Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “You were fond of her, Mr. Mershone?” asked Fogerty, not unsympathetically.

  “Yes. That was why I made such a struggle to get her.”

  “It was a mistake, sir. Provided a woman is won by force or trickery she’s never worth getting. If she doesn’t care for you it’s better to give her up.”

  “I know — now.”

  “You’re a bright fellow, Mershone, a clever fellow. It’s a pity you couldn’t direct your talents the right way. They’ll jug you for this.”

  “Never mind. The game of life isn’t worth playing. I’ve done with it, and the sooner I go to the devil the better. If only I could be sure Louise was safe I’d toss every care — and every honest thought — to the winds, from this moment.”

  During the silence that followed Fogerty was thoughtful. Indeed, his mind dwelt more upon the defeated and desperate man beside him than upon the waif he was searching for.

  “What’s been done, Mr. Mershone,” he said, after a time, “can’t be helped now. The future of every man is always a bigger proposition than his past — whoever he may be. With your talents and genius you could yet make of yourself a successful and prosperous man, respected by the community — if you could get out of this miserable rut that has helped to drag you down.”

  “But I can’t,” said the other, despondently.

  “You can if you try. But you’ll have to strike for a place a good way from New York. Go West, forget your past, and carve out an honest future under a new name and among new associates. You’re equal to it.”

  Mershone shook his head.

  “You forget,” he said. “They’ll give me a jail sentence for this folly, as sure as fate, and that will be the end of me.”

  “Not necessarily. See here, Mershone, it won’t help any of those people to prosecute you. If the girl escapes with her life no real harm has been done, although you’ve caused a deal of unhappiness, in one way or another. For my part, I’d like to see you escape, because I’m sure this affair will be a warning to you that will induce you to give up all trickery in the future. Money wouldn’t bribe me, as you know, but sympathy and good fellowship will. If you’ll promise to skip right now, and turn over a new leaf, you are free.”

  “Where could I go?”

  “There’s a town a mile ahead of us; I can see the buildings now and then. You’ve money, for you offered it to me. I haven’t any assistants here, I’m all alone on the job. That talk about four men was only a bluff. Push me over in the snow and make tracks. I’ll tell Weldon you’ve escaped, and advise him not to bother you. It’s very easy.”

  Mershone stopped short, seized the detective’s hand and wrung it gratefully.

  “You’re a good fellow, Fogerty. I — I thank you. But I can’t do it. In the first place, I can’t rest in peace until Louise is found, or I know her fate. Secondly, I’m game to give an account for all my deeds, now that I’ve played the farce out, and lost. I — I really haven’t the ambition, Fogerty, to make a new start in life, and try to reform. What’s the use?”

  Fogerty did not reply. Perhaps he realized the case was entirely hopeless. But he had done what he could to save the misguided fellow and give him a chance, and he was sorry he had not succeeded.

  Meantime Arthur Weldon, almost dazed by the calamity that had overtaken his sweetheart, found an able assistant in his chauffeur, who, when the case was explained to him, developed an eager and intelligent interest in the chase. Fortunately they moved with the storm and the snow presently moderated in volume although the wind was still blowing a fierce gale. This gave them a better opportunity than the others to observe the road they followed.

  Jones had good eyes, and although the trail of the heavy wagon was lost at times he soon picked it up again and they were enabled to make fairly good speed.

  “I believe,” said Arthur, presently, “that the marks are getting clearer.”

  “I know they are, sir,” agreed Jones.

  “Then we’ve come in the right direction, for it is proof that the wagon was headed this way.”

  “Quite right, sir.”

  This back section was thinly settled and the occasional farm-houses they passed were set well back from the road. It was evident from the closed gates and drifted snowbanks that no teams had either left these places or arrived during a recent period. Arthur was encouraged, moreover, by the wagon ruts growing still more clear as they proceeded, and his excitement was great when Jones abruptly halted and pointed to a place where the wheels had made a turn and entered a farm yard.

  “Here’s the place, sir,” announced the chauffeur.

  “Can you get in?”

  “It’s pretty deep, sir, but I’ll try.”

  The snow was crisp and light, owing to the excessive cold, and the machine plowed through it bravely, drawing up at last to the door of an humble cottage.

  As Arthur leaped out of the car a man appeared upon the steps, closing the door softly behind him.

  “Looking for the young lady, sir?” he asked.

  “Is she here?” cried Arthur.

  The man placed his finger on his lips, although the wind prevented any sound of voices being heard within.

  “Gently, sir, don’t make a noise — but come in.”

  They entered what seemed to be a kitchen. The farmer, a man of advanced years, led him to a front room, and again cautioning him to be silent, motioned him to enter.

  A sheet-iron stove made the place fairly comfortable. By a window sat a meek-faced woman, bent over some sewing. On a couch opposite lay Louise, covered by a heavy shawl. She was fast asleep, her hair disheveled and straying over her crimson cheeks, flushed from exposure to the weather. Her slumber seemed the result of physical exhaustion, for her lips were parted and she breathed deeply.

  Arthur, after gazing at her for a moment with a beating-heart, for the mysterious actions of the old farmer had made him fear the worst, softly approached the couch and knelt beside the girl he loved, thanking; God in his inmost heart for her escape. Then he leaned over and pressed a kiss upon her cheek.

  Louise slowly opened her eyes, smiled divinely, and threw her arms impulsively around his neck.

  “I knew you would come for me, dear,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  A MATTER OF COURSE

  All explanations were barred until the girl had been tenderly taken to her own home and under the loving care of her mother and cousins had recovered to an extent from the terrible experiences she had undergone.

  Then by degrees she told them her story, and how, hearing the voice of her persecutor Mershone in the hall below she had become frantic with fear and resolved to trust herself to the mercies of the storm rather than submit to an interview with him. Before this she had decided that she could climb down the trellis, and that part of her flight she accomplished easily. Then she ran toward the rear of the premises to avoid being seen and managed to find the lane, and later the cross-roads. It was very cold, but her excitement and the fear of pursuit kept her warm until suddenly her strength failed her and she sank down in the snow without power to move. At this juncture the farmer and his wife drove by, having been on a trip to the town. The man sprang out and lifted her in, and the woman tenderly wrapped her in the robes and blankets and pillowed her head upon her motherly bosom. By the time they reached the farm-house she was quite warm again, but so exhausted that with a brief explanation that she was lost, but somebody would be sure to find her before long, she fell upon the couch and almost immediately lost consciousness.

  So Arthur found her, and one look into his eyes assured her that all her troubles were over.

  They did not prosecute Charlie Mershone, after all. Fogerty pleaded for him earnestly, and Uncle John pointed out that to arrest the young man would mean to give the whole affair to the newspapers, which until now had not gleaned the slightest inkling of what had happened. Publicity was to be avoided if possible, as it would set loose a thousand malicious tongues and benefit nobody. The
only thing to be gained by prosecuting Mershone was revenge, and all were willing to forego that doubtful satisfaction.

  However, Uncle John had an interview with the young man in the office of the prosecuting attorney, at which Mershone was given permission to leave town quietly and pursue his fortunes in other fields. If ever he returned, or in any way molested any of the Merricks or his cousin Diana, he was assured that he would be immediately arrested and prosecuted to the full extent of the law.

  Mershone accepted the conditions and became an exile, passing at once out of the lives of those he had so deeply wronged.

  The joyful reunion of the lovers led to an early date being set for the wedding. They met all protests by pleading their fears of another heartrending separation, and no one ventured to oppose their desire.

  Mrs. Merrick quickly recovered her accustomed spirits during the excitement of those anxious weeks preceding the wedding. Cards were issued to “the very best people in town;” the trousseau involved anxiety by day and restless dreams by night — all eminently enjoyable; there were entertainments to be attended and congratulations to be received from every side.

  Society, suspecting nothing of the tragedy so lately enacted in these young lives, was especially gracious to the betrothed. Louise was the recipient of innumerable merry “showers” from her girl associates, and her cousins, Patsy and Beth, followed in line with “glass showers” and “china showers” until the prospective bride was stocked with enough wares to establish a “house-furnishing emporium,” as Uncle John proudly declared.

  Mr. Merrick, by this time quite reconciled and palpably pleased at the approaching marriage of his eldest niece, was not to be outdone in “social stunts” that might add to her happiness. He gave theatre parties and banquets without number, and gave them with the marked success that invariably attended his efforts.

  The evening before the wedding Uncle John and the Major claimed Arthur for their own, and after an hour’s conference between the three that left the young fellow more happy and grateful than ever before, he was entertained at his last “bachelor dinner,” where he made a remarkable speech and was lustily cheered.

  Of course Beth and Patsy were the bridesmaids, and their cousin Kenneth Forbes came all the way from Elmhurst to be Arthur’s best man. No one ever knew what it cost Uncle John for the wonderful decorations at the church and home, for the music, the banquet and all the other details which he himself eagerly arranged on a magnificent scale and claimed was a part of his “wedding present.”

  When it was all over, and the young people had driven away to begin the journey of life together, the little man put a loving arm around Beth and Patsy and said, between smiles and tears:

  “Well, my dears, I’ve lost one niece, and that’s a fact; but I’ve still two left. How long will they remain with me, I wonder?”

  “Dear me, Uncle John,” said practical Patsy; “your necktie’s untied and dangling; like a shoestring! I hope it wasn’t that way at the wedding.”

  “It was, though,” declared the Major, chuckling. “If all three of ye get married, my dears, poor Uncle John will come to look like a scarecrow — and all that in the face of swell society!”

  “Aren’t we about through with swell society now?” asked Mr. Merrick, anxiously. “Aren’t we about done with it? It caused all our troubles, you know.”

  “Society,” announced Beth, complacently, “is an excellent thing in the abstract. It has its black sheep, of course; but I think no more than any other established class of humanity.”

  “Dear me!” cried Uncle John; “you once denounced society.”

  “That,” said she, “was before I knew anything at all about it.”

  AUNT JANE’S NIECES AND UNCLE JOHN

  Baum probably should have named his popular series, Uncle John’s Nieces, as Uncle John becomes a much more prominent character than Aunt Jane. In Baum’s sixth novel in the series, Aunt Jane’s Nieces and Uncle John, he finally shares part of the title. Reilly & Britton published the novel in 1911 under Baum’s pseudonym, Edith Van Dyne. Emile A. Nelson handled the artwork again. Baum used his own travels throughout the Southwest as background detail. After Louise’s wedding, Uncle John schemes to take the remaining two girls on a trip to California, to escape the winter. Along the way, they meet and help a poor, crippled orphan girl named Myrtle. Out west, they visit the Grand Canyon, view a Hopi snake dance, and run into a belligerent mob of cowboys. Among other things, they also solve the mystery of Myrtle’s missing uncle.

  A first edition copy of ‘Aunt Jane’s Nieces and Uncle John’

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER I

  INTRODUCING “MUMBLES”

  Major Gregory Doyle paced nervously up and down the floor of the cosy sitting room.

  “Something’s surely happened to our Patsy!” he exclaimed.

  A little man with a calm face and a bald head, who was seated near the fire, continued to read his newspaper and paid no attention to the outburst.

  “Something has happened to Patsy!” repeated the Major, “Patsy” meaning his own and only daughter Patricia.

  “Something is always happening to everyone,” said the little man, turning his paper indifferently. “Something is happening to me, for I can’t find the rest of this article. Something is happening to you, for you’re losing your temper.”

  “I’m not, sir! I deny it.”

  “As for Patsy,” continued the other, “she is sixteen years old and knows New York like a book. The girl is safe enough.”

  “Then where is she? Tell me that, sir. Here it is, seven o’clock, dark as pitch and raining hard, and Patsy is never out after six. Can you, John Merrick, sit there like a lump o’ putty and do nothing, when your niece and my own darlin’ Patsy is lost — or strayed or stolen?”

  “What would you propose doing?” asked Uncle John, looking up with a smile.

  “We ought to get out the police department. It’s raining and cold, and — ”

  “Then we ought to get out the fire department. Call Mary to put on more coal and let’s have it warm and cheerful when Patsy comes in.”

  “But, sir — ”

  “The trouble with you, Major, is that dinner is half an hour late. One can imagine all sorts of horrible things on an empty stomach. Now, then — ”

  He paused, for a pass-key rattled in the hall door and a moment later Patsy Doyle, rosy and animated, fresh from the cold and wet outside, smilingly greeted them.

  She had an umbrella, but her cloak was dripping with moisture and in its ample folds was something huddled and bundled up like a baby, which she carefully protected.

  “So, then,” exclaimed the Major, coming forward for a kiss, “you’re back at last, safe and sound. Whatever kept ye out ‘til this time o’ night, Patsy darlin’?” he added, letting the brogue creep into his tone, as he did when stirred by any emotion.

  Uncle John started to take off her wet cloak.

  “Look out!” cried Patsy; “you’ll disturb Mumbles.”

  The two men looked at her bundle curiously.

  “Who’s Mumbles?” asked one.

  “What on earth is Mumbles?” inquired the other.

  The bundle squirmed and wriggled. Patsy sat down on the floor and carefully unwound the folds of the cloak. A tiny dog, black and shaggy, put his head out, blinked sleepily at the lights, pulled his fat, shapeless body away
from the bandages and trotted solemnly over to the fireplace. He didn’t travel straight ahead, as dogs ought to walk, but “cornerwise,” as Patsy described it; and when he got to the hearth he rolled himself into a ball, lay down and went to sleep.

  During this performance a tense silence had pervaded the room. The Major looked at the dog rather gloomily; Uncle John with critical eyes that held a smile in them; Patsy with ecstatic delight.

  “Isn’t he a dear!” she exclaimed.

  “It occurs to me,” said the Major stiffly, “that this needs an explanation. Do you mean to say, Patsy Doyle, that you’ve worried the hearts out of us this past hour, and kept the dinner waiting, all because of a scurvy bit of an animal?”

  “Pshaw!” said Uncle John. “Speak for yourself, Major. I wasn’t worried a bit.”

  “You see,” explained Patsy, rising to take off her things and put them away, “I was coming home early when I first met Mumbles. A little boy had him, with a string tied around his neck, and when Mumbles tried to run up to me the boy jerked him back cruelly — and afterward kicked him. That made me mad.”

  “Of course,” said Uncle John, nodding wisely.

  “I cuffed the boy, and he said he’d take it out on Mumbles, as soon as I’d gone away. I didn’t like that. I offered to buy the dog, but the boy didn’t dare sell him. He said it belonged to his father, who’d kill him and kick up a row besides if he didn’t bring Mumbles home. So I found out where they lived and as it wasn’t far away I went home with him.”

  “Crazy Patsy!” smiled Uncle John.

  “And the dinner waiting!” groaned the Major, reproachfully.

  “Well, I had a time, you can believe!” continued Patsy, with animation. “The man was a big brute, and half drunk. He grabbed up the little doggie and threw it into a box, and then told me to go home and mind my business.”

  “Which of course you refused to do.”

  “Of course. I’d made up my mind to have that dog.”

  “Dogs,” said the Major, “invariably are nuisances.”