Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “And what are you going to do about it?” demanded Mrs. Conant.

  “I am endeavoring to gain information from my wife.”

  “Very well. What does he mean by ‘a modest price’? The Pelton place is expensive. The rent is sixty dollars a month, while a comfortable house like that of the Widow Harrington rents for fifteen dollars, with good, solid furniture.”

  “Is Mrs. Harrington’s house for rent?” he asked.

  “Yes. She’ll go to live with her married daughter as soon as she can find a tenant. The poor creature needs the money, and her house is just around the corner from here and her back yard backs up to the Colonel’s back yard. Now, the Pelton place is two blocks from here, and the Peltons don’t need the money, because they’re already too rich and aristocratic to live in Dorfield any longer.”

  “H-m-m!” murmured Mr. Conant. “It occurs to me that a friend of Colonel Hathaway might desire a more luxurious home than that of the Widow Harrington.”

  “Doesn’t the telegram say ‘a modest price’?”

  “It does. I’ll quote both places and let the man Jones take his choice. And how about the female servant, Hannah?”

  “Leave that to me; I can hire plenty. But if Mr. Jason Jones takes the Pelton place he will want one kind of a servant, and if he takes Mrs. Harrington’s house he’ll want a different sort.”

  He gazed at her admiringly and passed his cup again, saying:

  “You’ve a logical mind, my dear. Had you been a man you might have become a fairly good lawyer.”

  “No, Peter; not another drop. You’ve two cups already.”

  “Are you sure, Hannah?”

  “Absolutely positive!”

  “Then,” said he, rising with a sigh, “I’ll go to the office.”

  To Mr. Conant’s disappointment, to Mrs. Conant’s delight, to Irene’s satisfaction and the astonishment of all, Mr. Jason Jones selected Mrs. Harrington’s modest house and ordered it rented and prepared for his arrival on the following Thursday. This was conveyed in a second telegram from Colonel Hathaway, who requested the lawyer to inform old Uncle Eben and Aunt Sally, the Colonel’s own faithful colored servants and caretakers, that he and Mary Louise would return home on the same day.

  “You see,” said Aunt Hannah, triumphantly, “I sized the Joneses up pretty well. It isn’t necessary for a man to be rich to be a friend of the dear Colonel, for he considers a man, rather than a man’s pocketbook.”

  “Yet a man who can afford to travel abroad, with his daughter,” began Mr. Conant, argumentatively, “should certainly be able and willing — — ”

  “What do you know about him, Peter? Perhaps he has spent his ready money in Europe and is now obliged to economize. Unless that is the case, why does he come to a sleepy little town like Dorfield, which is almost forgotten by the big world, to settle down?”

  “

  Why, he’s the Colonel’s friend,” retorted the lawyer, stiffly.

  “And Mary Louise is his daughter’s friend,” said Irene. “That accounts for it, of course, and they couldn’t have picked a prettier place. Dorfield may be sleepy, and quiet, and half forgotten by the rest of the big world, but it’s simply delightful as a residence. Didn’t Colonel Hathaway choose it for a home? And the Colonel could afford to live at the Waldorf-Astoria, if he wanted to.”

  “I know why you are pleased, Irene,” remarked Aunt Hannah, smiling upon her niece. “You’re going to have another girl friend.”

  “She won’t be as nice as Mary Louise, though,” was the reply. “There’s no girl in the world as sweet and lovely as Mary Louise!”

  “Or one that innocently gets into more trouble,” declared Mr. Conant.

  “That,” said Aunt Hannah, “is because she can’t let other people’s troubles alone.”

  CHAPTER XIV

  HOME AGAIN

  Mr. Conant, who was Colonel Hathaway’s lawyer and confidential agent, was at the train to meet his important client on his return to Dorfield. The first to alight from the coach was the Colonel, who greeted his lawyer with a cordial handclasp. Mary Louise kissed Peter Conant upon his impassive cheek and presented him to a pretty young girl who clung to her arm smiling, yet half bewildered by her arrival in a strange town. There seemed no one else with the party and Mr. Conant glanced over the crowd of passengers and said:

  “Mr. Jones did not accompany you, then?”

  “Why, yes; I suppose he’s here,” answered the Colonel carelessly. “I believe he traveled another car.”

  “I don’t see him anywhere,” added Mary Louise. “I wonder if anyone reminded him that this is the place to get off?”

  “Never mind,” said Alora; “if father can’t keep track of himself, let him go on to another station. I can’t lose him for long, that’s certain.”

  “There he is, up ahead,” announced Mara Louise. “He’s quarreling with his porter about something.”

  “To save the tip,” suggested Alora, scornfully.

  Mary Louise rushed to greet an old colorful man with snow-white hair, who was picking up their hand baggage.

  “Oh, Uncle Eben, I’m so glad to see again!” she exclaimed. “And how’s Aunt Sallie? And is my pony well? And are the goldfish still alive? And — — ”

  “Bress yo’ soul, Ma’y Weeze!” said the delighted old servant, “ev’body’s well an’ joyful to see you-all back ag’in.”

  The Colonel shook Uncle Eben’s hands — both of them — in a kindly but dignified manner. “I suppose the automobile is still running, Uncle?”

  “Not jes’ dis yere minnit, Kun’l,” with a glad chuckle, “but dat car’s gwine ter run jes’ as soon as we-all gits aboahd. What yo’ think I’s be’n doin’ all winter, Kun’l, in dat lonesomeness house, ‘cept keepin’ dat car greased up?”

  “Did you grease it in the house, then, Uncle?” asked Mary Louise gravely, but with twinkling eyes.

  Old Eben chuckled again, for this was a happy hour for him, but while he chuckled he led them to where the automobile stood waiting. Behind the others slowly followed Jason Jones, carrying his own luggage and eyeing every detail of his surroundings in the manner of a countryman paying his first visit to town. He was inwardly sizing up Dorfield as a place of residence. When Jones got into the car the Colonel briefly introduced him to the lawyer.

  “This is Mr. Jones, Mr. Conant.”

  He looked at the lawyer and gave a slight nod, and Mr. Conant’s bow was very stiff and formal. Already he had, with fair accuracy, grasped the relationship of the man to the others. Alora Jones seemed a fine girl — the right sort — and Mary Louise was evidently fond of her. The Colonel barely tolerated the man Jones, whom he did not like, for the daughter’s sake. The girl herself lacked in respect for her father, and this unfilial attitude seemed condoned by both Mary Louise and the Colonel, which was evidence that there was something wrong about Jason Jones. With such a cue for guidance, Mr. Conant decided he had no use for Jason Jones, either.

  Uncle Eben first drove the car to the Widow Harrington’s cottage, where Mrs. Conant awaited the new tenants to introduce them to their servant and to assure them that everything was prepared for their convenience. Then they drove to Colonel Hathaway’s home, where Irene was at the gate in her wheeled chair, a bunch of her choicest roses in her hand, ready to welcome her friend Mary Louise and to be kissed and hugged with girlish enthusiasm.

  It was a happy homecoming, indeed, for Mary Louise. And Colonel Hathaway breathed a deep sigh of relief as he entered his own portals.

  “From now on,” he said to his granddaughter that evening, “I am under no obligation to assist that impossible person, Jones, or to even associate with him. For your sake, my darling, I have suffered the infliction of his presence with fortitude, even going to the extent of locating him in our beloved town of Dorfield, that you and Alora might enjoy one another’s society. But from this time forward Jason Jones is to be a distant acquaintance rather than a companion. Congratulate me, Mary Louise!”r />
  “I do, Gran’pa Jim,” she replied soberly, “and I thank you, too. It has been a trial for both of us, but we’ve been really helpful to poor Alora. I want to try to bring a little happiness into her life and encourage her to become as sweet and lovable a girl as she has the nature to be, and this could never have been accomplished had we allowed her to drift in the sole companionship of her disagreeable father.”

  CHAPTER XV

  THE PUZZLE BECOMES INTRICATE

  Alora formed an immediate friendship for crippled Irene Macfarlane, first based on sympathy and afterward on genuine admiration. That one condemned to pass her entire life in a wicker wheel-chair should be so bright and cheerful, with no word of protest or even a reference to her own misfortune, was deemed wonderful by Alora, and she soon found that Irene had an excuse or explanation for every seeming annoyance her friends suffered and delighted to console them. At the same time she allowed no one to console her, because she declared she needed no consolation.

  Such a disposition invited confidence, and soon Irene knew more of Alora’s past history, including her trials and tribulations, than even Mary Louise had yet learned, and was shocked and grieved at the girl’s vengeful defiance of her father, due to his neglect and coldness as well as to his contemptible selfishness. But Irene had an excuse ready even for the artist.

  “Poor Mr. Jones!” she said one day, when the three girls were together and had been discussing Alora’s troubles; “think what a trial must have been to him to be saddled with the care of a child he had not seen since babyhood and had no especial interest in. As for affection between them, it could not sprout nor grow because there was no mutual understanding to germinate it. Your father’s life, my dear, had been wrecked by his separation from your mother and the money meant little to him at that period of his life when you were left to his care. But did he refuse the obligation so inconsiderately thrust upon him? No. Although a man of reserved nature — almost a recluse — self absorbed and shrinking from association others, he accepted the care of an eleven year old child and, without being able to change his disposition to suit her requirements, has guarded her health and safety ever since.”

  “So that he can use my money,” added Alora, with a shrug.

  “But you admit that he doesn’t squander money on himself.”

  “I don’t know what he does with it. If he wants books, he buys them; he bought a rickety automobile in Italy and never took me to ride in it; but his extravagance seems to end there. I’ve read some letters that he left around, showing that he is investing thousands in his own name — what for, I can’t guess, as he is too miserly ever to have a use for it.”

  “Well, he may be intending to endow some deserving charity,” suggested Irene. “And, as for his not loving you, Alora, I fancy you have never tried to win your father’s love.”

  “No one could love that man.”

  “You have never been able to get beneath his reserve. You came to him from a luxurious life, a petted and pampered child, and his simple tastes and unemotional nature repelled you from the first. Is it not so?”

  “I’m not sure, Irene. I needed sympathy and affection. Had my father been different, had he shown love for me, or even fatherly consideration, I would have responded eagerly. But he ignored me. There has never been any companionship between us. He has guarded my personal safety because I was of financial value to him. Once, when I contracted a fever, he was really worried, and hired a skillful doctor and a trained nurse; but he never entered my sickroom. When I was well, he reproached me for costing him so much money. I told him it was my money, and he was costing me more than I could ever cost him. I reminded him he would have been a beggar, but for my income, and that shut him up at once.”

  “There’s the whole trouble,” declared Irene. “Constant friction and a lack of consideration for one another. Such remarks could not have made him more gracious toward you, Alora, and you did not appreciate his care in furnishing you with the means of recovery.”

  “Had I died,” said the girl, “my fortune would have gone to a bunch of third-cousins whom I have never seen. That would have stopped father’s right to the income, you see.”

  Irene sighed and Mary Louise smiled. It was almost impossible to defend Mr. Jones consistently, with Alora present to accuse him.

  The artist at first took little interest in his new home. The cottage was small and not very cheerful, but it was cheap, and all that Jason Jones seemed to care for was a place to stay that was not expensive. He continued his reading and had a book in his hand from morning till night. He seldom left the cottage except for a trip to the public library or to a book-store, and never spoke to anyone unless it was necessary.

  Their maid was Jane Gladys O’Donnel, stout and good-natured, an indifferent cook and rather untidy. She was twenty years old and the eldest of a large and impoverished family. Her mother was a laundress — ”took in washin’“ — and her earnings, with the wages of Jane Gladys, must suffice to feed many hungry mouths. That was why Mrs. Conant had hired Jane Gladys. Aunt Hannah knew the girl was not very competent, but she was cheap, so Mr. Jones accepted her without protest. Alora had lived so long abroad that she did not know what a competent American housemaid is.

  One forenoon — they had now been a month at Dorfield — Mr. Jones was seated on the little front porch, reading as usual, when a queer buzzing in the air overhead aroused his attention.

  “What’s that?” he called sharply, and Jane Gladys, who was dusting in the little room behind him, replied:

  “That, sor, is only Steve Kane’s flyin’ machine.”

  “A what?”

  “A flyin’-machine, sor. Kane has a facthry fer makin’ the crazy things in the town yonder — over by the South Side.”

  “Indeed!” He got up and went into the yard to watch the far-away speck in the sky that was humming so persistently. “Why, there’s another! There are two of them,” he exclaimed, as if to himself.

  “There might be a dozen, sor, ‘cause there’s a school for airy — airy — airy-flyin’ over by Kane’s facthry, where they teaches the folks to fly that buy the machines.”

  He stood a long time, watching the sky. When the last aeroplane had disappeared he resumed his reading. But the next day he watched for the machines again, abandoning his book to follow the course of the flyers.

  “Where did you say that factory is located?” he asked Jane Gladys.

  “Over by the gas works, sor, be the South Side. Ye takes the Ellem street car, at the four corners. On a Sunday there be crowds a-watchin’ the air-divils.”

  He started to read again, but gave it up and glanced nervously up and down the little porch. Jane Gladys noted this with surprise, for he was usually quiet and unobservant, “like th’ toad in th’ garden, what squats under a bush all day an’ fergits he’s alive till a fly lights on his nose,” as she expressed it to the family at home.

  After lunch Mr. Jones went to town and after making inquiries took the car to the aviation works and field. He watched the construction of flying machines in the factory and saw one or two pupils take short flights in the air. And Jason Jones was so interested that he was late to dinner that evening.

  Next day he was at the aviation field again, and from that time he haunted the place, silent and composed but watching every detail of manufacture and listening to the experts as they instructed the pupils. These were not many — three altogether — although Stephen Kane’s aeroplane was now admitted to be one of the safest and most reliable ever invented. And one day one of the instructors, noticing the silent man who had watched so long, invited him to take a flight, thinking perhaps to frighten him; but Jason Jones promptly accepted the invitation and with perfect composure endured the strange experience and returned to ground with heightened color but no other evidence of excitement. Could Alora have seen him that day she would have acquitted him of cowardice.

  But Alora knew nothing of her father’s odd fancy for some time after he becam
e interested in aeroplanes. She was not often at home during the day, frequently taking lunch with Mary Louise or Irene and passing much of her time in their company. She had no interest whatever in her father’s movements and Jane Gladys didn’t think to mention the matter to her, for “flyin’-machines” had ceased to be a novelty in Dorfield and the sound of their buzzing through the air was heard many times a day. But in turning over a pile of her father’s books one day in his absence, Alora found several treatises on aviation and was almost startled to find that Jason Jones cared for any reading aside from light novels.

  She had been hunting, at the time, for a novel to read herself, so turning from the aviation literature to a shelf of fiction she began searching for an interesting title. Presently, as she drew out one of her father’s books, it opened by accident at a place where a letter had been tucked in — a letter written on soiled and coarse paper of a foreign make. It was addressed: “Sig. Jaysn Jones, at the Steamer Hercules to sail for New York, U.S.A.” Opening it, she found it signed: “Silvio Alleghero.”

  That was their man-servant in Italy, so with a smile of anticipated amusement she read the letter. It was brief, indeed, but the girl’s expression soon changed to a puzzled look, for the scrawl said:

  “Honored Signore: At your command I have this morning, three hours after your departure for Naples, allowed the prisoner to escape.”

  “How funny!” she exclaimed, knitting her brows. “I can’t remember any prisoner at the villa. Perhaps it was the cat. It would be just like Silvio to consider the release of a cat a important event.”

  She replaced the letter in the book and after selecting another novel forgot Silvio’s epistle entirely.

  Another time, when Alora happened to be at home for their noon-day luncheon and her father did not appear, Jane Gladys quietly remarked in answer to her query that “th’ ol’ man was prob’ly over to the flyin’- machine works.”