Chapter II: An Arrival

Dinner was nearly over when Mr. Merrick suddenly laid down his knife and fork and began searching vainly in the pockets of his coat for something. “Hugh,” he said, “run up-stairs and go to my dressing-room and bring down a letter you will find in the outside pocket of my overcoat. I had a letter from Tom, my dear,” he continued, addressing his wife. “His little girl is coming here to spend the winter with us.”

Mrs. Merrick dropped her fork in her turn. “Coming here? Tom’s little girl?” she gasped.

“Yes,” Mr. Merrick said. “Coming here. Tom wrote me last summer saying he wanted to send her to school somewhere in New York; but the girl did not like the idea of leaving home; besides, he was afraid it would cost a good deal, so he asked my advice.”

“Did you ask her here then?” inquired Mrs. Merrick with unmistakable disapproval.

“Yes, Clara, I asked her here,” Mr. Merrick answered. “I told him that she could go to school with our children, and it would be pleasanter than going to a boarding-school, be more like home to her, and to send her on. This was last summer; and I had forgotten all about it when this letter came, accepting the offer.”

“It is most annoying!” exclaimed Mrs. Merrick.

“Why, in a big house like this, with so many children in it, one more or less can make no difference,” said Mr. Merrick. “Tom says Minnie--no, Bessie--no, that’s not her name either. Oh, here’s the letter. Thank you, Hugh. Oh, yes, Nellie. Tom says Nellie is a pretty girl and a wonderfully good one, with such a sweet temper that no one can help loving her. I’ve no doubt the children will enjoy her tremendously.”

The children had been listening to this conversation in such amazement that they forgot to eat, and at this point a chorus of questions burst forth.

“Who’s Tom, papa?”

“How old is she?”

“Is a little girl coming here to live?”

“When is she coming?”

Mrs. Merrick answered the first question. “Tom, children, is your Uncle Tom, who lives in some dreadful little Western town, and is quite poor. This little girl is his daughter, whom your father has brought among us.”

“Tom is not very poor, Clara,” her husband corrected her. “He says he has a comfortable home.”

“How horrid!” Inez cried petulantly. “I shall be ashamed to be seen with her, I know, and I shall never introduce a girl like that to nice people as my cousin.”

“She is your cousin, Inez,” said her father sternly, “and you will treat her with all kindness. I will have no such nonsense as this in my house; so remember to behave yourself properly to your guest.”

When Mr. Merrick did arouse himself to lay down commands to his children they dared not disobey; but there was a look around Inez’s mouth that indicated anything but cheerful obedience, and boded ill for the comfort of the coming cousin.

“After all,” said Marcy, with a look of amused contempt at her sister, “she may not dress in feathers and buffalo skins, Inez. And, perhaps, after she has been here a while we can get her to eat roast beef instead of dog meat. How old is she, father? And when is she coming?”

Mr. Merrick smiled. It often occurred to him that when he could so arrange his business as to have more leisure for his family he might find his eldest daughter good company. “She is just your age, Marcy,” he said. “And she is coming--let me see. Your uncle writes she leaves Monday--that was yesterday. She will be here to-morrow.”

“I can only repeat that it is most annoying,” said Mrs. Merrick, rising.

“Well, all I say is it’s a pity she’s not a boy,” said Bob, taking a hasty drink of water before sliding sideways out of his chair. “We’ve got too many girls here now.”

“Of course it’s a pity,” said Inez sharply; “for you don’t have to introduce boys to your friends.”

“W-ell, I’m sorry she’s so big,” remarked six-year-old Grace, the quiet member of the family. “Marcy and Inez are big, and Lulie’s a baby, and Bob and Hugh are boys, and there’s no one for me at all. Papa, hasn’t Uncle Tom got a nice little girl about six?”

“I’ve no doubt he has, Gracie,” her father replied, smiling. “I believe your Uncle Tom has children of all ages, to suit all demands.”

“Well, please ask him to lend us a little one next time,” said Grace mournfully.

The next afternoon Marcy, and Inez, and Bob were watching eagerly behind the lace curtains of the sitting-room for the arrival of “the prairie chicken,” as Bob had christened her. Faithful nurse Norah had gone to the station to meet the little traveller. Mrs. Merrick had a club meeting to attend, and Mr. Merrick could not leave his business.

When the carriage drove up the children saw Norah’s portly form descend first, and after her came a little figure all in brown, which stood looking up and down the tall gray stone house, with every shade drawn on a level with the upper sash and every window veiled in lace, with no living thing to be seen that seemed to be looking for or thinking of a homesick, frightened little stranger.

“I guess she doesn’t know whether she ought to go in the front door or the basement,” laughed Bob.

“She really is pretty,” said Marcy. “Look, Inez, what big brown eyes she has, and how prettily her hair curls round her forehead.”

“Well, so it does,” admitted Inez grudgingly. “But for pity’s sake, where did she get that hat? What will the Hales say to her?”

“They wouldn’t be the Hales if they didn’t say something rude,” said Marcy.

And Bob added: “H’m! they needn’t talk, if they have got lots of money. I’ve seen some of their relations, and they were a queer lot.”

The sitting-room door opened at this point, and Norah looked in.

“Oh, here they are. Come in, Miss Nellie, dear. Miss Marcy, Miss Inez, Master Bob, here’s your cousin all safe, and glad to get here, I’ll be bound.”

The children turned to meet a wistful and very pretty childish face surmounting a slender figure taller than either of theirs.

“How do you do?” said Inez in her most grown-up and fashionable air. “Hope you’re not too tired.” She gave her cousin her hand, and pecked one cheek, which reddened fiercely at her greeting.

“How are you, Cousin Nellie? I am Marcy,” said Marcy with cordiality, much heightened by Inez’s foolish airs. “You must be half dead after such a journey.”

“No, I’m not,” said Nellie, kissing Marcy heartily. “I was dreadfully scared at first, for I’d never been more than an hour on the train before. But it’s grand in those sleepers, isn’t it? Only I didn’t dare sleep the first night. I had to say my beads all night, it joggled so. Last night I never waked up once. I suppose you get used to it.”

“They serve pretty good dinners on those trains,” remarked Inez with the air of one who had been around the globe.

“I shouldn’t wonder,” laughed Nellie. “I didn’t try them. I had my food in a box. Ma had a whole chicken roasted for me, and lots of cake, and bread and butter, so I got on fine. I couldn’t afford to buy dinners. It’s dreadfully expensive coming East anyhow. It’ll cost pa more than fifty dollars just for my travelling both ways. I wrote postal-cards home all the way along, and posted them in Chicago, and Cleveland, and Buffalo, and told them I was beginning to count on going back already.” The pretty face flushed and looked distressed, and Nellie added hastily: “Not but that I shall be real happy here with you all. I think it was awfully good of Uncle Richard and Aunt Clara to ask me here, because, of course, it’s like being with brothers and sisters to be with cousins, or most like it. Only I’m awfully fond of my home, and it’s just the cutest little house anywhere round there. But isn’t New York grand though? And what a magnificent house you’ve got! Pa said Uncle Dick was rich; but I reckon he don’t know what a fine house this is. I’m most certain I won’t know how to behave among such big rooms and fine things; but you’ll pull me through, won’t you?” And Nellie gave a happy laugh, being full of affection for her cousins and feeling no envy of their greater possessions, nor shame for her own humbler but beloved home.

“You’ll find New York very different, of course,” said Inez scornfully. She thought Nellie was even worse than she feared.

But Marcy, with a share of Nellie’s honesty, and a sharpness of insight that made her see that true dignity lay in being free from false pretence, said heartily: “You’ll be all right, Nellie. I don’t suppose we’d know how to act in Kansas either.”

“Oh, I reckon Kansas, and Paris, and New York, and everywhere are about the same,” said Nellie with happy unconsciousness of little things. “Ma says if you’re good and try to make people happy you’re bound to have good manners.”

Inez tossed her head. “You have to do more than that,” she began; but Marcy interrupted her.

“No you don’t,” she said decidedly. “I never thought of it before; but Aunt--Aunt--Nellie’s mother is right.”

A look of pain came over Nellie’s face. “Why, don’t you know my mother’s name?” she asked wonderingly. “It’s Mary. We know all your names, and we talk lots about you, and I’ve been dying to see you ever since I can remember.”

“We never heard of you,” said Bob before Marcy could stop him. “We never talk about you, and I never thought before I had any cousins out West.”

Nellie turned to the girls in mute appeal.

Inez said: “You see, Nellie, we’ve lots of things to think about.”

But Marcy put her arm around her cousin. “Come to your room,” she said, “and take your things off. I’ll show you the way. You see, Nellie,” she added as they went up the broad stairs side by side, “father’s so busy we hardly see him; and mamma is fond of society, and taken up with all kinds of clubs and things, so we don’t hear much about our relations.”

Nellie shivered as though she had stepped from Florida to the North Pole. “It’s dreadful!” she cried. “If that’s the way you do in New York, I’d rather live in Prairie Rest--that’s the name of our town. I suppose you didn’t know where we lived either.”

Marcy discreetly refrained from saying that she did not. “It’s not New York, it’s just ourselves,” she said. “You know father made all his money; he didn’t have any more than Uncle Tom when he began. I think the reason we live so separate from one another is because they’ve all got so taken up with money, and society, and such things.”

“Then I hope I’ll always be poor,” exclaimed Nellie energetically. “Oh, what a lovely room!”

“This is your room,” said Marcy. “I don’t care one bit about parties, and knowing fashionable people, and all that,” she continued, seating herself on the edge of the bed. “Inez is the one for that. I mean to be great and famous some way. I haven’t just decided how.”

“Yes, I know,” said Nellie, taking her hat off and shaking a bright mass of waving brown hair over her shoulders. “You’re the clever one. Uncle Richard sent us some of your writings long ago, when you were little, and they were grand. I would give anything if I were so gifted. I can’t do one thing,” Nellie continued cheerfully. “I can dust, and clean, and look after children, and cook a little bit, and darn pretty well, but I haven’t any accomplishments.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Marcy with kindly condescension. “I should think those were good things too if there’s no one else to do them. You won’t see much of me, I suppose, because out of school I like to stay by myself and write, or think, or draw. I’m not sure I shall write when I grow up. I may be a great artist, or a very great actress, like Duse, you know.”

“Well, I’ll tell you the only great thing I ever thought I’d like to be,” said Nellie, “and that is a great saint.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Marcy, staring a little. “Are you pious? We’re not very pious here. We go to church, of course, every Sunday; and we children go to convent schools, and we’re good Catholics, but we’re not thinking of being saints.”

“I don’t mean doing something wonderful,” explained Nellie. “I mean being what pa calls a little cricket-on-the-hearth kind of saint--never thinking of yourself, or what you want at all, but trying to do something for others all the while, until every one feels as though they’d never be able to breathe another minute if you weren’t around. I think it’s simply grand to be that kind of person; don’t you?”

“I never thought about it at all,” Marcy said honestly. “I shouldn’t wonder if that would be a great thing if you thought it all out. Now I’m going to let you rest. Your trunk will be here soon, and we dine at seven. If you want anything, just ring or call Norah; she’s generally at the end of this hall. Good-by for awhile,” and Marcy kissed her.

“I wonder where Aunt Clara is?” thought Nellie. “Nobody seemed to think it queer she wasn’t around to see me. If they came out to Kansas, my, wouldn’t ma look after them! Now, Nellie Merrick, stop that!” she added, shaking her head at two brown eyes that looked at her in the glass through a mist of tears. “It’s simply grand here, and Marcy was very nice.”