It was through her association with this cultured old gentleman that Mary Louise had imbibed a certain degree of logic and philosophy unknown to many girls of fifteen. He taught her consideration for others as the keynote of happiness, yet he himself declined to mingle with his fellow men. He abhorred sulking and was always cheerful and pleasant in his home circle, yet when others approached him familiarly he resented it with a frown. He taught his granddaughter to be generous to the poor and supplied her freely with money for charity, yet he personally refused all demands upon him by churches or charitable societies.
In their long talks together he displayed an intimate acquaintance with men and affairs, but never referred in any way to his former life.
“Are you really a colonel?” Mary Louise once asked him.
“Men call me so,” he replied, but there was a tone in his voice that warned the girl not to pursue the subject further. She knew his moods almost as well as her mother did.
The Colonel was very particular as to dress. He obtained his own clothing from a New York tailor and took a keen interest in the gowns of his daughter and of Mary Louise, his taste in female apparel being so remarkable that they were justly considered the best dressed women in Beverly. The house they were living in contained an excellent library and was furnished in a quaint, old-fashioned manner that was very appealing to them all. Mary Louise sincerely hoped there would be no more changes in their lives and that they might continue to live in Beverly for many years to come.
CHAPTER III
A SURPRISE
On the afternoon when our story begins Mary Louise walked home from school and found Colonel Weatherby waiting for her in the garden, leggings strapped to his gaunt legs, the checked walking-cap on his head, a gold-headed crop in his hand.
“Let us go for a walk, my dear,” he proposed. “It is Friday, so you will have all day to-morrow in which to get your lessons.”
“Oh, it won’t take all day for that,” she replied with a laugh. “I’ll be glad of the walk. Where shall we go, Gran’pa Jim?”
“Perhaps to the mill-race. We haven’t visited it for a long time.”
She ran to the house to put away her books and get her stout shoes, and presently rejoined him, when together they strolled up the street and circled round the little town until they came to the river bank. Then they followed the stream toward the old mill.
Mary Louise told her grandfather of the recent edict of Miss Stearne and the indignation it had aroused in her girl boarders.
“And what do you think of it, Gran’pa Jim?” she asked in conclusion.
“What do YOU think of it, Mary Louise?”
“It is rather hard on the girls, who have enjoyed their liberty for so long; but I think it is Miss Stearne’s plan to keep them away from the picture theatre.”
“And so?”
“And so,” she said, “it may do the girls more good than harm.”
He smiled approvingly. It was his custom to draw out her ideas on all questions, rather than to assert his own in advance. If he found her wrong or misinformed he would then correct her and set her right.
“So you do not approve of the pictures, Mary Louise?”
“Not all of them, Gran’pa Jim, although they all seem to have been ‘passed by the Board of Censors’ — perhaps when their eyes were shut. I love the good pictures, and I know that you do, but some we have seen lately gave me the shivers. So, perhaps Miss Stearne is right.”
“I am confident she is,” he agreed. “Some makers of pictures may consider it beneficial to emphasize good by exhibiting evil, by way of contrast, but they are doubtless wrong. I’ve an old-fashioned notion that young girls should be shielded, as much as possible, from knowledge of the world’s sins and worries, which is sure to be impressed upon them in later years. We cannot ignore evil, unfortunately, but we can often avoid it.”
“But why, if these pictures are really harmful, does Mr. Welland exhibit them at his theatre?” asked the girl.
“Mr. Welland is running his theatre to make money,” explained the Colonel, “and the surest way to make money is to cater to the tastes of his patrons, the majority of whom demand picture plays of the more vivid sort, such as you and I complain of. So the fault lies not with the exhibitor but with the sensation-loving public. If Mr. Welland showed only such pictures as have good morals he would gain the patronage of Miss Stearne’s twelve young ladies, and a few others, but the masses would refuse to support him.”
“Then,” said Mary Louise, “the masses ought to be educated to desire better things.”
“Many philanthropists have tried to do that, and signally failed. I believe the world is gradually growing better, my dear, but ages will pass before mankind attains a really wholesome mental atmosphere. However, we should each do our humble part toward the moral uplift of our fellows and one way is not to condone what we know to be wrong.”
He spoke earnestly, in a conversational tone that robbed his words of preachment. Mary Louise thought Gran’pa Jim must be an exceptionally good man and hoped she would grow, in time, to be like him. The only thing that puzzled her was why he refused to associate with his fellow men, while at heart he so warmly espoused their uplift and advancement.
They had now reached the mill-race and had seated themselves on the high embankment where they could watch the water swirl swiftly beneath them. The mill was not grinding to-day and its neighborhood seemed quite deserted. Here the old Colonel and his granddaughter sat dreamily for a long time, conversing casually on various subjects or allowing themselves to drift into thought. It was a happy hour for them both and was only interrupted when Jackson the miller passed by on his way home from the village. The man gave the Colonel a surly nod, but he smiled on Mary Louise, the girl being as popular in the district as her grandfather was unpopular.
After Jackson had passed them by Gran’pa Jim rose slowly and proposed they return home.
“If we go through the village,” said he, “we shall reach home, without hurrying ourselves, in time to dress for dinner. I object to being hurried, don’t you, Mary Louise?”
“Yes, indeed, if it can be avoided.”
Going through the village saved them half a mile in distance, but Mary Louise would not have proposed it herself, on account of the Colonel’s well-known aversion to meeting people. This afternoon, however, he made the proposal himself, so they strolled away to the main road that led through the one business street of the little town.
At this hour there was little life in Beverly’s main street. The farmers who drove in to trade had now returned home; the town women were busy getting supper and most of their men were at home feeding the stock or doing the evening chores. However, they passed an occasional group of two or three and around the general store stood a few other natives, listlessly awaiting the call to the evening meal. These cast curious glances at the well-known forms of the old man and the young girl, for his two years’ residence had not made the testy old Colonel any less strange to them. They knew all about him there was to know — which was nothing at all — and understood they must not venture to address him as they would have done any other citizen.
Cooper’s Hotel, a modest and not very inviting frame building, stood near the center of the village and as Mary Louise and her grandfather passed it the door opened and a man stepped out and only avoided bumping into them by coming to a full stop. They stopped also, of necessity, and Mary Louise was astonished to find the stranger staring into the Colonel’s face with an expression of mingled amazement and incredulity on his own.
“James Hathaway, by all the gods!” he exclaimed, adding in wondering tones: “And after all these years!”
Mary Louise, clinging to her grandfather’s arm, cast an upward glance at his face. It was tensely drawn; the eyelids were half closed and through their slits the Colonel’s eyes glinted fiercely.
“You are mistaken, fellow. Out of my way!” he said, and seizing the girl’s arm, which she had withdrawn in a
ffright, he marched straight ahead. The man fell back, but stared after them with his former expression of bewildered surprise. Mary Louise noted this in a glance over her shoulder and something in the stranger’s attitude — was it a half veiled threat? — caused her to shudder involuntarily.
The Colonel strode on, looking neither to right nor left, saying never a word. They reached their home grounds, passed up the path in silence and entered the house. The Colonel went straight to the stairs and cried in a loud voice:
“Beatrice!”
The tone thrilled Mary Louise with a premonition of evil. A door was hastily opened and her mother appeared at the head of the stairs, looking down on them with the customary anxiety on her worn features doubly accentuated.
“Again, father?” she asked in a voice that slightly trembled.
“Yes. Come with me to the library, Beatrice.”
CHAPTER IV
SHIFTING SANDS
Mary Louise hid herself in the drawing-room, where she could watch the closed door of the library opposite. At times she trembled with an unknown dread; again, she told herself that no harm could possibly befall her dear, good Gran’pa Jim or her faithful, loving mother. Yet why were they closeted in the library so long, and how could the meeting with that insolent stranger affect Colonel Weatherby so strongly?
After a long time her mother came out, looking more pallid and harassed than ever but strangely composed. She kissed Mary Louise, who came to meet her, and said:
“Get ready for dinner, dear. We are late.”
The girl went to her room, dazed and uneasy. At dinner her mother appeared at the table, eating little or nothing, but Gran’pa Jim was not present. Afterward she learned that he had gone over to Miss Stearne’s School for Girls, where he completed important arrangements concerning his granddaughter.
When dinner was over Mary Louise went into the library and, drawing a chair to where the light of the student lamp flooded her book, tried to read. But the words were blurred and her mind was in a sort of chaos. Mamma Bee had summoned Aunt Polly and Uncle Eben to her room, where she was now holding a conference with the faithful colored servants. A strange and subtle atmosphere of unrest pervaded the house; Mary Louise scented radical changes in their heretofore pleasant home life, but what these changes were to be or what necessitated them she could not imagine.
After a while she heard Gran’pa Jim enter the hall and hang up his hat and coat and place his cane in the rack. Then he came to the door of the library and stood a moment looking hard at Mary Louise. Her own eyes regarded her grandfather earnestly, questioning him as positively as if she had spoken.
He drew a chair before her and leaning over took both her hands in his and held them fast.
“My dear,” he said gently, “I regret to say that another change has overtaken us. Have you ever heard of ‘harlequin fate’? ‘Tis a very buffoon of mischief and irony that is often permitted to dog our earthly footsteps and prevent us from becoming too content with our lot. For a time you and I, little maid, good comrades though we have been, must tread different paths. Your mother and I are going away, presently, and we shall leave you here in Beverly, where you may continue your studies under the supervision of Miss Stearne, as a boarder at her school. This house, although the rental is paid for six weeks longer, we shall at once vacate, leaving Uncle Eben and Aunt Sallie to put it in shape and close it properly. Do you understand all this, Mary Louise?”
“I understand what you have told me, Gran’pa Jim. But why — ”
“Miss Stearne will be supplied with ample funds to cover your tuition and to purchase any supplies you may need. You will have nothing to worry about and so may devote all your energies to your studies.”
“But how long — -”
“Trust me and your mother to watch over your welfare, for you are very dear to us, believe me,” he continued, disregarding her interruptions. “Do you remember the address of the Conants, at Dorfield?”
“Of course.”
“Well, you may write to me, or to your mother, once a week, addressing the letter in care of Peter Conant. But if you are questioned by anyone,” he added, gravely, “do not mention the address of the Conants or hint that I have gone to Dorfield. Write your letters privately and unobserved, in your own room, and post them secretly, by your own hand, so that no one will be aware of the correspondence. Your caution in this regard will be of great service to your mother and me. Do you think you can follow these instructions?”
“To be sure I can, Gran’pa Jim. But why must I — -”
“Some day,” said he, “you will understand this seeming mystery and be able to smile at your present perplexities. There is nothing to fear, my dear child, and nothing that need cause you undue anxiety. Keep a brave heart and, whatever happens, have faith in Gran’pa Jim. Your mother — as good a woman as God ever made — believes in me, and she knows all. Can you accept her judgment, Mary Louise? Can you steadfastly ignore any aspersions that may be cast upon my good name?”
“Yes, Gran’pa Jim.”
She had not the faintest idea what he referred to. Not until afterward was she able to piece these strange remarks together and make sense of them. Just now the girl was most impressed by the fact that her mother and grandfather were going away and would leave her as a boarder with Miss Stearne. The delightful home life, wherein she had passed the happiest two years of her existence, was to be broken up for good and all.
“Now I must go to your mother. Kiss me, my dear!”
As he rose to his feet Mary Louise also sprang from her chair and the Colonel folded his arms around her and for a moment held her tight in his embrace. Then he slowly released her, holding the girl at arms’ length while he studied her troubled face with grave intensity. One kiss upon her upturned forehead and the old man swung around and left the room without another word.
Mary Louise sank into her chair, a little sob in her throat. She felt very miserable, indeed, at that moment. “Harlequin fate!” she sighed. “I wonder why it has chosen us for its victims?”
After an hour passed in the deserted library she stole away to her own room and prepared for bed. In the night, during her fitful periods of sleep, she dreamed that her mother bent over her and kissed her lips — once, twice, a third time.
The girl woke with a start. A dim light flooded her chamber, for outside was a full moon. But the room was habited only by shadows, save for her own feverish, restless body. She turned over to find a cooler place and presently fell asleep again.
CHAPTER V
OFFICIAL INVESTIGATION
“And you say they are gone?” cried Mary Louise in surprise, as she came down to breakfast the next morning and found the table laid for one and old Eben waiting to serve her.
“In de night, chile. I don’ know ‘zac’ly wha’ der time, by de clock, but de Kun’l an’ Missy Burrows did’n’ sleep heah a-tall.”
“There is no night train,” said the girl, seating herself thoughtfully at the table. “How could they go, Uncle?”
“Jus’ took deh auto’bile, chile, an’ de Kun’l done druv it heself — bag an’ baggage. But — see heah, Ma’y ‘Ouise — we-all ain’ s’pose to know nuth’n’ bout dat git-away. Ef some imper’nent puss’n’ ask us, we ain’ gwine t’ know how dey go, nohow. De Kun’l say tell Ma’y ‘Ouise she ain’ gwine know noth’n’ a-tall, ‘bout nuth’n’, ‘cause ‘tain’t nobody’s business.”
“I understand, Uncle Eben.”
She reflected upon this seemingly unnecessary secrecy as she ate her breakfast. After a time she asked:
“What are you and Aunt Polly going to do, Uncle?”
“Fus’ thing,” replied the old negro, “Polly gwine git yo’ traps all pack up an’ I gwine take ‘em ovah to Missy Stearne’s place in de wheel-barrer. Den I gwine red up de house an’ take de keys to Mass’ Gimble, de agent. Den Polly an’ me we go back to our own li’l’ house in de lane yondeh. De Kun’l done ‘range ev’thing propeh, an’ we gwine d
o jus’ like he say.”
Mary Louise felt lonely and uncomfortable in the big house, now that her mother and grandfather had gone away. Since the move was inevitable, she would be glad to go to Miss Stearne as soon as possible. She helped Aunt Polly pack her trunk and suit case, afterwards gathering into a bundle the things she had forgotten or overlooked, all of which personal belongings Uncle Eben wheeled over to the school. Then she bade the faithful servitors good-bye, promising to call upon them at their humble home, and walked slowly over the well-known path to Miss Stearne’s establishment, where she presented herself to the principal.
It being Saturday, Miss Stearne was seated at a desk in her own private room, where she received Mary Louise and bade her sit down.
Miss Stearne was a woman fifty years of age, tall and lean, with a deeply lined face and a tendency to nervousness that was increasing with her years. She was a very clever teacher and a very incompetent business woman, so that her small school, of excellent standing and repute, proved difficult to finance. In character Miss Stearne was temperamental enough to have been a genius. She was kindly natured, fond of young girls and cared for her pupils with motherly instincts seldom possessed by those in similar positions. She was lax in many respects, severely strict in others. Not always were her rules and regulations dictated by good judgment. Therefore her girls usually found as much fault as other boarding school girls are prone to do, and with somewhat more reason. On the other hand, no one could question the principal’s erudition or her skill in imparting her knowledge to others.
“Sit down, Mary Louise,” she said to the girl. “This is an astonishing change in your life, is it not? Colonel Weatherby came to me last evening and said he had been suddenly called away on important matters that would brook no delay, and that your mother was to accompany him on the journey. He begged me to take you in as a regular boarder and of course I consented. You have been one of my most tractable and conscientious pupils and I have been proud of your progress. But the school is quite full, as you know; so at first I was uncertain that I could accommodate you here; but Miss Dandler, my assistant, has given up her room to you and I shall put a bed for her in my own sleeping chamber, so that difficulty is now happily arranged. I suppose your family left Beverly this morning, by the early train?”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 568