of her for weeks now, and while I might not feel like givin'her complete details of all that had happened to me recent, I thought Imight drop an illuminatin' hint or so. Was I goin' to let a gimlet-eyedold dame with an acetic acid disposition
block me off as easy as that?
"Herman," says I, "you can just drop me on Madison-ave. as we go down.And you better report at the house before you put up the machine. Theymay want to be goin' somewhere."
I'd heard Uncle Kyrle speak of promisin' to make a call on someone he'dmet lately that he'd known abroad. As for me, I just strolls up and downtwo or three blocks, takin' a chance that Vee might drift out. But Isticks around near an hour without any luck.
"Huh!" says I to myself at last. "Might as well risk it again, and if Ican't run the gate--well, swappin' a few more plain words with Aunty'llrelieve my feelin's some, anyway."
With that I marches up bold and presses the button. "Say," says I to themaid, "don't tell me Aunty's gone out since I left!"
Selma shakes her head solemn as her mighty Swedish intellect strugglesto surround the situation. "Meesis she dress by supper in den room yet,"says she.
"Such sadness!" says I. "Maybe there's nobody but Miss Vee downstairs?"
"_Ja_," says Selma, starin' stupid. "Not nobody else but Miss Verona,no."
"You're a bright girl--from the feet down," says I, pushin' in past her."Shut the door easy so as not to disturb Aunty, and I'll try to cheer upMiss Verona until she comes down. She's in the lib'ry, eh?"
Yep, I was doin' my best. We'd exchanged the greetin's of the season andwas camped cozy in a corner davenport just big enough for two, while Iwas explainin' how tough it was not havin' her along for the drive, andI'd collected one of her hands casual, pattin' it sort of absent-minded,when--say, no trained bloodhound has anything on Aunty! There she is,standin' rigid between the double doors glarin' at us accusin'.
"So you returned after all that, did you?" she demands.
"I didn't know but you might want to tack on a postscript," says I.
"Young man," says she, just as friendly as a Special Sessions Judgecallin' the prisoner to the bar, "you are quite right. And I wish to sayto you now, in the presence of my niece, that----"
"Now, Aunty! Please!" breaks in Verona, shruggin' her shouldersexpressive.
"Verona, kindly be silent," goes on Aunty. "This young person known asTorchy has----"
When in drifts Selma and sticks out the silver card plate like she waspresentin' arms.
"What is it?" asks Aunty. "Oh!" Then she inspects the names.
For half a minute she stands there, glancin' from me to the cardsundecided, and I expect if she could have electrocuted me with a lookI'd have sizzled once or twice and then disappeared in a puff of smoke.But her voltage wa'n't quite high enough for that. Instead she turns toSelma and gives some quick orders.
"Draw these draperies," says she; "then show in the guests. As for you,young man, wait!"
"Gee!" I whispers, as we're shut in. "I wish I knew how to draw up awill."
Vee snickers. "Silly!" says she. "Whatever have you been saying to Auntynow?"
"Me?" says I. "Why, not much. Just a little chat about fam'ly trees andso on, durin' which she----"
Then the arrival chatter in the next room breaks loose, and I stopssudden, starin' at the closed portieres with my mouth open.
"Hello!" says I. "Listen who's here!"
"Who?" says Vee.
"That's so," says I. "You don't know 'em, do you? Well, this addsthickenin' to the plot for fair. Remember hearin' me tell of AuntZenobia and her new hubby? Well, that's 'em."
"How odd!" says Vee. "But--why, I've heard his voice before! It wasat--oh, I know! The nice old gentleman who had the villa next to ours atMentone."
"Ballard?" I suggests.
"That's it!" says Vee. "And you say he is----"
"My Uncle Kyrle," says I. "My reg'lar uncle, you know."
"Why, Torchy!" gasps Vee, grabbin' me by the arm. "Then--then you----"
"Listen!" says I. "Hear your Aunty usin' her comp'ny voice. My! ain'tshe the gentle, cooin' dove, though? Now they're gettin' acquainted. Sothis was where Uncle Kyrle spoke of callin'! Hot time he picked out forit, didn't he, with me here in the condemned cell? Say, what do you knowabout that, eh?"
Vee smothers another giggle, and slips one of her hands into mine."Don't you care!" says she, whisperin'. "And isn't it thrilling? Butwhat shall we do?"
"It's by me," says I. "Aunty told me to wait, didn't she? Well, let's."
Which we done, sittin' there sociable, and every now and then swappin'smiles as the conversation in the next room took a new turn.
Fin'lly Uncle Kyrle remarks: "You had your little niece with you then,didn't you?"
"Little Verona? Oh, yes," says Aunty. "She is still with me. Rathergrown up now, though. I must send for her. Pardon me." And she rings forSelma.
Well, that queers the game entirely. Two minutes more, and Vee has beentowed in for inspection and I'm left alone in banishment.
"Well, well!" I can hear Uncle Kyrle sing out. "Why, young lady, whatright had you to change from a tow-headed schoolgirl into sucha--Zenobia, please face the other way and don't listen, while I try totell this radiant young person how utterly charming she has become. No,I can't begin to do the subject justice. Twenty or thirty years ago Imight have had some success. Ah, me! Those gray eyes of yours, my dear,hold mischief enough to wreck a convention of saints. Ah, blushing, areyou? Forgive me. I ought to know better. Let me tell you, though, I've ayoung nephew with a pair of blue eyes that might be a match for yourgray ones. You must allow me to bring him up some day."
And I'd like to have had a glimpse of Vee's face just then. About there,though, Aunty breaks in.
"A nephew, Mr. Ballard?" says she.
"Poor Dick's boy," says he. "The one we hunted all over the States forafter Dick took him on that wild goose chase from which he never cameback. Let's see, you must have known the youngster's mother,--IreneBallard."
"That stunning young woman with the copper-red hair whom you introducedat Palermo?" asks Aunty. "Is--is she----"
"No," says Uncle Kyrle. "Poor Irene! She was always doing something forsomeone, you know, and when this big war got under way--well, she wentto the front at the first call from the Red Cross. I might have knownshe would. I suppose she simply couldn't bear to keep out of it--allthat suffering, and so much help needed. No more skillful or efficienthands than hers, I'll wager, Madam, were ever volunteered, nor anybraver soul. She was pure gold, Irene."
"And," puts in Aunty, "she was--er----"
Uncle Kyrle nods. "In a field hospital, under fire," says he, "late lastSeptember. That's all we know. Where do you think, though, I ran acrossthat boy of hers? Found him at Zenobia's; found them both rather, at atheater. Sheer luck. For if you'll pardon my saying it, that youth is anephew I'm going to be proud of some of these days unless I am----"
Say, this was gettin' a little too personal for me. I'd been shiftin'around uneasy for a minute or two, and about then I decided it wouldn'tbe polite to listen any longer. So I make a dash out the side door intothe hall, not knowin' just what to do or where to go. And I bumps intoSelma wheelin' in the tea wagon. That gives me a hunch.
"Say, Bright Eyes," says I, pushin' a dollar at her, "take this andditch that tea stuff for a minute, can't you? Harken! There's goin' tobe a new arrival at the front door in about a minute, and you mustanswer the bell. No, don't indulge in that open-face movement. Justwatch me close!"
With that I clips past the drawin'-room entrance, opens the front doorgentle, and gives the button a good long push. Then I slides back anddigs up a card case that Aunt Zenobia has presented me with only acouple of days ago.
"Here!" says I. "Get out your plate and pass one of these to the Missus.That's it. Push it right on her conspicuous. Now! On your way!"
She's real quick at startin', Selma is, when she's shoved brisk frombehind. And as she goes through the doorway I stretches my ear to hearwhat Aunty will say to the new arrival. And, believe me, if I'd givenher the lines myself, she couldn't have done it better!
"Mr. Richard Taber Ballard?" says she, readin' the card. Then she turnsto Uncle Kyrle. "Why, this must be some----"
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br /> "Eh?" says he. "Did you hear that, Zenobia? Torchy, you young rascal,come in here and explain yourself!"
"Torchy!" gasps Aunty. "Did--did you say--Torchy?"
"Anybody callin' for me?" says I, steppin' into the room with a grin on.
And to watch that stary look settle in Aunty's eyes, and see the purpletint spread back to her ears, was worth standin' for all the rough dealsI'd ever had from her. At last I had her bumpin' the bumps! Sort ofdazed she inspects the card once more, and then glances at me. Do youwonder? Richard Taber Ballard! I ain't got used to it myself.
"Here he is," says Uncle Kyrle jovial, draggin' me to the front, "thatscamp nephew I was telling you about. The Richard is for his father, youknow; the Taber he gets from his mother--also his red hair. Eh,Torchy? And this, young man, is Miss Verona."
He swings me around facin' her, and I expect I must have acted somesheepish. But trust Vee! What does she do but let loose one of themripply laughs of hers. Then she steps up, pulls my head down playfulwith both hands, and looks me square in the eyes.
"Why didn't you tell me before, Torchy," says she, "that you had such aperfectly grand name as all that?"
"Huh!" says I. "A swell chance I've had to tell you anything, ain't I?But if the folks will excuse us for half an hour, I'll tell you all Iknow about a lot of things."
And, say, Aunty don't even glare after us as we slips through thedraperies into the lib'ry, leavin' 'em to explain to each other how Icome to be on hand so accidental. The only disturbance comes when Selmabutts in pushin' the tea cart, and, just from force of habit, I makes apanicky breakaway. After she's insisted on loadin' us up with sandwichesand so forth, though, I slips my arm back where it fits the snuggest.
"Now, Sir," says Vee, "how are you going to hold your cup?"
"I'd be willin' to miss out on tea forever," says I, "for a chance likethis."