Head of the House

  “Of course, we shall have no trouble with the boys. That is, the older boys. Jeremy will naturally go back to college. Or prep school, which was it?” said Uncle Adrian thoughtfully.

  “Prep school! I think, wasn’t it?” said Aunt Petra sharply. “I doubt if he ever gets far enough to enter college, and you don’t know what you’re talking about, Adrian. If he once does enter college, you’ll have more troubles than you can shake a stick at. That boy will go from one scrape to another, or I’ll miss my guess.”

  “I shall talk to him,” said Uncle Adrian. “I shall let him understand that we will have no nonsense. That he will have to go out and fend for himself if he dares to get expelled from college. And I think he’ll understand when I get through with him that the time has come for him to brace up and try to be a man who will bring credit to his family name. At least he will see that someone is looking after him who will take no excuses from him. I don’t really anticipate much trouble from Jeremy. Of course, I don’t know him so very well. I doubt if I’ve seen him since he was ten or twelve, but I fancy he will see life from a different angle after I am through with him. Then if you ladies can take Jennifer and give her a good dressing down and let her understand what is expected of her from now on, I should think you could count on her making a good marriage within a reasonable time, and that’s two of them disposed of. Now, how many more are there?”

  “Five!” said Majesta Best laconically. “Robin and Karen and Heather and Tryon and Hazel!”

  “Mercy! What names! Every one of them odd!” said Aunt Petra. “Whatever did Miriam and John mean lumbering their children up with such awful names? If I were in their place I’d change my name, every one of them. Think of handicapping a boy with that old-fashioned name of Jeremy! It sounds as if it came out of the Bible. And as for Jennifer, it’s heathenish, I think. I should be ashamed to introduce her to my friends by that name. I shall call her Jennie. Or Jane. That’s very popular now, Jane! I’ll begin calling her that right away. It suits her very well. Jane Graeme!”

  And all the time Jennifer Graeme lay cramped in that deep leather chair in the far corner of the library, boiling with rage at her relatives.

  “Well,” said Aunt Lutie, who arrived just then in the best car and entered with a flutter and a flourish, “did I hear you criticizing the children’s names as I came in? You must admit there is one that is well named. Tryon. Tryon Graeme. He’s the most ‘trying’ Graeme I’ve ever come across! The last time I was here his mother was away, and he was acting like a young hyena. I really had to speak to him. Yes, I did! He was prancing across the room and mimicking everything I did, and when I told him to stop, he ran out in the hall and I heard him singing at the top of his lungs, ‘Oh, Lutie, Lutie, ain’t she cutie!’ and he got his two little sisters laughing so they couldn’t answer me. I certainly should have turned him over my knee and spanked him if his nurse hadn’t come along just then. Well, are you all here? The lawyer hasn’t come and gone already, has he? I didn’t want to miss the reading of the will, of course, though I really had my hands quite full without coming here. What have you done?”

  “Oh, nothing at all,” said Agatha Lane coldly, “that is, nothing that need worry you. We’ve just been talking—disagreeing as usual.” She lifted her chin disdainfully.

  “Well,” said Lutie vivaciously, “I think the first question to settle is whether John Graeme had lost his money. If he hadn’t, if there’s plenty of money, of course the whole matter is quite simple. Simply ship the whole lot of them off to good schools where they will be brought up to be a credit to the family, finished and all that. Even little Robin isn’t too young. There are kindergarten boarding schools, I understand, where they are looked after and brought up just as well, or even better than they could be brought up in the usual home. Personally I think all these Graeme children are badly spoiled and need to be taken in hand at once. As for Jennifer, she can be sent abroad for a couple of years on a trip with a good chaperone, who will see that she doesn’t get too involved with the wrong young man. There! I think I’ve arranged the whole affair nicely, don’t you?”

  Jennifer, in her dark refuge behind the library curtain, suddenly sat up very straight and very angry, her eyes blazing, her tear-wet lashes starring them, her face white and drawn with a sort of righteous fury. Almost, for an instant, she was on the point of darting out among them and smiting them with bitter words. Then caution came upon her suddenly like a calm hand on her forehead and warned her to hold her peace and not manifest opposition too soon. Let them make their plans. She would see that they were not carried out! She would do something, anything to prevent them. Trips to Europe for herself might be all very well sometime, but not at their will, not by force, sugar-coated as if they were doing her a favor. Not with her little brothers and sisters parked here and there, anywhere, as if they were all a part of the furnishing of the house.

  Then an interruption occurred in the entrance of the lawyer and his assistant, and there was a general hush and a stir while the chairs were rearranged and the lawyer took a seat by a little table, which Jim Delaney cleared of bric-a-brac for his use.

  While the lawyers were bringing forth sheaves of papers from their briefcases and talking in low monosyllables to each other, the whole company subsided for an instant or two, and then the ladies began to converse again, in low cultured whispers, Majesta loftily telling Lutie what had been said and suggested so far and adding some of her own comments, her tones gradually waxing clearer, so that her words were quite distinct on the other side of the library curtain. Jennifer caught her breath softly and clenched her small hands tensely. She wished with all her heart that her beloved father could come back for just one minute at least, from the far place to which the fallen airplane had sent him, and tell those horrible relatives where to get off. “Where to get off.” That was just the way she knew he would have phrased it if he had been here and heard their preposterous plans. Separating his children! Sending them off to suit their will, as if they belonged to all of them! Could Dad ever have dreamed that he would leave them in danger of such things?

  But, of course, he wouldn’t have expected, when he thought of it at all, that he and Mother would both be taken away, not at once. Of course, he would have expected Mother to do the planning.

  The tears streamed forth again and pelted down the frightened young face, stern in its anger. And now she, she was the only one left to take her mother’s place. Well, of course, there was Jerry, but he was only a year out of prep school and they wouldn’t feel that he had authority. They knew nothing about him. Thought him still in prep school! But she would be of age in a little over three months, and she must somehow protect the rest, just as Father or Mother would have done if either one of them had been left behind from the horrible disaster that had taken them both in one swift stroke. She, she must do it alone! She would have to get them all away out of harm’s reach!

  Then a sentence from the whispered conversation beyond the curtain reached her. It was Aunt Lutie’s chipper little voice, trivial even in a whisper:

  “Aren’t you going to have trouble with that Jennifer? She’s rather headstrong, I think. Her parents allowed her too much leeway. If she doesn’t want to go your way she’ll take a stand.”

  “Nonsense!” hissed Aunt Majesta. “She’ll find that we aren’t treating her that way. When we say a thing, we mean it! Besides, she’s only a frivolous little thing. Give her a new dress and a trip to Europe and get her mind off her own way. As for the rest, our word will be law. I’m not so sure myself but Agatha’s idea about Abigail Storm might be a good thing after all.”

  “What do you mean? Keep up this great house just for those children? That would be ridiculous!” said Lutie. “I thought perhaps one of us would take it over, pay rent to the estate, of course—not much, for it ought to be worth something to have it lived in and looked after. But those children, just children, living all alone in this great house with Abigail would be absurd! A great wast
e, I should say. I wouldn’t mind living here myself.”

  “After all, it’s their house, of course,” said Majesta loftily. “I don’t see myself why you should live here anymore than the rest of us. However, I presume it will likely be the consensus of opinion that the house should be sold and the money invested. The furnishings sold, too, I suppose. We could each bid in some of the best things, at a nominal price. I’ve always liked this rug, but I’d have to see if it fits my room. I have considered taking out that back partition between the library and the living room. I’m sure it would fit then. You don’t get antique rugs of this type often nowadays.”

  “Oh, I guess you can get plenty if you know where to look!” said Lutie indifferently. “But if the house were sold, where would Cousin Abbey and the children live?”

  “Why couldn’t they go up to the old farm? Most of them would be off at school a good deal of the time, anyway.”

  “Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. Well, perhaps I could get Adrian to bid on this house for us. It really isn’t bad, though I’d hate to leave our own house, small as it is compared with this one. But one could really entertain here, it is so spacious!”

  Jennifer, in the back room, stealthily slipped out of her chair and rose, her eyes snapping fire. What she wanted to do was to rush right in through that curtain and tell those two old hawks to get out. It was not their house and none of their business what became of the rugs and pictures and things. Surely nobody could sell their home and its furnishings right out of hand that way without their consent! Oh, if they would only go away, out of the house, she would lock all the doors and never let them in again!

  She stood there trembling with young fury. How angry her mother and father would have been to know that these cormorants were daring to talk this way about the precious home things! Actually planning which things they wanted themselves! Oh, how much power did they have? Surely, surely Dad would have fixed things so they couldn’t do this!

  It was with difficulty that she restrained herself to listen as she heard the lawyer clear his throat and begin to talk. She must be quiet and careful. She must not let them know that she had heard their conniving. She must listen and know just what they were going to try to do so that she would know how to work against them.

  Quietly she subsided into her chair again, but she did not relax. She was alert, frightened, her heart beating so fast that she almost feared the aunts outside the curtain would hear it. She held her breath and listened.

  The lawyer was reading the will. She took a deep breath. Then Daddy had left a will. Of course he would. Of course he would not leave them all at the mercy of these unfeeling relatives! She began to listen again through all the maze of legal phrases. Some of it she understood, and some was not even lucid to her, but she sat there with her brown curls bobbing and her eyes like two great angry stars shining from the gloom of the room.

  There were long involved paragraphs that seemed utterly unnecessary to her when all she wanted to know was what her father had planned for them. But as the phrases rolled on in the other room concerning stocks and bonds and properties and the time of the coming of age of each of them, she gathered enough here and there to calm her troubled spirit. It was evident, gloriously evident, that their father had planned for them no such shunting off into the world of boarding schools and European trips and marriage as the relatives had suggested, and she meant to foil them in any attempt to spoil her father’s plans.

  Gradually a purpose began to form in her own mind. If those combative aunts and uncles, who were even now interrupting the lawyer with questions designed to clear the way for their ideas, had but glanced behind them into the next room and caught the gleam of those bright angry eyes, the set of those determined red lips, they would have been startled to see how much Jennifer Graeme looked like her dead father, in spite of the fact that she had inherited a great deal of the beauty of her dead mother.

  It was Aunt Majesta who finally cleared her throat and broke in upon Lawyer Hemmingway’s monotonous listing of special bequests, under which the women of the conclave were growing restive.

  “Really, Mr. Hemmingway, we aren’t especially interested in those trifling bequests that John left to his servants and henchmen. Couldn’t you just excuse the ladies of the party? We want to talk over what we are to do about the children and arrange for their welfare at once. It seems to me that is the important thing now. We can just step into this next room, the library, and be close at hand if anything important should come up for which we are needed. Come, Petra; come, Agatha! And, Lutie, would you care to come?”

  Aunt Majesta had risen and taken hold of the heavy curtain that separated the rooms, drawing it firmly back for a few inches, so that Jennifer’s hiding place was in full view if any had been looking.

  The lawyer gave Aunt Majesta a sharp reproving glance and said coldly, “That will scarcely be necessary, Mrs. Best. That can all be left to the children’s guardian. If he needs your advice, he will doubtless ask you. I am coming to that soon, if you will kindly be seated and be a little patient.”

  “Guardian?” exclaimed Majesta Best hoarsely. “He!” And she slumped heavily back into her chair.

  “As if any mere man would be able to cope with those children!” fairly snorted Petra Holbrook, rearing up in her chair.

  But Jennifer did not hear any of this. At the moving of the curtain she had uncurled herself in a flash from the big chair and vanished out into the hall.

  And just at that minute the doorbell rang and Stanton, answering it, came back toward Jennifer with a telegram in his hand.

  There had been so many telegrams and letters of condolence that Jennifer naturally supposed this was just another, somewhat belated. She held out her hand for it.

  “I’ll attend to that, Stanton,” she said in a whisper and, taking it, fled lightly up the stairs to her room. She didn’t want even Stanton to know that she had been hiding in the library.

  She tore open the envelope idly, scarcely knowing why she thought it necessary to read it, just another expression of sympathy, of course! Then she caught her breath, her eyes grew frightened, her little white even teeth came down tensely on the pretty under lip, as she read the name signed to the message.

  “Oh!” She read the whole message slowly.

  Shall be delighted to come and stay indefinitely with John’s children. Will arrange to start as soon as you say.

  Abigail Storm

  Her face grew dark and her lips set in a determined line. She turned and stood staring out the window toward the lovely garden and the wide, hedged playground for the children.

  She could see them out there now, Tryon and Heather over at one side of the tennis court idly playing a set of tennis, with the attitude of killing time. Hazel curled in a hammock under a tree with a book. Karen swinging Robin in one of the big swings hung from a tall elm. And Jeremy. Where was Jeremy? And what was she going to do about it all?

  She gave another despairing glance down at the telegram that trembled in her hand and then, swinging around, fled down the back stairs. Jeremy would likely be in the garage or the stables. His pony and his car, those would be his only two interests for refuge at a time like this when life was in chaos. And she must have Jeremy. He was next in age.

  Chapter 2

  Jennifer found Jeremy in the stable, lovingly grooming his black satin pony whose coat was already shining with care and rippling over the quivering muscles with nervous energy.

  She arrived silently before her absorbed brother, the telegram still crumpled in her tense young hand.

  “Jerry, do you want to be separated?” she asked in a dramatic voice.

  Jeremy straightened up from his task and looked at his sister, bewildered.

  “Separated?” he echoed. “Whaddaya mean, separated? Heck, Jen, you scared the life out of me. What’s happened?”

  “Plenty!” said Jennifer, lowering her voice. “Don’t talk too loud; somebody might hear. Where’s the chauffeur or the stab
le boy?”

  “Both away,” said the boy. “Cook sent the stable boy on an errand, and the chauffeur asked me if he might go to the village for an hour. Why, did you want him?”

  “Mercy no! I just want to be sure nobody will hear.”

  “Well, there’s nobody around here but my horse, and I guess he won’t do anything about it. What’s up?”

  “Oh!” said Jennifer, wide eyed and white to the lips. “The whole outfit of relatives are hot on our trail. They want to separate us, send me off to Europe or marry me off, send you to college, and park the rest around among ’em while they sell the house and snitch all our nice pretty home things!”

  “Creeping catfish! Nobody can do that to us, can they? Who wants to do that?”

  “Practically all our aunts, except Agatha Lane, and what do you think she’s got up her sleeve? She wants to park us up at the old farm with Cousin Abigail Storm as our overseer. And I’m not sure but she’ll win them all over to her plan! Look there!” And Jennifer held out the crumpled telegram.

  Jeremy put down his grooming implements and smoothed out the telegram, reading it with startled eyes.

  “Where did you get this?” he asked, looking up at his sister accusingly. “It wasn’t sent to you, was it?”

  “Why, I didn’t look,” said Jennifer. “Oh, my goodness! It was sent to Agatha Lane. I supposed it was just one of the telegrams that have been coming in every day—” she stopped, appalled. “Say, Jerry, Aunt Agatha must have been sounding out Cousin Abigail Storm or she never would have sent that telegram!”

  “Well, maybe not,” said the boy speculatively. “Still, you know the Storm was always one of those who rush in where angels fear to tread. She might have thought it was a good way to feather her nest. But say, Aunt Agatha’s going to be sore as a boil when she finds out you opened her telegram. Especially if she’s been expecting an answer. Must be she gave our address, or dear old Abby would never have sent Agatha’s telegram here! Old Ag sure will be furious at you!”