The Blythes Are Quoted (35 page)

Pat tried to wile Jiggs away from the Squaw Baby but Jiggs refused to be wiled. The fickleness of dogs! And girls! Now that it didn’t matter in the slightest to him whether she stuck her tongue out or not of course she would not do it. All right! He would show her how much he cared.

He began to whistle.

“Oh, I know when I’m beaten,” Barney was saying bitterly.

“What are you going to do?” Barbara Anne’s voice had suddenly grown very gentle.

“Oh, Aunt Holly and I won’t starve. I’ve been offered a job on a fox ranch. It’ll be enough for Aunty and I to exist on sparingly.”

“You on a fox ranch!” said Barbara Anne scorchingly.

“One must eat, you know. But I confess I don’t feel very enthusiastic over the thought of looking after caged creatures.”

The bitterness in Barney’s voice was terrible. It made Pat forget even the Squaw Baby and her tongue. Yes, it was certainly time to wake up.

Barbara Anne loosened her blue scarf as if it choked her. She dropped her voice still lower but Pat still heard her. Of course in dreams you heard everything. And what on earth was she saying? Pat really did forget the Squaw Baby this time.

“If ... if you had put in your claim when Stephen Brewster died! You have just as much claim on the boy as those others in town. More ... more! They’re only half-relatives. You’d have been able to pay the mortgage then ... in time. I wanted you to ... you know I wanted you to! But men will never listen to women!”

What on earth was she talking about? Dreams
were
the queerest things. The Squaw Baby had found another thistle, but just then Pat did not care a hoot if her toes were full of
thistles. What did Barbara Anne know about Uncle Stephen? And what had Barney to do with him?

Barney winced. The Squaw Baby did, too ... or pretended to. Perhaps the thistle really hurt. Pat neither knew nor cared.

“I ... couldn’t qualify, Barbara Anne. This old, out-of-the-way farm” ... he
couldn’t
be talking of Sometyme, thought Pat ... “only a district school to attend” ... wasn’t it only a district school at Ingleside, thought the dazed Pat ... “and only old Aunt Holly to look after him. It wouldn’t have been fair to the kid.”

“A good deal fairer than you have any notion of,” said Barbara Anne indignantly. “Men are the stupidest creatures ...”

The Squaw Baby looked as if she agreed entirely with her.

“And then my pride ...”

“Oh, yes, your pride!” said Barbara Anne, so violently that even the Squaw Baby jumped and Jiggs looked around for a possible stranger dog. “You needn’t tell me anything about your pride. I know all about it. You’d sacrifice anything ... anybody ... to it!”

Pat felt he ought not to let her say such things to Barney. But how could he stop her? And he
must
know what Uncle Stephen Brewster had to do with it, even if the Squaw Baby never stuck her tongue out at him again. She did not look as if she wanted to ... she was interested only in thistles. Let her be, then.

“Not quite,” said Barney. “But I’m not exactly a worm. All the Brewsters looked down on my sister when Pat’s father married her, as if she were a sort of insect. You know that as well as anybody.”

“What were the Brewsters?” asked Barbara Anne scornfully. “Everyone knows how
they
made their money. And they had nothing else to boast of. Two generations against the Andrews’ six.”

“Well, I wasn’t going to crawl to them,” said Barney stubbornly. “And anyhow, they wouldn’t have let me have him.”

“Didn’t Lawyer Atkins notify you?”

“Oh, yes ...”

“And they couldn’t have stopped him if he’d wanted to come. Lawyer Atkins is a fair man. And everybody knows about Stephen Brewster’s will.”

“He made it on purpose to mortify me,” said Barney bitterly. “He thought I’d put in my claim and the boy would laugh at me. As he would have.”

“Are you so sure of that? You ought to hear Dr. Blythe on that subject. He knows the Brewsters to the bone.”

“I’ve heard him often enough. You say everybody knows about the will. And so does everybody know that the boy was to make his own choice. Do you suppose a boy brought up at Oaklands would choose
this
?”

Barney waved his hand at the sagging gate and at the old clapboard house that needed paint so badly and at an outmoded reaper in the yard.

But to Pat he seemed to be waving at the boatload of petunias and Jiggs and the bedroom with the garden door, at the long, level meadows beyond and at an unseen school where he would be “Pat” among the boys and the Squaw Baby would be sitting where she could stick her tongue out at him whenever she wanted to. If she ever did want to again.

Pat stood up shakily and went over to Barney. He didn’t know whether he would be able to speak but he must try. There were things that had to be said and it seemed that he was the only one who could ... or would ... say them. The Squaw Baby left her thistles alone and looked after him with
a peculiar expression. Jiggs wagged his tail as if he knew something was coming.

“You are my uncle,” he said, his grey eyes looking up into Barney’s blue ones ... Barney’s blue eyes that were so full of pain. How strange that he had not before seen the pain behind the laughter!

Barney started. Could the kid have overheard them? Barbara Anne started, too. So did the Squaw Baby, but that may have been because of a very large thistle. Jiggs began wagging his tail harder than ever ... the cat seemed to purr twice as loudly ... and all the ducks started quacking at once.

“Yes,” said Barney slowly. “I’m your mother’s youngest brother. I was only a kid when she married your father. This was her old home.”

“I ... I think I must have known it,” said Pat, “though I don’t see how I could.”

“You
felt
it if you didn’t know it,” said Barbara Anne. “People so often
feel
things they can’t possibly know. I went to school with your mother. She was older than me, of course, but she was the sweetest thing.”

“I’ve often wanted to see you, Pat,” said Barney. “I saw you just once when you were five. She brought you here one day when Stephen Brewster was away.”

“I remember it,” cried Pat. “I
knew
I’d been here before.”

“But your father’s people would never let you come again,” said Barney. “And when she died ... I thought it wasn’t any use. I went to Ingleside when I heard you were there on a visit ... but I was just a day too late. You had gone ... home ...”

“Home!” said Pat. And “home” said the Squaw Baby, just for the fun of mimicking and making him take some notice of her.

Then he brushed everything aside. There was only one thing that really mattered.

“Since you are my uncle I want to live with you,” he said. “
You
wouldn’t be taking me because of the money I brought, would you?”

“I’d be glad to have you if you hadn’t a cent,” said Barney honestly.

“You’d just take me because I am
me
?” said Pat.

“Yes. But I’m going to be honest with you, Pat. The money would mean an awful lot to me.”

“It would mean ... Sometyme Farm,” said Pat shrewdly.

“Yes.”

“And you’ll scold me when I deserve it?”

“If I’m allowed to,” said Barney, with a peculiar glance at Barbara Anne ... who wouldn’t look at him but seemed completely taken up with Jiggs. The Squaw Baby was still occupied with her thistles. Pat was puzzled. Who would or would not “allow” him to be scolded? Surely Aunt Holly wouldn’t interfere. But the great question was not settled yet.

“I
must
live with you,” he said determinedly. “I can, you know. I can choose the one I’m to live with.”

Yes, Bernard Andrews knew. And he knew that there would be a heck of a time. But he knew Lawyer Atkins was an honest man and didn’t like any of the Brewsters.

And he knew, looking into Pat’s pleading eyes, that it was not a matter of legal guardianship ... or of two thousand a year ... no, not even a matter of Barbara Anne, who was listening with all her ears while she pretended to play with Jiggs ... but of two souls who belonged to each other and a child who had a right to love and be loved.

“Could you be happy here, Pat?”

“Happy? Here?”

Pat looked at the Sometyme farmhouse ... at Barbara Anne and at the Squaw Baby, who at once stuck her tongue out at him and seemed to forget all about thistles.

“Oh, Uncle Barney! Uncle Barney!”

“What do you say, Barbara Anne?” asked Barney.

“I’m sure it’s no business of mine,” said Barbara Anne. Of course it wasn’t, thought Pat ... and wondered why Barney suddenly laughed ... real laughter ... young, hopeful laughter. So unlike the laughter Pat had already heard from him.

And Barbara Anne laughed, too. She pretended it was at the antics of the Squaw Baby but somehow Pat knew it wasn’t. Whatever she was laughing at, it was the same thing that made Barney laugh. The Squaw Baby laughed, too, just because everybody else was laughing, and stuck out her tongue. Pat decided that the next time she did it he would do something ... he didn’t know what but something. Girls needn’t think they could do anything they liked with their tongues just because they were girls. No, sir!

What a lovely colour was flooding Barbara Anne’s cheeks. What a pity she was going away! Pat felt that he would like to have her round. But at least she wasn’t going to take the Squaw Baby. And why, oh why, didn’t Barney answer his question? After all, that was the only important thing.

“Miracles do happen it seems,” Barney said at last. “Well, here’s looking at you, Pat. There’ll be a jolly old fight ...”

“Why need there be any fight?” asked Pat. “They’ll all be glad to get rid of me. None of them like me.”

“Perhaps not ... but they like ... however, never mind that. You and I are the same breed, it seems. Sometyme is ready for you.”

Pat sat down on the pail again. He knew his legs wouldn’t have borne him up another minute. He couldn’t understand
what Barney meant about a fight but he knew Barney would win. And what was the matter with Barbara Anne? Surely she couldn’t be crying.

He was glad when the Squaw Baby stuck her tongue out at him. It made things more real. After all, it couldn’t be ...

“This isn’t a dream, is it?” he asked anxiously.

“No, though it seems like one to me,” said Barney. “It’s all real enough. You were right, Barbara Anne. I should have claimed him long ago.”

“Miracles do happen!” mimicked Barbara Anne. “A man owning up that he was wrong!”

She
was
crying ... there were real tears in her eyes. Grown-up people
were
funny. And he couldn’t understand why the Squaw Baby’s tongue wasn’t completely worn out at the roots. But he wasn’t going to allow her to keep on sticking it out at him. Though he didn’t exactly see how he was going to stop her. And suppose she began sticking it out at some other boy! Well, he just wouldn’t have that, that was all.

Then he suddenly remembered his manners. And grasped at them wildly. He must not make a bad impression on Uncle Barney.
Uncle
Barney! What a delicious sound that had! So different from Uncle Stephen or Uncle John or even Uncle Frederick.

“Thank you, Uncle Barney,” he said. “It’s awfully good of you to take me in.”

“Awfully,” agreed Barney. He was laughing again ... and Barbara Anne was laughing through her tears. Even the Squaw Baby ... what was her name anyhow? He must find out as soon as possible. She would never let a stranger call her Squaw Baby. And what would he call Barbara Anne? Not that it mattered. She was going away. Was that why she was crying?

“I ... I wish ... I wish you weren’t going west,” he said politely. He did wish it, too, with all his heart.

“Oh!” Barney laughed again. Long, low, infectious laughter. Pat felt it would make anybody laugh. Even Uncle Stephen. Or Miss Cynthia Adams. Which, Pat felt, would be the biggest miracle of all this miraculous day. What a birthday it had been!

Pat felt, when he heard Barney laughing, that if he heard such laughter often he would be laughing, too. Like they did at Ingleside. Pat had often wondered at the laughter there. Why, even the doctor and Mrs. Blythe laughed as much as anybody. He had even heard Susan Baker laughing. He would be able to go to Ingleside often now, he felt sure. Perhaps Walter could come now and then and visit him at Sometyme. Pat got the impression that, although he lived so far away, Dr. Blythe was Aunt Holly’s doctor.

At any rate, he would no longer be cheated out of laughter. It had always seemed to irritate Uncle Stephen when he laughed. And had he ever heard any real laughter at Aunt Fanny’s or Aunt Melanie’s or Aunt Lilian’s? Well, perhaps the boys at Aunt Fanny’s laughed ... but it was not the same kind of laughter as the Ingleside laughter or the Sometyme laughter. Pat suddenly realized what a difference there was in laughter. Sometimes you laughed just because you felt like laughing. Sometimes because other people laughed and you felt you ought to join in. All at once he laughed at the Squaw Baby. He laughed because he wanted to.

“What are you laughing at?” she demanded.

“At your tongue,” said Pat, amazed at himself.

“If you laugh at my tongue I’ll smack you on the jaw,” said the Squaw Baby.

“Don’t let me hear you talking like that,” said Barbara Anne.

“They talk like that in school,” said the Squaw Baby, looking a little ashamed of herself nevertheless.

“
You
are not to talk that way no matter what they do in school,” said Barbara Anne. “Remember you’re a lady.”

“Why can’t ladies talk like men?” demanded the Squaw Baby. But Barbara Anne gave no answer. She was listening to Barney very intently.

And
what
was Barney saying?

“Oh,” said Barney, still laughing, “Barbara Anne won’t be going west now.”

“Where will she be going?” asked Pat.

“Ah, that is the question. Where will you be going, Barbara Anne?”

Barbara Anne’s face was very red.

“I ... might move across the road,” she said. “What do you think of that idea, Barney?”

“I think it is a very good one,” said Barney.

“Since you honour me by asking my advice,” said Barbara Anne saucily, “I ... think I will take it ... for once.”