Could anything be done?

CHAPTER XXIX.

A Truce.

No more distasteful news could have come to the Pitkins than to learn that Philip and their poor cousin had secured a firm place in the good graces of Uncle Oliver.  Yet they did not dare to show their resentment.  They had found that Uncle Oliver had a will of his own, and meant to exercise it.  Had they been more forbearing he would still be an inmate of their house instead of going over to the camp of their enemies, for so they regarded Mrs. Forbush and Phil.

“I hate that woman, Mr. Pitkin!” said his wife fiercely.  “I scorn such underhanded work.  How she has sneaked into the good graces of poor, deluded Uncle Oliver!”

“You have played your cards wrong, Lavinia,” said her husband peevishly.

“I?  That is a strange accusation, Mr. Pitkin.  It was you, to my thinking.  You sent off that errand boy, and that is how the whole thing came about.  If he had been in your store he wouldn’t have met Uncle Oliver down at the pier.”

“You and Alonzo persuaded me to discharge him.”

“Oh, of course it’s Alonzo and me!  When you see Rebecca Forbush and that errand boy making ducks and drakes out of Uncle Oliver’s money you may wish you had acted more wisely.”

“Really, Lavinia, you are a most unreasonable woman.  It’s no use criminating and recriminating.  We must do what we can to mend matters.”

“What can we do?”

“They haven’t got the money yet—­remember that!  We must try to re-establish friendly relations with Mr. Carter.”

“Perhaps you’ll tell me how?”

“Certainly!  Call as soon as possible at the house on Madison Avenue.”

“Call on that woman?”

“Yes; and try to smooth matters over as well as you can.  Take Alonzo with you, and instruct him to be polite to Philip.”

“I don’t believe Lonny will be willing to demean himself so far.”

“He’ll have to,” answered Mr. Pitkin firmly.

“We’ve all made a mistake, and the sooner we remedy it the better.”

Mrs. Pitkin thought it over.  The advice was unpalatable, but it was evidently sound.  Uncle Oliver was rich, and they must not let his money slip through their fingers.  So, after duly instructing Alonzo in his part, Mrs. Pitkin, a day or two later, ordered her carriage and drove in state to the house of her once poor relative.

“Is Mrs. Forbush at home?” she asked of the servant.

“I believe so, madam,” answered a dignified man-servant.

“Take this card to her.”

Mrs. Pitkin and Alonzo were ushered into a drawing-room more elegant than their own.  She sat on a sofa with Alonzo.

“Who would think that Rebecca Forbush would come to live like this?” she said, half to herself.

“And that boy,” supplemented Alonzo.

“To be sure!  Your uncle is fairly infatuated.”