“Thank you, Mr. Jones, for assisting our poor beast. Mumbles is an
Eastern dog, you know, and inexperienced in dealing with crabs.”
Mr. Jones was examining the claw, the despoiled owner of which had quickly slid into the water.
“It is a species of crawfish,” he observed, meditatively. Then, seeing the girls approach, he straightened up and rather awkwardly lifted his hat.
The gesture surprised them all. Heretofore, when they had met, the man had merely stared and turned away, now his attempt at courtesy was startling because unexpected.
Myrtle came close to his side.
“How nice to find you here, Mr. Jones,” she said brightly. “And oh, I must thank you for my lovely roses.”
He watched her face with evident interest and it seemed that his own countenance had become less haggard and sad than formerly.
“Let me introduce my friends,” said the girl, with sudden recollection of her duty. “This is Mr. Merrick, my good friend and benefactor; and this is Major Doyle and his daughter Miss Patricia Doyle, both of whom have the kindest hearts in the world; Miss Beth De Graf, Mr. Merrick’s niece, has watched over and cared for me like a sister, and — oh, I forgot; Miss Patsy is Mr. Merrick’s niece, too. So now you know them all.”
The man nodded briefly his acknowledgment.
“You — you are Mr. Jones, I believe, of — of Boston?”
“Once of Boston,” he repeated mechanically. Then he looked at her and added: “Go on.”
“Why — what — I don’t understand,” she faltered. “Have I overlooked anyone?”
“Only yourself,” he said.
“Oh; but I — I met you last night.”
“You did not tell me your name,” he reminded her.
“I’m Myrtle,” she replied, smiling in her relief. “Myrtle Dean.”
“Myrtle Dean!” His voice was harsh; almost a shout.
“Myrtle Dean. And I — I’m from Chicago; but I don’t live there any more.”
He stood motionless, looking at the girl with a fixed expression that embarrassed her and caused her to glance appealingly at Patsy. Her friend understood and came to her rescue with some inconsequent remark about poor Mumbles, who was still moaning and rubbing; his pinched nose against Patsy’s chin to ease the pain.
Mr. Jones paid little heed to Miss Doyle’s observation, but as Myrtle tried to hide behind Beth Mr. Merrick took the situation in hand by drawing the man’s attention to the scenery, and afterward inquiring if he was searching for moonstones.
The conversation now became general, except that Mr. Jones remained practically silent He seemed to try to interest himself in the chatter around him, but always his eyes would stray to Myrtle’s face and hold her until she found an opportunity to turn away.
“We’ve luncheon in the car,” announced Uncle John, after a time.
“Won’t you join us, Mr. Jones?”
“Yes,” was the unconventional reply. The man was undoubtedly abstracted and did not know he was rude. He quietly followed them up the rocks and when they reached the automobile remained by Myrtle’s side while Wampus brought out the lunch basket and Beth and Patsy spread the cloth upon the grass and unpacked the hamper.
Mr. Jones ate merely a mouthful, but he evidently endeavored to follow the conversation and take an interest in what was said. He finally became conscious that his continuous gaze distressed Myrtle, and thereafter strove to keep his eyes from her face. They would creep back to it, from time to time; but Beth, who was watching him curiously, concluded he was making a serious effort to deport himself agreeably and credited him with a decided improvement in manners as their acquaintance with him progressed.
After luncheon, when their return by way of Old Town and the Spanish Mission was proposed, Mr. Jones said, pointing to the car that stood beside their own:
“This is my automobile. I drive it myself. I would like Myrtle Dean to ride back with me.”
The girl hesitated, but quickly deciding she must not retreat, now she had practically begun the misanthrope’s reformation, she replied:
“I will be very glad to. But won’t you take one of my friends, also?
That will divide the party more evenly.”
He looked down at his feet, thoughtfully considering the proposition.
“I’ll go with you,” said Beth, promptly. “Get into the front seat with
Mr. Jones, Myrtle, and I’ll ride behind.”
The man made no protest. He merely lifted Myrtle in his arms and gently placed her in the front seat. Beth, much amused, took the seat behind, unassisted save that the Major opened the door for her. Mr. Jones evidently understood his car. Starting the engines without effort he took his place at the wheel and with a nod to Mr. Merrick said:
“Lead on, sir; I will follow.”
Wampus started away. He was displeased with the other car. It did not suit him at all. And aside from the fact that the sour-faced individual who owned it had taken away two of Wampus’ own passengers, the small shaggy Mumbles, who had been the established companion of Uncle John’s chauffeur throughout all the long journey, suddenly deserted him. He whined to go with the other car, and when Patsy lifted him aboard he curled down beside the stranger as if thoroughly satisfied. Patsy knew why, and was amused that Mumbles showed his gratitude to Mr. Jones for rescuing him from the crab; but Wampus scowled and was distinctly unhappy all the way to Old Town.
“Him mebbe fine gentleman,” muttered the Canadian to the Major; “but if so he make a disguise of it. Once I knew a dog thief who resemble him; but perhaps Mumble he safe as long as Miss Myrtle an’ Miss Beth they with him.”
“Don’t worry,” said the Major, consolingly. “I’ll keep my eye on the rascal. But he’s a fine driver, isn’t he?”
“Oh, that!” retorted Wampus, scornfully. “Such little cheap car like that he drive himself.”
At Old Town Mr. Jones left them, saying he had been to the Mission and did not care for it. But as he drove his car away there was a gentler and more kindly expression upon his features than any of them had ever seen there before, and Myrtle suspected her charm was working and the regeneration really begun.
CHAPTER XXI
A TALE OF WOE
That evening after dinner, as Mr. Merrick sat alone in the hotel lobby, the girls having gone to watch the Major bowl tenpins, Mr. Jones approached and sat down in the chair beside him.
Uncle John greeted the man with an attempt at cordiality. He could not yet bring himself to like his personality, but on Myrtle’s account and because he was himself generous enough to wish to be of service to anyone so forlorn and unhappy, he treated Mr. Jones with more respect than he really thought he deserved.
“Tell me, Mr. Merrick,” was the abrupt request, “where you found
Myrtle Dean.”
Uncle John told him willingly. There was no doubt but Myrtle had interested the man.
“My girls found her on the train between Chicago and Denver,” he began. “She was on her way to join her uncle in Leadville.”
“What is her uncle’s name?”
“Anson Jones. But the child was almost helpless, ill and without friends or money. She was not at all sure her uncle was still in Leadville, in which case she would be at the mercy of a cold world. So I telegraphed and found that Anson Jones had been gone from the mining camp for several months. Do you know, sir, I at first suspected you might be the missing uncle? For I heard you were a miner and found that your name is Jones. But I soon discovered you are not Anson Jones, but C.B. Jones — which alters the case considerably.”
Mr. Jones nodded absently.
“Tell me the rest,” he said.
Uncle John complied. He related the manner in which Beth and Patsy had adopted Myrtle, the physician’s examination and report upon her condition, and then told the main points of their long but delightful journey from Albuquerque to San Diego in the limousine.
“It was one of the most fortunate exper
iments we have ever tried,” he concluded; “for the child has been the sweetest and most agreeable companion imaginable, and her affection and gratitude have amply repaid us for anything we have done for her. I am determined she shall not leave us, sir. When we return to New York I shall consult the best specialist to be had, and I am confident she can be fully cured and made as good as new.”
The other man had listened intently, and when the story was finished he sat silent for a time, as if considering and pondering over what he had heard. Then, without warning, he announced quietly:
“I am Anson Jones.”
Uncle John fairly gasped for breath.
“You Anson Jones!” he exclaimed. Then, with plausible suspicion he added: “I myself saw that you are registered as C.B. Jones.”
“It is the same thing,” was the reply. “My name is Collanson — but my family always called me ‘Anson’, when I had a family — and by that name I was best known in the mining camps. That is what deceived you.”
“But — dear me! — I don’t believe Myrtle knows her uncle’s name is
Collanson.”
“Probably not. Her mother, sir, my sister, was my only remaining relative, the only person on earth who cared for me — although I foolishly believed another did. I worked for success as much on Kitty’s account — Kitty was Myrtle’s mother — as for my own sake. I intended some day to make her comfortable and happy, for I knew her husband’s death had left her poor and friendless. I did not see her for years, nor write to her often; it was not my way. But Kitty always knew I loved her.”
He paused and sat silent a moment. Then he resumed, in his quiet, even tones:
“There is another part of my story that you must know to understand me fully; to know why I am now a hopeless, desperate man; or was until — until last night, perhaps. Some years ago, when in Boston, I fell in love with a beautiful girl. I am nearly fifty, and she was not quite thirty, but it never occurred to me that I was too old to win her love, and she frankly confessed she cared for me. But she said she could not marry a poor man and would therefore wait for me to make a fortune. Then I might be sure she would marry me. I believed her. I do not know why men believe women. It is an absurd thing to do. I did it; but other men have been guilty of a like folly. Ah, how I worked and planned! One cannot always make a fortune in a short time. It took me years, and all the time she renewed her promises and kept my hopes and my ambitions alive.
“At last I won the game, as I knew I should do in time. It was a big strike. I discovered the ‘Blue Bonnet’ mine, and sold a half interest in it for a million. Then I hurried to Boston to claim my bride…. She had been married just three months, after waiting, or pretending to wait, for me for nearly ten years! She married a poor lawyer, too, after persistently refusing me because I was poor. She laughed at my despair and coldly advised me to find some one else to share my fortune.”
He paused again and wearily passed his hand over his eyes — a familiar gesture, as Myrtle knew. His voice had grown more and more dismal as he proceeded, and just now he seemed as desolate and unhappy as when first they saw him at the Grand Canyon.
“I lived through it somehow,” he continued; “but the blow stunned me. It stuns me yet. Like a wounded beast I slunk away to find my sister, knowing she would try to comfort me. She was dead. Her daughter Myrtle, whom I had never seen, had been killed in an automobile accident. That is what her aunt, a terrible woman named Martha Dean, told me, although now I know it was a lie, told to cover her own baseness in sending an unprotected child to the far West to seek an unknown uncle. I paid Martha Dean back the money she claimed she had spent for Myrtle’s funeral; that was mere robbery, I suppose, but not to be compared with the crime of her false report. I found myself bereft of sweetheart, sister — even an unknown niece. Despair claimed me. I took the first train for the West, dazed and utterly despondent. Some impulse led me to stop off at the Grand Canyon, and there I saw the means of ending all my misery. But Myrtle interfered.”
Uncle John, now thoroughly interested and sympathetic, leaned over and said solemnly:
“The hand of God was in that!”
Mr. Jones nodded.
“I am beginning to believe it,” he replied. “The girl’s face won me even in that despairing mood. She has Kitty’s eyes.”
“They are beautiful eyes,” said Uncle John, earnestly. “Sir, you have found in your niece one of the sweetest and most lovely girls that ever lived. I congratulate you!”
Mr. Jones nodded again. His mood had changed again since they began to speak of Myrtle. His eyes now glowed with pleasure and pride. He clasped Mr. Merrick’s hand in his own as he said with feeling:
“She has saved me, sir. Even before I knew she was my niece I began to wonder if it would not pay me to live for her sake. And now — ”
“And now you are sure of it,” cried Uncle John, emphatically. “But who is to break the news to Myrtle?”
“No one, just yet,” was the reply. “Allow me, sir, if you please, to keep her in ignorance of the truth a little longer. I only made the discovery myself today, you see, and I need time to think it all out and determine how best to take advantage of my good fortune.”
“I shall respect your wish, sir,” said Mr. Merrick.
The girls came trooping back then, and instead of running away Anson
Jones remained to talk with them.
Beth and Patsy were really surprised to find the “Sad One” chatting pleasantly with Uncle John. The Major looked at the man curiously, not understanding the change in him. But Myrtle was quite proud of the progress he was making and his improved spirits rendered the girl very happy indeed. Why she should take such an interest in this man she could not have explained, except that he had been discouraged and hopeless and she had succeeded in preventing him from destroying his life and given him courage to face the world anew. But surely that was enough, quite sufficient to give her a feeling of “proprietorship,” as Patsy had expressed it, in this queer personage. Aside from all this, she was growing to like the man who owed so much to her. Neither Patsy nor Beth could yet see much to interest them or to admire in his gloomy character; but Myrtle’s intuition led her to see beneath the surface, and she knew there were lovable traits in Mr. Jones’ nature if he could only be induced to display them.
CHAPTER XXII
THE CONFESSION
After that evening the man attached himself to the party on every possible occasion. Sometimes in their trips around Coronado he rode in their automobile, at other times he took Myrtle, and perhaps one other, in his own car. Every day he seemed brighter and more cheerful, until even Major Doyle admitted he was not a bad companion.
Three weeks later they moved up to Los Angeles, taking two days for the trip and stopping at Riverside and Redlands on the way. They established their headquarters at one of the handsome Los Angeles hotels and from there made little journeys through the surrounding country, the garden spot of Southern California. One day they went to Pasadena, which boasts more splendid residences than any city of its size in the world; at another time they visited Hollywood, famed as “the Paradise of Flowers.” Both mountains and sea were within easy reach, and there was so much to do that the time passed all too swiftly.
It was on their return from such a day’s outing that Myrtle met with her life’s greatest surprise. Indeed, the surprise was shared by all but Uncle John, who had religiously kept the secret of Mr. Jones’ identity.
As they reached the hotel this eventful evening Mr. Merrick said to the girls:
“After you have dressed for dinner meet us on the parlor floor. We dine privately to-night.”
They were mildly astonished at the request, but as Uncle John was always doing some unusual thing they gave the matter little thought. However, on reaching the parlor floor an hour later they found Mr. Merrick, the Major and Mr. Jones in a group awaiting them, and all were garbed in their dress suits, with rare flowers in their buttonholes.
“Wha
t is it, then?” asked Patsy. “A treat?”
“I think so,” said Uncle John, smiling. “Your arm, please, Miss
Doyle.”
The Major escorted Beth and Mr. Jones walked solemnly beside Myrtle, who still used crutches, but more as a matter of convenience than because they were necessary. At the end of a corridor a waiter threw open the door of a small but beautiful banquet room, where a round table, glistening with cut glass and silver, was set for six. In the center of the table was a handsome centerpiece decorated with vines of myrtle, while the entire room was filled with sprays of the dainty vines, alive with their pretty blue flowers.
“Goodness me!” exclaimed Patsy, laughing gleefully. “This seems to be our little Myrtle’s especial spread. Who is the host, Uncle John?”
“Mr. Jones, of course,” announced Beth, promptly.
Myrtle blushed and glanced shyly at Mr. Jones. His face was fairly illumined with pleasure. He placed her in the seat of honor and said gravely:
“This is indeed Myrtle’s entertainment, for she has found something. It is also partly my own thanksgiving banquet, my friends; for I, too, have found something.”
His tone was so serious that all remained silent as they took their seats, and during the many courses served the conversation was less lively than on former occasions when there had been no ceremony. Myrtle tried hard to eat, but there was a question in her eyes — a question that occupied her all through the meal. When, finally, the dessert was served and the servants had withdrawn and left them to themselves, the girl could restrain her curiosity no longer.
“Tell me, Mr. Jones,” she said, turning to him as he sat beside her; “what have you found?”
He was deliberate as ever in answering.
“You must not call me ‘Mr. Jones,’ hereafter,” said he.
“Why not? Then, what shall I call you?” she returned, greatly perplexed.
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 474