Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  CHAPTER VII

  MARY LOUISE INTRUDES

  It was four years later when on a sunny afternoon in April a carriage broke down on the Amalfi Road, between Positano and Sorrento, in Italy. A wheel crumpled up and the driver stopped his horses and explained to his passengers in a jumble of mixed Italian and English that he could go no farther. The passengers, an old gentleman of distinguished appearance and a young girl as fresh and lovely as a breath of spring, clambered out of the rickety vehicle and after examining the wheel admitted that their driver spoke truly. On one side the road was a steep descent to the sea; opposite, the hillside was masked by a trellis thick with grapevines. The road curved around the mountain, so there was no other vista.

  “Here’s a nice fix, Gran’pa Jim!” exclaimed the girl, with an amused laugh. “Where are we and what’s going to become of us?”

  “That is somewhat of a complicated problem, Mary Louise, and I can’t guess it offhand, without due reflection,” replied “Gran’pa Jim,” whom others called Colonel Hathaway. “I imagine, however, that we are about three miles from Positano and five or six from Sorrento, and it’s a stiff walk, for old legs or young, in either direction. Besides, there’s our luggage, which I am loth to abandon and disinclined to carry.”

  The driver interposed.

  “Give-a me the moment, Signore — perhaps the hour — an’ I return to Positano for more carriage-wheel — some other. My Cousin L’uigi, he leeve in Positano, an’ L’uigi have a-many carriage-wheel in he’s shed. I sure, Signore, I getta the wheel.”

  “That is a sensible idea,” said the old gentleman. “Make haste, my man, and we will wait here.”

  The driver unhitched his horses from the vehicle and after strapping a blanket on one of them for a saddle mounted it and departed.

  “I take-a the two horse,” he explained, “for one to ride-a me, an’ one for to ride-a the wheel.”

  They watched him amble away down the road and Mary Louise shook her head and remarked:

  “He will never make it in an hour, at that rate, Gran’pa Jim, and in two hours the sun will have set and it will be dinner time. Already I feel the pangs of hunger.”

  “Those who travel in Italy,” said her grandfather, “should be prepared to accept any happening in a spirit of resignation. A moment ago we were jogging merrily along toward a good hotel and a savory dinner, but now — — ”

  “This entire carriage seems ready to fall apart,” declared the girl, standing in the road and viewing the ancient vehicle critically; “so it’s a wonder something didn’t break sooner. Now, if we could get to the other side of that trellis, Gran’pa Jim, we might find a shady spot to rest while our charioteer is searching for a new wheel.”

  “There must be a gate, somewhere about,” he answered, eyeing the vine-clad barrier. “Come, Mary Louise, let us investigate.”

  A hundred yards down the road they came to some rude stone steps and a wicket. The old gentleman lifted the wooden latch and found the gate unlocked. Followed by Mary Louise, he entered the vineyard and discovered a narrow, well-beaten path leading up the hillside.

  “Perhaps there is a house near by,” said the girl. “Shall we go on, Gran’pa Jim?”

  “Why not, my dear? These Italians are hospitable folk and we may get a cake and a cup of goat’s milk to stay our appetite.”

  So they climbed the hill, following the little path, and presently came upon a laborer who was very deliberately but methodically cultivating the vines with a V-shaped hoe. Seeing the strangers the man straightened up and, leaning upon his hoe, eyed them with evident suspicion.

  “Good afternoon,” said the old gentleman in Italian — one of the few phrases in the language he had mastered.

  “Oh, I speak the English, Signore,” replied the man, doffing his hat. “I am Silvio Allegheri, you must know, and I live in America some time.”

  “Why, this is like meeting an old friend!” exclaimed Mary Louise, winning the fellow instantly with her smile. “But why did you leave America, Silvio?”

  “Because I have make my fortune there,” was the solemn reply. “It is easy to make the fortune in America, Signorina. I am chef in the restaurant in Sandusky — you know Sandusky? — most excellent! In a few years I save much money, then I return here an’ purchase an estate. My estate is three miles across the hill, yonder, and there is a road to it which is not much used. However, it is a fine estate, an’ I am rent it to my cousin for five hundred lira a year. Such good business habit I learn in America.”

  “Why don’t you live on your estate yourself?” inquired the girl.

  “It is not yet the time,” answered the man, with a shake of his head. “I am but fifty-two years alive, and while I am still so young I shall work for others, and save the money my estate brings me. When I get old and can no longer work for the others, then I will go to my estate an’ be happy.”

  “Very sensible,” commented the old gentleman. “And whom do you work for now?”

  “The student Americano, Signore; the one who has rented this valuable estate. I am the Signore Student’s valet, his gardener, and at times his chef. I grease his automobile, which is a very small chug- chug, but respectable, and I clean his shoes — when I can catch him with them off. I am valuable to him and for three years he has paid me fair wages.”

  “Is this a big estate?” asked Mary Louise.

  “Enormous, Signorina. It comprises three acres!”

  “And where is the house?”

  “Just over the hill, yonder, Signore.

  “Does the student Americano live here all alone?”

  “With his daughter, who is the Signorina Alora.”

  “Oh; there is a daughter, then? And you say they are Americans?”

  “Surely, Signorina. Who else would pay the great price for this estate for three years? The land pays nothing back — a few oranges; some grapes, when they are cared for; a handful of almonds and olives. And there is a servant besides myself, my niece Leona, who is housemaid and assists the young lady.”

  “This sounds promising,” said Mary Louise, turning to her grandfather. “Suppose we go up to the house? Are the people at home, Silvio? — the Signore Student and his daughter?”

  The man reflected, leaning on his hoe.

  “I think they are both at the mansion, Signorina, although the student Americano may not yet have returned from Sorrento. The road to the mansion is beyond the hill, on the other side of the estate, so I am not sure the Signore Student has returned. But you will find the Signorina Alora there, if you decide to venture on. But perhaps you are the friends of my employer and his daughter?”

  “What is his name?” asked Colonel Hathaway.

  “It is Jones. The American saying is Mister Jason Jones, but here he is only called the Signore Student Americano.”

  “Why?” asked Mary Louise.

  “Because his occupation is reading. He does nothing else. Always there is a book in his hand and always he is thinking of the things he reads. He does not often speak, even to his daughter; he does not have friends who visit him. If you should call at the mansion, then you will be the first people who have done so for three years.”

  There was something in this report — in the manner of the man as well as his words — that caused the strangers to hesitate. The description of “the Student” led them to suspect he was a recluse who might not welcome them cordially, but Mary Louise reflected that there was a daughter and decided that any American girl shut up on this three-acre “estate” for three years would be glad to meet another American girl. So she said abruptly:

  “Come on, Gran’pa Jim. Let’s call. It is possible that Americans will have something better in the larder than cakes and goat’s milk.”

  The hilltop was reached sooner than they expected, and in a little vale was the old mansion — a really attractive vine-clad villa that might have stood a century or so. It was not very big, but there were numerous outbuildings which rendered the size of the h
ouse proper unimportant. As Mary Louise and her grandfather drew nearer they discovered a charming flower garden, carefully tended, and were not surprised to find a young girl bending over a rosebush.

  CHAPTER VIII

  MARY LOUISE MEETS ALORA

  The two stood motionless a moment, looking at the girl, and Mary Louise marked the graceful figure and attractive features with real delight. The Signorina Alora, as the man had called her, was nearly her own age — fifteen, Mary Louise judged her to be — and her golden hair and fair complexion proclaimed her an American. But now the girl’s quick ears had detected presence, and she looked up with a startled expression, half fearful and half shy, and turned as if to fly. But in the next moment she had collected herself and advanced with hesitating steps to meet them.

  “Pardon our intrusion,” said Colonel Hathaway, raising his hat. “Our carriage broke down on the Amalfi road, a little while ago, and our driver has gone to Positano for a new wheel. Meantime we were exploring our surroundings and stumbled upon the path leading to this spot. Forgive the trespass, if you will, and allow me to present my granddaughter, Mary Louise Burrows. I am Colonel James Hathaway, of New York, although we usually reside at a little town called Dorfield.”

  The girl’s bow was stiff and awkward. She blushed in an embarrassed way as she replied:

  “I am Alora Jones, sir, and am living here for a time with my father, Jason Jones. We, also, are Americans; at least, we used to be.”

  “Then doubtless you are yet,” responded the Colonel, with a smile. “May we pay our respects to your father?”

  “He — he is not home yet,” she answered more embarrassed than before. “He went to Sorrento for some books, this morning, and has not yet returned. But perhaps he will be back soon,” she added, seeming to ponder the matter. “Will you not come in and — and have some refreshment? In my father’s absence I — I am glad to — welcome you.”

  She glanced shyly at Mary Louise, as if to implore her to forgive any seeming lack of hospitality and accept her coldly worded invitation. No one could look at Mary Louise without gaining confidence and the friendly smile and warm handclasp made Alora feel instantly that here was a girl who would prove congenial under any circumstances. Really, it would not take them long to become friends, and poor Alora had no girl friends whatever.

  She led them into a cool and comfortable living room and called to Leona to fetch tea and biscuits.

  “We are entirely shut in, here,” she explained. “It seems to me worse than a convent, for there I would see other girls while here I see no one but the servants — and my father,” as an afterthought, “year in and year out.”

  “It’s a pretty place,” declared Mary Louise cheerfully.

  “But it’s an awfully dreary place, too, and sometimes I feel that I’d like to run away — if I knew where to go,” said Alora frankly.

  “You have lived here three years?” asked Colonel Hathaway.

  “Yes. We left New York more than four years ago and traveled a year in different places, always stopping at the little towns, where there is not much to interest one. Then my father found this place and rented it, and here we’ve stayed — I can’t say ‘lived’ — ever since. I get along pretty well in the daytime, with my flowers and the chickens to tend, but the evenings are horribly lonely. Sometimes I feel that I shall go mad.”

  Mary Louise marked her wild look and excited manner and her heart went out in sympathy to the lonely girl. Colonel Hathaway, too, intuitively recognized Alora’s plaint as a human cry for help, and did not need to guess the explanation. The man in the vineyard had called her father “the Student” and said he was a reserved man and never was seen without a book in his hand. This would mean that he was not companionable and Alora’s protest plainly indicated that her father devoted small time, if any, to the cultivation of his daughter’s society.

  “I suppose,” remarked the old gentleman, “that Mr. Jones is so immersed in his studies that he forgets his daughter lacks society am amusement.”

  Mary Louise caught the slight, scornful smile that for a moment curled Alora’s lips. But the girl replied very seriously:

  “My father dislikes society. I believe he would be quite content to live in this little cooped-up place forever and see no one but the servants, to whom he seldom speaks. Also, he ignores me, and I am glad he does. But before my mother died,” her voice breaking a little, “I was greatly loved and petted, and I can’t get used to the change. I ought not to say this to strangers, I know, but I am very lonely and unhappy, because — because my father is so different from what my mother was.”

  Mary Louise was holding her trembling hand now and stroking it sympathetically.

  “Tell us about your mother,” she said softly. “Is it long since you lost her?”

  “More than four years,” returned Alora. “I was her constant companion and she taught me to love art and music and such things, for art was her hobby. I did not know my father in those days, you see, for — for — they did not live together. But in her last illness mamma sent for him and made him my guardian. My mother said that my father would love me, but she must have misjudged him.”

  Colonel Hathaway had listened with interest.

  “Tell me your mother’s name,” said he.

  “She was Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones, and — ”

  “Indeed!” exclaimed the Colonel. “Why, I knew Antoinette Seaver before she married, and a more beautiful and cultured woman I never met. Her father, Captain Seaver, was my friend, and I met his daughter several times, both at his mining camp and in the city. So you see, my dear, we must be friends.”

  Alora’s eyes fairly glistened with delight and Mary Louise was as pleased as she was surprised.

  “Of course we’re friends!” she cried, pressing the girl’s hand, “and isn’t it queer we have come together in this singular manner? In a foreign country! And just because our carriage-wheel happened to break.”

  “I thought your mother married an artist,” said Mary Louise’s grandfather, reflectively.

  “She did. At least, she thought Jason Jones was an artist,” answered Alora with bitter emphasis. “But he was, in fact, a mere dauber. He became discouraged in his attempts to paint and soon after he took me to New York he destroyed all his work — really, it was dreadful! — and since then he has never touched a brush.”

  “That is strange,” mused the Colonel. “I once saw a landscape by Jason Jones that was considered a fine conception, skillfully executed. That was the opinion of so good a judge as Captain Seaver himself. Therefore, for some reason the man’s genius must have forsaken him.”

  “I think that is true,” agreed Alora, “for my mother’s estimate of art was undoubtedly correct. I have read somewhere that discouragement sometimes destroys one’s talent, though in after years, with proper impulse, it may return with added strength. In my father’s case,” she explained, “he was not able to sell his work — and no wonder. So now he does nothing at all but read, and even that doesn’t seem to amuse him much.”

  The Colonel had now remembered that Antoinette Seaver Jones was a woman of great wealth, and therefore her daughter must be an heiress. What a shame to keep the girl hidden in this out-of-the-way place, when she should be preparing to assume an important position in the world.

  “May I ask your age, my dear?” he said.

  “I am fifteen, sir,” replied Alora.

  “And your father is the guardian of your fortune?”

  “Yes; by my mother’s wish.”

  “I suppose you are receiving proper instruction?”

  “None at all, sir. Since I have been in my father’s care I have had no instruction whatever. That isn’t right, is it?”

  “What isn’t right?” demanded a gruff voice, and all three turned to find Jason Jones standing in the doorway.

  CHAPTER IX

  MARY LOUISE SCENTS A MYSTERY

  Colonel Hathaway instantly rose.

  “I beg your pa
rdon,” said he. “I am Colonel James Hathaway, an American, and this is my granddaughter, Mary Louise Burrows. Our carriage met with an accident on the main road below and we wandered in here while waiting for repairs and chanced to meet your daughter. You are Mr. Jones, I believe?”

  He nodded, still standing in his place and regarding his visitors with unconcealed suspicion. Under his arm he held several books.

  “Who informed you that I was living here?” he demanded.

  “I was wholly unaware of the fact,” said the Colonel, stiffly. “I did not know you were in Italy. I did not know such an important person existed, strange to say, although I can remember that an artist named Jason Jones once married Antoinette Seaver, the daughter of my old friend Captain Robert Seaver.”

  “Oh, you remember that, do you?”

  “This is the first time I have had the distinguished honor of meeting you, sir, and I trust it will be the last time.”

  “That’s all right,” said Jason Jones, more cordially. “I can’t see that it’s any of my affair, either way.”

  “We have been making the acquaintance of Tony Seaver’s daughter, Miss Alora Jones, in your absence. But we will not intrude farther, Mr. Jones. Come, Mary Louise.”

  “Oh, don’t go!” pleaded Alora, catching Mary Louise’s arm. And just then Leona entered with the tea and biscuits.

  “Sit down, man,” said Jason Jones in a less aggressive tone. “I’ve no objection to your coming here, under the circumstances, and you are our first visitors in three years. That’s often enough, but now that you are here, make yourself at home. What’s happening over in America? Have you been there lately?”

  He laid his books on a table and sat down. But after that one speech, which he perhaps considered conciliatory, he remained glum and allowed the others to do the talking.

  Colonel Hathaway had stayed because he noted the leading look in Mary Louise’s eyes. He was himself interested in Alora and indignant over her evident neglect. For her sake he would bear the insolence of his host, an insolence he recognized as characteristic of the man.