3. CHAPTER III.
AUNT BECKY AND THE HEIRESS.
Baltus Van Kleeck had left the world somewhat suddenly'
and without making any provision for the disposal of that part of
it which he claimed to own; and when his pretty daughter Getty
became, by operation of law, sole proprietress of several square
miles of the terrestrial globe, without any guardian or man of
business to guide or instruct her in its management, her position
was one of no little embarrassment.
Not that she would have so considered it had she been left to
herself in exercising her sovereignty—for Getty was an easy,
good-natured soul, who said “yes” to everybody's advice, and to
all applications for favors. Not a tenant but would have had his
rent lowered, or his house repaired, or some privilege granted or
restriction removed, had it not been for the perpetual interference
of aunt Becky, a shrivelled, nervous old lady, who was kept in a
continual state of excitement by the fear that her niece would be
imposed upon.
“Don't you do it, Getty,” were the words with which she
usually burst in upon these conferences, spectacles on nose, without
waiting to hear the specific subject of negotiation.
“I'll tell you what, aunt,” said the heiress, one day after one of
these interviews, from which the applicant had retired discomfitted
by the very first gleam of Madame Becky's glasses, “I must
have an agent to manage these matters, for they are quite beyond
my comprehension. What with farms to hire, and farms to sell,
stock to dispose of, and rents to be collected, I shall go crazy. I
know I shall. I must have an agent.”
“What for, then, would you have an agent?” said the dame, in
a loud key, scowling meanwhile over the black rims of her spectacles;
“to cheat you out of everything, and to grow rich on your
money? Hey?”
“No, aunt; some good, reliable man”—
“Good, reliable fiddlestick, Getty.”
“I say no, aunt.”
“I say yes, child. He'll charge you half for taking care of
your property, and run away with the rest. Don't talk to me
about agents.”
Getty had never divested herself of the dread with which from
childhood she had regarded her scolding aunt, and so, without
fully resolving either to carry or yield the point, she sought to
escape from the altercation for the present by not pressing it.
“But these repairs, aunt,” she said, “which are so much needed
for these poor men?”
“It is no such thing; there are no repairs needed. Why, one
would think the houses and fences had all tumbled down the
moment poor Baltus was gone. It is no such thing, I say—they
are well enough. I have been in every house on the estate within
a fortnight, and they are well enough.”
“But Mr. Jones, who has eight children, can't make his rent
out of the farm.”
“Let him give it up, then, to some one who can. What business
has he with so many children?”
“And Mr. Smith has lost one of his best oxen.”
“He must take better care of his oxen, then. He need not
expect us to pay him for it, I can tell him that.”
“But I gave him ten dollars, at all events,” replied Getty desperately,
and not without alarm.
“Ten dollars, child! Well, now, did anybody ever hear the
like of that? Ten dollars to that idle, whining fellow! Why,
Getty, you will be in the poor house in a year, if that is the way
you are going on—that you will. Ten dollars!”
Becky could hardly throw accent enough upon these two words
to express her appreciation of the magnitude of the waste.
“I dare say it was too much,” said Getty, “but he told a very
pitiful story.”
“Yes, yes, they'll all tell pitiful stories enough, if they can only
find any one silly enough to believe them. But I'll see to it that
there is no more such throwing away of Baltus' money. Give me
the key.”
Getty submissively took from a side pocket a small bunch of
keys, and slipping the smallest off the steel ring which held them
together, she handed it to her aunt. No sooner, however, had
she done so, than the absurdity of the command and the compliance
became apparent to her, and with rising wrath, she was
about to recall her act, when her eyes met the dark scowl of the
old lady, and yielding to the force of habit, she remained quiet.
Now, Becky's conduct, harsh as it seemed, was altogether
caused by excessive anxiety for her niece's interest, and she was to
the full extent as honest as she was crabbed. She felt her responsibility
as the only surviving adult relative of her brother, and as
a sort of natural guardian of both the heiress and her estate, a
position which she was by no means desirous of retaining any
longer than the welfare of Gertrude required it. Her only hope
of relief from her self-imposed duties, was in getting Gertrude
married to some “stiddy, sober man.” But on this point she had
a morbid anxiety even greater than that which related to the property,
for she was in constant trepidation lest the heiress should
fall a victim to some needy fortune-hunter, in which class she
ranked all suitors who did not follow the plough, and wear homespun.
She even went so far as to question more than one presuming
beau as to his intentions, and one timid young man, who
had been a whole month accumulating courage enough to make a
first call upon Gertrude, was so frightened by the fierce manner
in which aunt Becky asked him what he wanted, that he only
stammered out something about having got into the wrong house,
and retreated without once seeing the object of his hopes.
Strangely enough, too, although Getty knew her aunt's conduct in
this instance, and her general asperity towards gentleman visitors,
she did not seem to resent it, or to be rendered at all uuhappy by
it—nay she was even suspected of rejoicing at so easy a mode of
escaping the persecution of lovers. She was unwilling, however,
that the imputation of inhospitality or impoliteness should rest
upon her family, and on this point she remonstrated with the
duenna.
“Let the mollyhacks stay at home, then,” said Becky; “what
business have they to come here sparking? Let them stay at
home then, and when we want them we will send for them.”
The visit of the Vrails caused her some annoyance, for she knew
that their father had died nearly insolvent, and they were what
she called “broad-cloth beaux.” But neither of them could yet be
regarded as a suitor, and the old dame kept quiet in regard to
them as long as there was no repetition of their offence.
