Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “If she had, I think she deserves a little recreation after her late trying experiences,” said Mr. Cumberford.

  “Why, Orissa, it has all been decided in advance,” exclaimed Sybil. “They’re merely asking our consent out of politeness.”

  Orissa turned to Madeline and pressed her hand gratefully.

  “You’ve really been our guardian angel, Miss Dentry,” she said. “We can never repay your great kindness and generosity, nor properly thank you for what you have done for us.”

  “Why should you?” asked Madeline. “Think what a splendid time I’ve had during this adventure, all due to the Flying Girl and her chum — and to a defect in the famous Kane Aircraft. But if you sincerely wish to please me, come with me on the trip to Honolulu.”

  “Of course I will,” Orissa responded. “I’ve always longed for an ocean voyage, and in such company, and on the dear old Salvador, the trip will be delightful.”

  The others of the Kane-Cumberford party, who were every one eager to go, rapturously applauded this decision.

  MARY LOUISE

  Mary Louise, published by Reilly & Britton in 1916, is the first book in a series Baum created about girl detectives. He wrote the first four volumes. The fifth was based on a fragment by Baum. Emma Speed Sampson wrote five later books in the series. The entire series appeared under Baum’s pseudonym, Edith Van Dyne, which he’d employed for his popular Aunt Jane’s Nieces series. Mary Louise features a 15-year-old girl, Mary Louise Burrows, as its heroine. She is at boarding school and unusually mature for her age, which leads to some tension with other students. When her grandfather, Colonel Hathaway, is accused of treason against the Unites States, she and her friends must prove his innocence, assisted by a federal agent and his daughter. Baum named the title character after his sister, Mary Louise Baum Brewster.

  Three early edition copies of ‘Mary Louise’

  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 XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER I

  JUST AN ARGUMENT

  “It’s positively cruel!” pouted Jennie Allen, one of a group of girls occupying a garden bench in the ample grounds of Miss Stearne’s School for Girls, at Beverly.

  “It’s worse than that; it’s insulting,” declared Mable Westervelt, her big dark eyes flashing indignantly.

  “Doesn’t it seem to reflect on our characters?” timidly asked Dorothy

  Knerr.

  “Indeed it does!” asserted Sue Finley. “But here comes Mary Louise; let’s ask her opinion.”

  “Phoo! Mary Louise is only a day scholar,” said Jennie. “The restriction doesn’t apply to her at all.”

  “I’d like to hear what she says, anyhow,” remarked Dorothy. “Mary

  Louise has a way of untangling things, you know.”

  “She’s rather too officious to suit me,” Mable Westervelt retorted, “and she’s younger than any of us. One would think, the way she poses as monitor at this second-rate, run-down boarding school, that Mary Louise Burrows made the world.”

  “Oh, Mable! I’ve never known her to pose at all,” said Sue. “But, hush; she mustn’t overhear us and, besides, if we want her to intercede with Miss Stearne we must not offend her.”

  The girl they were discussing came leisurely down a path, her books under one arm, the other hand holding a class paper which she examined in a cursory way as she walked. She wore a dark skirt and a simple shirtwaist, both quite modish and becoming, and her shoes were the admiration and envy of half the girls at the school. Dorothy Knerr used to say that “Mary Louise’s clothes always looked as if they grew on her,” but that may have been partially accounted for by the grace of her slim form and her unconscious but distinctive poise of bearing. Few people would describe Mary Louise Burrows as beautiful, while all would agree that she possessed charming manners. And she was fifteen — an age when many girls are both awkward and shy.

  As she drew near to the group on the bench they ceased discussing Mary

  Louise but continued angrily to canvass their latest grievance.

  “What do you think, Mary Louise,” demanded Jennie, as the girl paused before them, “of this latest outrage?”

  “What outrage, Jen?” with a whimsical smile at their indignant faces.

  “This latest decree of the tyrant Stearne. Didn’t you see it posted on the blackboard this morning? ‘The young ladies will hereafter refrain from leaving the school grounds after the hour of six p.m., unless written permission is first secured from the Principal. Any infraction of this rule will result in suspension or permanent dismissal.’ We’re determined not to stand for this rule a single minute. We intend to strike for our liberties.”

  “Well,” said Mary Louise reflectively, “I’m not surprised. The wonder is that Miss Stearne hasn’t stopped your evening parades before now. This is a small school in a small town, where everyone knows everyone else; otherwise you’d have been guarded as jealously as if you were in a convent. Did you ever know or hear of any other private boarding school where the girls were allowed to go to town evenings, or whenever they pleased out of school hours?”

  “Didn’t I tell you?” snapped Mable, addressing the group. “Mary Louise is always on the wrong side. Other schools are not criterions for this ramshackle establishment, anyhow. We have twelve boarders and four day scholars, and how Miss Stearne ever supports the place and herself on her income is an occult problem that the geometries can’t solve. She pays little Miss Dandler, her assistant, the wages of an ordinary housemaid; the furniture is old and shabby and the classrooms gloomy; the food is more nourishing than feastful and the tablecloths are so patched and darned that it’s a wonder they hold together.”

  Mary Louise quietly seated herself upon the bench beside them.

  “You’re looking on the seamy side, Mable,” she said with a smile, “and you’re not quite just to the school. I believe your parents sent you here because Miss Stearne is known to be a very competent teacher and her school has an excellent reputation of long standing. For twenty years this delightful old place, which was once General Barlow’s residence, has been a select school for young ladies of the best families. Gran’pa Jim says it’s an evidence of good breeding and respectability to have attended Miss Stearne’s school.”

  “Well, what’s that got to do with this insulting order to stay in evenings?” demanded Sue Finley. “You’d better put all that rot you’re talking into a circular and mail it to the mothers of imbecile daughters. Miss Stearne has gone a step too far in her tyranny, as she’ll find out. We know well enough what it means. There’s no inducement for us to wander into that little tucked-up town of Beverly after dinner except to take in the picture show, which is our one innocent recreation. I’m sure we’ve always conducted ourselves most properly. This order simply means we must cut out the picture show and, if we permit it to stand, heaven only knows what we shall do to amuse ourselves.”

  “We’ll do something worse, probably,” suggested Jennie.

  “What’s your idea about it, Mary Louise?” asked Dorothy.

  “Don’t be a prude,” warned Mable, glaring at the young girl. “Try to be honest and sensible — if you can — and give us your advice. Shall we disregard the order, and do as we please, or be namby-pambies and submit to the outrage? You’re a day scholar and may visit the picture sh
ows as often as you like. Consider our position, cooped up here like a lot of chickens and refused the only harmless amusement the town affords.”

  “Gran’pa Jim,” observed Mary Louise, musingly, “always advises me to look on both sides of a question before making up my mind, because every question has to have two sides or it couldn’t be argued. If Miss Stearne wishes to keep you away from the pictures, she has a reason for it; so let’s discover what the reason is.”

  “To spoil any little fun we might have,” asserted Mable bitterly.

  “No; I can’t believe that,” answered Mary Louise. “She isn’t unkindly, we all know, nor is she too strict with her girls. I’ve heard her remark that all her boarders are young ladies who can be trusted to conduct themselves properly on all occasions; and she’s right about that. We must look for her reason somewhere else and I think it’s in the pictures themselves.”

  “As for that,” said Jennie, “I’ve seen Miss Stearne herself at the picture theatre twice within the last week.”

  “Then that’s it; she doesn’t like the character of the pictures shown.

  I think, myself, girls, they’ve been rather rank lately.”

  “What’s wrong with them?”

  “I like pictures as well as you do,” said Mary Louise, “and Gran’pa Jim often takes me to see them. Tuesday night a man shot another in cold blood and the girl the murderer was in love with helped him to escape and married him. I felt like giving her a good shaking, didn’t you? She didn’t act like a real girl at all. And Thursday night the picture story told of a man with two wives and of divorces and disgraceful doings generally. Gran’pa Jim took me away before it was over and I was glad to go. Some of the pictures are fine and dandy, but as long as the man who runs the theatre mixes the horrid things with the decent ones — and we can’t know beforehand which is which — it’s really the safest plan to keep away from the place altogether. I’m sure that’s the position Miss Stearne takes, and we can’t blame her for it. If we do, it’s an evidence of laxness of morals in ourselves.”

  The girls received this statement sullenly, yet they had no logical reply to controvert it. So Mary Louise, feeling that her explanation of the distasteful edict was not popular with her friends, quietly rose and sauntered to the gate, on her way home.

  “Pah!” sneered Mable Westervelt, looking after the slim figure, “I’m always suspicious of those goody-goody creatures. Mark my words, girls: Mary Louise will fall from her pedestal some day. She isn’t a bit better than the rest of us, in spite of her angel baby ways, and I wouldn’t be surprised if she turned out to be a regular hypocrite!”

  CHAPTER II

  GRAN’PA JIM

  Beverly is an old town and not especially progressive. It lies nearly two miles from a railway station and has little attractiveness for strangers. Beverly contains several beautiful old residences, however, built generations ago and still surrounded by extensive grounds where the trees and shrubbery are now generally overgrown and neglected.

  One of these fine old places Miss Stearne rented for her boarding school; another, quite the most imposing residence in the town, had been leased some two years previous to the time of this story by Colonel James Weatherby, whose family consisted of his widowed daughter, Mrs. Burrows, and his grandchild, Mary Louise Burrows. Their only servants were an old negro, Uncle Eben, and his wife, Aunt Polly, who were Beverly bred and had been hired when the Colonel first came to town and took possession of the stately Vandeventer mansion.

  Colonel Weatherby was a man of exceptionally distinguished appearance, tall and dignified, with courtly manners and an air of prosperity that impressed the simple villagers with awe. His snow-white hair and piercing dark eyes, his immaculate dress upon all occasions, the whispered comments on his ample deposits in the local bank, all contributed to render him remarkable among the three or four hundred ordinary inhabitants of Beverly, who, after his two years’ residence among them, scarcely knew more of him than is above related. For Colonel Weatherby was an extremely reserved man and seldom deigned to exchange conversation with his neighbors. In truth, he had nothing in common with them and even when he walked out with Mary Louise he merely acknowledged the greeting of those he met by a dignified nod of his stately head.

  With Mary Louise, however, he would converse fluently and with earnestness, whether at home during the long evenings or on their frequent walks through the country, which were indulged in on Saturdays and holidays during the months that school was in session and much more often during vacations. The Colonel owned a modest automobile which he kept in the stable and only drove on rare occasions, although one of Uncle Eben’s duties was to keep the car in apple-pie order. Colonel Weatherby loved best to walk and Mary Louise enjoyed their tramps together because Gran’pa Jim always told her so many interesting things and was such a charming companion. He often developed a strain of humor in the girl’s society and would relate anecdotes that aroused in her spontaneous laughter, for she possessed a keen sense of the ludicrous. Yes, Gran’pa Jim was really funny, when in the mood, and as jolly a comrade as one would wish.

  He was fond of poetry, too, and the most severe trial Mary Louise was forced to endure was when he carried a book of poems in his pocket and insisted on reading from it while they rested in a shady nook by the roadside or on the bank of the little river that flowed near by the town. Mary Louise had no soul for poetry, but she would have endured far greater hardships rather than forfeit the genial companionship of Gran’pa Jim.

  It was only during these past two years that she had come to know her grandfather so intimately and to become as fond of him as she was proud. Her earlier life had been one of so many changes that the constant shifting had rather bewildered her. First she remembered living in a big city house where she was cared for by a nurse who was never out of sight or hearing. There it was that “Mamma Bee” — Mrs. Beatrice Burrows — appeared to the child at times as a beautiful vision and often as she bent over her little daughter for a good-night kiss the popular society woman, arrayed in evening or ball costume, would seem to Mary Louise like a radiant angel descended straight from heaven.

  She knew little of her mother in those days, which were quite hazy in memory because she was so young. The first change she remembered was an abrupt flitting from the splendid city house to a humble cottage in a retired village. There was no maid now, nor other servant whatever. Mamma Bee did the cooking and sweeping, her face worn and anxious, while Gran’pa Jim walked the floor of the little sitting room day by day, only pausing at times to read to Mary Louise stories from her nursery books.

  This life did not last very long — perhaps a year or so — and then they were in a big hotel in another city, reached after a long and tiresome railway journey. Here the girl saw little of her grandfather, for a governess came daily to teach Mary Louise to read and write and to do sums on a pretty slate framed in silver. Then, suddenly, in dead of night, away they whisked again, traveling by train until long after the sun was up, when they came to a pretty town where they kept house again.

  There were servants, this time, and horses and carriages and pretty clothes for Mary Louise and Mamma Bee. The little girl was sent to a school just a block away from her home. She remembered Miss Jenkins well, for this teacher made much of her and was so kind and gentle that Mary Louise progressed rapidly in her studies.

  But the abrupt changes did not end here. Mary Louise came home from school one afternoon and found her dear mother sobbing bitterly as she clung around the neck of Gran’pa Jim, who stood in the middle of the room as still as if he had been a marble statue. Mary Louise promptly mingled her tears with those of her mother, without knowing why, and then there was a quick “packing-up” and a rush to the railway again.

  Next they were in the house of Mr. and Mrs. Peter Conant, very pleasant people who seemed to be old friends of Mamma Bee and Gran’pa Jim. It was a cosy house, not big and pretentious, and Mary Louise liked it. Peter Conant and Gran’pa Jim had many
long talks together, and it was here that the child first heard her grandfather called “Colonel.” Others might have called him that before, but she had not heard them. Mrs. Conant was very deaf and wore big spectacles, but she always had a smile on her face and her voice was soft and pleasing.

  After a few days Mamma Bee told her daughter she was going to leave her in the care of the Conants for a time, while she traveled to a foreign country with Gran’pa Jim. The girl was surprised at being abandoned but accepted her fate quietly when it was explained that she was to go to school while living with the Conants, which she could not do if she was traveling with her mother and grandfather, who were making this arrangement for the girl’s best good.

  Three years Mary Louise lived with the Conants and had little to complain of. Mr. Conant was a lawyer and was at his office all day, while Mrs. Conant was very kind to the girl and looked after her welfare with motherly care.

  At last, quite unexpectedly, Mary Louise’s trunk was packed and she was taken to the station to meet a train on which were her mother and grandfather. They did not leave the cars except to shake hands with the Conants and thank them for their care of Mary Louise. A moment later the train bore away the reunited family to their new home in Beverly.

  Mary Louise now found she must “get acquainted” with Mamma Bee and Gran’pa Jim all over again, for during these last three years she had developed so fast in mind and body that her previous knowledge of her relatives seemed like a hazy dream. The Colonel also discovered a new granddaughter, to whom he became passionately attached. For two years now they had grown together until they were great friends and cronies.

  As for Mrs. Burrows, she seemed to have devoted her whole life to her father, the Colonel. She had lost much of her former beauty and had become a thin, pale woman with anxious eyes and an expectant and deprecating air, as if always prepared to ward off a sudden blow. Her solicitude for the old Colonel was almost pathetic and while he was in her presence she constantly hovered around him, doing little things for his comfort which he invariably acknowledged with his courtly bow and a gracious word of thanks.