Part 9 (1/2)

This bomb seemed to have paralyzed the little family.

”I--I--tell him----” stammered Mrs. Prescott, looking piteously at Nancy for help.

”You'd better go right down, Mother. Why, you look frightened to death, dear.”

”I am. He frightens me dreadfully. I can't bear sarcastic people. Do go down alone, Nancy,--tell him I have a headache.”

”No, no! That wouldn't be wise. What can he say? He may want to be very nice,” said Nancy, rea.s.suringly. ”Come along--don't keep him waiting. Here, just tuck up your hair a bit. Come on, Alma.”

Inwardly quaking, but outwardly preserving a dignified composure, the three descended the staircase, with the calmness of people going to some inevitable fate.

”He can't bite you, dear,” whispered Nancy to her mother, with a nervous little giggle.

Mr. Prescott was standing perfectly still, with his back toward the door, staring with an evidently absorbed interest at the wall in front of him. He turned slowly, as Mrs. Prescott entered the room, and for a moment surveyed her and the two girls without speaking. Then he said, casually:

”Good-afternoon, Lallie.”

Alma shot a glance at Nancy.

”Good-afternoon, Uncle Thomas,” said Mrs. Prescott, in a rather faint voice, and flus.h.i.+ng crimson with nervousness. ”It--it is very kind of you----”

”Not at all,” he interrupted, brusquely, ”not at all. May we have a light--it is rather dark.”

Nancy quickly lit the gas, and as the light from the jet shone down on her upturned face the old man scrutinized her keenly. A queer, half-tender, but repressed expression changed the lines in his stern old face for a moment, then he looked at Alma, who was regarding him with perfectly unconcealed terror and awe.

”How do you do?” he said to her, holding out his hand. ”How do you do?

You're my niece Alma, eh? Anne is the one who looks like--like my nephew, and Alma is the one who resembles her mother.” He said this as if he were repeating some directions to himself. ”I haven't seen you since you were children.” He shook Alma's hand formally, and sat down at Mrs. Prescott's timid invitation, The short silence which ensued, while it seemed like an age of discomfort to the Prescotts, apparently was un.o.bserved by him.

”It has been a very long time since--since I have seen you, Uncle Thomas,” said Mrs. Prescott in desperation, quite aware that this remark, like any one she should make just then, was a very awkward one.

”Yes. I never go out, madam. So this is Anne--Nancy, eh?” He turned abruptly to the girl and met her clear, steady eyes sharply. ”You were a child--a very little girl when I saw you last. You resemble my nephew very much,--my--my dear.

”No doubt, madam, you are wondering at the reason of this visit,” he said, all at once plunging into the heart of matters with an air of impatience at any ”beating about the bush.” ”I've no doubt it was the last thing in the world you expected, eh?”

”It was indeed a surprise,” murmured Mrs. Prescott.

”I realized that my grandnieces are growing up, and I had a curiosity to see them. There is the kernel of the matter. They are handsome girls. I suppose everyone knows that they have a rich uncle--and prospects, eh?”

”Neither my daughters nor anyone else has been deluded in that respect,” answered Mrs. Prescott, with a touch of spirit.

”Hum. Well, that's good, I should say. Nothing puts anyone in such a false position as to be generally regarded as having--prospects. It's ruinous, especially for girls.”

”My daughters have been taught that they must rely entirely on themselves. You need not have come to repeat the lesson to them, Uncle Thomas,” returned Mrs. Prescott, trying to conceal her temper. Mr.

Prescott affected not to notice her rising annoyance, which was a natural enough reaction from her earlier nervousness. Instead he next addressed himself directly to Alma.

”So you think I'm a regular old ogre, don't you, my dear?” His eyes suddenly twinkled at her palpable terror and distress, but only Nancy caught the twinkle. ”You think I'm a queer, crotchety old fellow, eh?

Well, don't let's talk about me. I want to know what you are planning to do with yourselves--an old man's curiosity. Your face is your fortune, my dear--though a pretty face is not infrequently a misfortune, so the wiseacres say. I understand that you two young ladies are going now to a fas.h.i.+onable school,--to learn how to be fas.h.i.+onable, no doubt. That's a folly--it would be better if you stayed at home and learned how to cook and darn.”

”We _can_ cook and darn,” said Nancy, demurely.