“Doesn’t Irene know?” asked Mary Louise.
“She only knows that your people are great travelers and frequently leave you behind them as they flit from place to place. She knows that you lived with us for three years and that we love you.”
The girl became thoughtful for a time. “I can’t understand,” she finally said, “why Gran’pa Jim acts the way he does. Often he has told me, when I deserved censure, to ‘face the music’ and have it over with. Once he said that those who sin must suffer the penalty, because it is the law of both God and man, and he who seeks to escape a just penalty is a coward. Gran’pa knows he is innocent, but the government thinks he is guilty; so why doesn’t he face the music and prove his innocence, instead of running away as a coward might do and so allow his good name to suffer reproach?”
Mrs. Conant shook her head as if perplexed.
“That very question has often puzzled me, as it has you,” she confessed. “Once I asked Peter about it and he scowled and said it might be just as well to allow Colonel Weatherby to mind his own business. The Colonel seems to have a good deal of money, and perhaps he fears that if he surrendered to the law it would be taken away from him, leaving you and your mother destitute.”
“We wouldn’t mind that,” said the girl, “if Gran’pa’s name could be cleared.”
“After all,” continued Mrs. Conant reflectively, “I don’t believe the Colonel is accused of stealing money, for Peter says his family is one of the oldest and richest in New York. Your grandfather inherited a vast fortune and added largely to it. Peter says he was an important man of affairs before this misfortune — whatever it was — overtook him.”
“I can just remember our home in New York,” said Mary Louise, also musingly, “for I was very young at the time. It was a beautiful big place, with a good many servants. I wonder what drove us from it?”
“Do you remember your father?” asked Mrs. Conant.
“Not at all.”
“Peter once told me he was a foreigner who fell desperately in love with your mother and married her without your grandfather’s full approval. I believe Mr. Burrows was a man of much political influence, for he served in the Department of State and had a good many admirers. Peter never knew why your grandfather opposed the marriage, for afterward he took Mr. and Mrs. Burrows to live with him and they were all good friends up to the day of your father’s death. But this is ancient history and speculation on subjects we do not understand is sure to prove unsatisfactory. I wouldn’t worry over your grandfather’s troubles, my dear. Try to forget them.”
“Grandfather’s real name isn’t Weatherby,” said the girl. “It is
Hathaway.”
Mrs. Conant gave a start of surprise.
“How did you learn that?” she asked sharply.
The girl took out her watch, pried open the back ease with a penknife and allowed Mrs. Conant to read the inscription. Also she curiously watched the woman’s face and noted its quick flush and its uneasy expression. Did the lawyer’s wife know more than she had admitted?
If so, why was everyone trying to keep her in the dark?
“I cannot see that this helps to solve the mystery,” said Mrs. Conant in a brisk tone as she recovered from her surprise. “Let us put the whole thing out of mind, Mary Louise, or it will keep us all stirred up and in a muddle of doubt. I shall tell Peter you are to live with us, and your old little room at the back of the hall is all ready for you. Irene has the next room, so you will be quite neighborly. Go and put away your things and then we’ll whistle for Irene.”
Mary Louise went to the well-remembered room and slowly and thoughtfully unpacked her suit case. She was glad to find a home again among congenial people, but she was growing more and more perplexed over the astonishing case of Gran’pa Jim. It worried her to find that an occasional doubt would cross her mind in spite of her intense loyalty to her dearly loved grandparent. She would promptly drive out the doubt, but it would insist on intruding again.
“Something is wrong somewhere,” she sighed. “There must be some snarl that even Gran’pa Jim can’t untangle; and, if he can’t, I’m sure no one else can. I wish I could find him and that he would tell me all about it. I suppose he thinks I’m too young to confide in, but I’m almost sixteen now and surely that’s old enough to understand things. There were girls at school twenty years old that I’m sure couldn’t reason as well as I can.”
After a while she went down stairs and joined Irene in the garden, where the chair-girl was trimming rose bushes with a pair of stout scissors. She greeted Mary Louise with her bright smile, saying:
“I suppose everything is fixed up, now, and we can begin to get acquainted.”
“Why, we ARE acquainted,” declared Mary Louise. “Until to-day I had never heard of you, yet it seems as if I had known you always.”
“Thank you,” laughed Irene; “that is a very pretty compliment, I well realize. You have decided to stay, then?”
“Aunt Hannah has decided so, but Mr. Conant may object.”
“He won’t do that,” was the quick reply. “Uncle Peter may be an autocrat in his office, but I’ve noticed that Aunt Hannah is the ruler of this household.”
Mr. Conant may have noticed that, also, for he seemed not at all surprised when his wife said she had decided to keep Mary Louise with them. But after the girls had gone to bed that night the lawyer had a long talk with his better half, and thereafter Mary Louise’s presence was accepted as a matter of course. But Mr. Conant said to her the next morning:
“I have notified your grandfather, at his six different addresses, of your coming to us, so I ought to receive his instructions within the next few days. Also, to-day I will write Miss Stearne that you are here and why you came away from the school.”
“Will you ask her to send my trunk?”
“Not now. We will first await advices from Colonel Weatherby.”
These “advices” were received three days later in the form of a brief telegram from a Los Angeles attorney. The message read: “Colonel Weatherby requests you to keep M. L. in Dorfield until further instructions. Money forwarded. Hot. Caution.” It was signed “O. L.” and when Mr. Conant showed Mary Louise the message she exclaimed:
“Then Mr. O’Gorman was right!”
“In what way?” questioned the lawyer.
“In the note he left for me at the hotel he said I might find my grandfather by writing to Oscar Lawler at Los Angeles, California. This telegram is from Los Angeles and it is signed ‘O. L.’ which must mean ‘Oscar Lawler.’“
“How clever!” said Mr. Conant sarcastically.
“That proves, of course, that Gran’pa Jim and mother are in California,
But how did the detective know that?” she asked wonderingly.
“He didn’t know it,” answered Peter Conant. “On the contrary, this message proves to me that they are not there at all.”
“But the telegram says — ”
“Otherwise,” continued the lawyer, “the telegram would not have come from that far-away point on the Pacific coast. There now remain five other places where Colonel Weatherby might be located. The chances are, however, that he is not in any of them.”
Mary Louise was puzzled. It was altogether too bewildering for her comprehension.
“Here are two strange words,” said she, eyeing the telegram she still held. “What does ‘hot’ mean, Mr. Conant?”
“It means,” he replied, “that the government spies are again seeking Colonel Weatherby. The word ‘caution’ means that we must all take care not to let any information escape us that might lead to his arrest. Don’t talk to strangers, Mary Louise; don’t talk to anyone outside our family of your grandfather’s affairs, or even of your own affairs. The safety of Colonel Weatherby depends, to a great extent, on our all being silent and discreet.”
CHAPTER XII
A CHEERFUL COMRADE
The more Mary Louise saw of Irene Macfarlane the more she learned to l
ove her. No one could be miserable or despondent for long in the chair-girl’s society, because she was always so bright and cheery herself. One forgot to pity her or even to deplore her misfortunes while listening to her merry chatter and frank laughter, for she seemed to find genuine joy and merriment in the simplest incidents of the life about her.
“God has been so good to me, Mary Louise!” she once exclaimed as they were sitting together in the garden. “He has given me sight, that I may revel in bookland and in the beauties of flowers and trees and shifting skies and the faces of my friends. He has given me the blessing of hearing, that I may enjoy the strains of sweet music and the songs of the birds and the voices of those I love. And I can scent the fragrance of the morning air, the perfume of the roses and — yes! even the beefsteak Aunt Hannah is frying for supper. The beefsteak tastes as good to me as it does to you. I can feel the softness of your cheek; I can sing melodies, in my own way, whenever my heart swells with joy. I can move about, by means of this wonderful chair, without the bother of walking. You don’t envy me, Mary Louise, because you enjoy almost equal blessings; but you must admit I have reason for being happy.”
Irene read a good many books and magazines and through the daily papers kept well posted on the world’s affairs. Indeed, she was much better posted than Mary Louise, who, being more active, had less leisure to think and thus absorb the full meaning of all that came to her notice. Irene would play the piano for hours at a time, though obliged to lean forward in her chair to reach the keys, and her moods ran the gamut from severely classical themes to ragtime, seeming to enjoy all equally. She also sewed and mended with such consummate skill that Mary Louise, who was rather awkward with her needle, marveled at her talent.
Nor was this the end of the chair-girl’s accomplishments, for Irene had a fancy for sketching and made numerous caricatures of those persons with whom she came in contact. These contained so much humor that Mary Louise was delighted with them — especially one of “Uncle Peter” toying with his watch fob and staring straight ahead of him with round, expressionless eyes.
“Really, Irene, I believe you could paint,” she once said.
“No,” answered her friend, “I would not be so wicked as to do that. All imitations of Nature seem to me a mock of God’s handiwork, which no mortal brush can hope to equal. I shall never be so audacious, I hope. But a photograph is a pure reflex of Nature, and my caricatures, which are merely bits of harmless fun, furnish us now and then a spark of humor to make us laugh, and laughter is good for the soul. I often laugh at my own sketches, as you know. Sometimes I laugh at their whimsical conception, before ever I put pencil to paper. Lots of caricatures I make secretly, laughing over and then destroying them for fear they might be seen and hurt the feelings of their innocent subjects. Why, Mary Louise, I drew your doleful face only yesterday, and it was so funny I shrieked with glee. You heard me and looked over at me with a smile that made the caricature lie, so I promptly tore it up. It had served its purpose, you see.”
So many of these quaint notions filled the head of the crippled girl that Mary Louise’s wondering interest in her never flagged. It was easy to understand why Mrs. Conant had declared that Irene was the joy and life of the household, for it was impossible to remain morbid or blue in her presence.
For this reason, as well as through the warm and sincere affection inspired by Irene, Mary Louise came by degrees to confide to her the entire story of the mystery that surrounded her grandfather and influenced the lives of her mother and herself. Of her personal anxieties and fears she told her new friend far more than she had ever confessed to anyone else and her disclosures were met by ready sympathy.
“Phoo!” cried Irene. “This isn’t a REAL trouble; it will pass away. Everything passes away in time, Mary Louise, for life is a succession of changes — one thing after another. Remember the quotation: ‘Whate’er may be thy fate to-day, remember — this will pass away.’ I love that little saying and it has comforted me and given me courage many a time.”
“Life will also pass away,” observed Mary Louise pessimistically.
“To be sure. Isn’t that a glad prospect? To pass to a new life, to new adventures, planned for us by the wisdom of God, is the most glorious promise we mortals possess. In good time that joy will be ours, but now we must make the most of our present blessings. I take it, Mary Louise, that there is a purpose in everything — a Divine Purpose, you know — and that those who most patiently accept their trials will have the better future recompense. What’s a twisted ankle or a shriveled leg to do with happiness? Or even a persecuted grandfather? We’re made of better stuff, you and I, than to cry at such babyish bumps. My! what a lot of things we both have to be thankful for.”
Somehow these conversations cheered Mary Louise considerably and her face soon lost its drawn, worried look and became almost as placid as in the days when she had Gran’pa Jim beside her and suspected no approaching calamity. Gran’pa Jim would surely have loved Irene, had he known her, because their ideas of life and duty were so similar.
As it was now less than a month to the long summer vacation, Mary Louise did not enter the Dorfield High School but studied a little at home, so as not to get “rusty,” and passed most of her days in the society of Irene Macfarlane. It was a week or so after her arrival that Peter Conant said to her one evening:
“I have now received ample funds for all your needs, Mary Louise, so I have sent to Miss Stearne to have your trunk and books forwarded.”
“Oh; then you have heard from Gran’pa Jim?” she asked eagerly.
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“I do not know,” chopping the words apart with emphasis. “The Colonel has been very liberal. I am to put twenty dollars in cash in your pocketbook and you are to come to me for any further sums you may require, which I am ordered to supply without question. I would have favored making you an allowance, had I been consulted, but the Colonel is — eh — eh — the Colonel is the Colonel.”
“Didn’t Gran’pa Jim send me any letter, or — any information at all?” she asked wistfully.
“Not a word.”
“In my last letter, which you promised me to forward, I begged him to write me,” she said, with disappointment.
Peter Conant made no reply. He merely stared at her. But afterward, when the two girls were alone, Irene said to her:
“I do not think you should beg your grandfather to write you. A letter might be traced by his enemies, you know, and that would mean his undoing. He surely loves you and bears you in mind, for he has provided for your comfort in every possible way. Even your letters to him may be dangerous, although they reach him in such roundabout ways. If I were you, Mary Louise, I’d accept the situation as I found it and not demand more than your grandfather and your mother are able to give you.”
This frank advice Mary Louise accepted in good part and through the influence of the chair-girl she gradually developed a more contented frame of mind.
Irene was a persistent reader of books and one of Mary Louise’s self-imposed duties was to go to the public library and select such volumes as her friend was likely to be interested in. These covered a wide range of subjects, although historical works and tales of the age of chivalry seemed to appeal to Irene more than any others. Sometimes she would read aloud, in her sweet, sympathetic voice, to Mary Louise and Mrs. Conant, and under these conditions they frequently found themselves interested in books which, if read by themselves, they would be sure to find intolerably dry and uninteresting. The crippled girl had a way of giving more than she received and, instead of demanding attention, would often entertain the sound-limbed ones of her immediate circle.
CHAPTER XIII
BUB SUCCUMBS TO FORCE
One day Peter Conant abruptly left his office, came home and packed his grip and then hurried down town and caught the five o’clock train for New York. He was glum and uncommunicative, as usual, merely telling Aunt Hannah that business called hi
m away and he did not know when he would be back.
A week later Peter appeared at the family breakfast table, having arrived on the early morning express, and he seemed in a more gracious mood than usual. Indeed, he was really talkative.
“I met Will Morrison in New York, Hannah,” he said to his wife. “He was just sailing for London with his family and will remain abroad all summer. He wanted us to occupy his mountain place, Hillcrest Lodge, during July and August, and although I told him we couldn’t use the place he insisted on my taking an order on his man to turn the shack over to us.”
“The shack!” cried Aunt Hannah indignantly.
“Why, Peter, Hillcrest Lodge is a little palace. It is the cosiest, most delightful place I have ever visited. Why shouldn’t we accept Will Morrison’s proposition to occupy it?”
“I can’t leave my business.”
“You could run up every Friday afternoon, taking the train to Millbank and the stage to Hillcrest, and stay with us till Monday morning.”
He stared at her reflectively.
“Would you be safe in that out-of-the-way place?” he asked.
“Of course. Didn’t you say Will had a man for caretaker? And only a few scattered cottages are located near by, so we shall be quite by ourselves and wholly unmolested. I mean to go, and take the girls. The change will do us all good, so you may as well begin to make arrangements for the trip.”
Peter Conant stared awhile and then resumed his breakfast without comment. Mary Louise thought she saw a smile flicker over his stolid features for a moment, but could not be positive. Aunt Hannah had spoken in a practical, matter-of-fact way that did not admit of argument.
“Let me see,” she resumed; “we will plan to leave on Thursday morning, over the branch road, which will get us to Millbank by noon. If you telegraph the stage-driver to meet us we can reach Hillcrest Lodge by three o’clock — perhaps earlier — and that will enable us to get settled before dark. That is far better than taking the afternoon train. Will you make the proper arrangements, Peter?”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 573