Complete Works of L. Frank Baum

by L. Frank Baum

  “Of course,” she added, “Alora’s explanations dispel my half formed suspicion that there is some mystery about Jason Jones. I now see that you were right, Gran’pa Jim, to laugh at me when I suggested such a thing, for in truth the man is easily understood once you become acquainted with his history. However, I now dislike him more than ever.”

  “In justice to Jason Jones,” remarked the old Colonel, “we must acquit him of being a hypocrite. He doesn’t attempt to mask his nature and a stranger is bound to see him at his worst. Doubtless Antoinette Seaver understood the man better than we are able to and sixteen years ago, or so, when he had youth, talent and ambition, his disagreeable characteristics were probably not so marked. As for Alora, she is strongly prejudiced against her father and we must make due allowance for her bitterness. The feeling probably arose through her sudden transfer from the care of a generous and loving mother to that of an ungracious father — a parent she had never before known. A child of eleven is likely to form strong affections and passionate dislikes.”

  “Do you know,” said Mary Louise, “it shocks me, this hatred of her father. It seems so unnatural. I wish we could bring them to understand one another better, Gran’pa Jim.”

  “That might prove a difficult task, my dear,” he replied with a smile, gently stroking her hair the while, “and I do not think we are justified in undertaking it. How many times during our travels, Mary Louise, has your impulsive and tender heart urged you to assume the burdens of other people? You seem to pick up a trail of sorrow or unhappiness with the eagerness of a bloodhound and I have all I can do to call you off the scent. One small girl can’t regulate the world, you know, and in this case we are likely to see very little of Alora Jones and her artist father. We will be nice to them during the few days we are here, but we must soon move on or we’ll never get home for your birthday, as we have planned.”

  Mary Louise sighed.

  “You’re almost always right, Gran’pa Jim,” she admitted; “but in all our European travels I’ve not met so interesting a person as Alora, and she’s an American girl, which draws us still closer together. I’m going to make her promise that when she’s of age and her own mistress she will let me know, and come to us for a visit. Wouldn’t that be all right, Gran’pa?”

  He assured her it would be quite proper and that he also admired Alora and was sorry for her.

  On Sunday forenoon they went to the cathedral and in the afternoon took a boat to the blue grottoes. In the evening there was a concert in the hotel. All that day the two girls were arm in arm and chatting together, developing their mutual liking, while the old Colonel trudged along in their wake and was generally ignored in the conversation. On Monday they planned an excursion to Capri, “For you won’t mind if we don’t get you home until after dinner, will you?” asked Mary Louise.

  “Not at all,” said Alora. “I want to make the most of this vacation.”

  “Her father may mind, however,” suggested the Colonel.

  “I don’t care whether he does or not,” retorted the girl, tossing her head. “He has no consideration for me, so why should I consider him?”

  “I don’t like that attitude, dear,” said Mary Louise frankly. “I — I don’t wish to be snippy, you know, but you should not forget that he is your father.”

  “That,” replied Alora doggedly, “is merely my misfortune, and I’m not going to allow it to ruin all my life.”

  On Monday morning they had scarcely finished breakfast when Jason Jones appeared at the hotel, having driven over from the villa in his little automobile — a tiny foreign contrivance that reminded one of a child’s cart but could cover the ground with considerable speed. They were sitting on the big piazza when Alora’s father came striding up to them with a white, fear-struck face. In his trembling hands he held the morning Naples newspaper and without a word of greeting he said abruptly:

  “Have you heard the news?”

  Colonel Hathaway rose and bowed.

  “Good morning, Mr. Jones,” said he. “I do not read the local newspapers, for my knowledge of Italian is indifferent.”

  “So is mine,” responded the artist, “but I know enough of their lingo to make out that Italy has entered this fool war. She’s going to fight the Austrians,” he continued, his voice shaking nervously, “and do you know what that will mean, sir?”

  “I can’t imagine,” replied the Colonel calmly.

  “It means that presently we’ll have all that horde of Germans overrunning Italy. They’ll conquer this helpless land as sure as fate, and we’ll all be burned out and tortured and mutilated in the fiendish German way!”

  “My dear sir, you are frightened without warrant,” declared Colonel Hathaway. “It will take some time to conquer Italy, and I cannot imagine the Austrians acting as you suggest.”

  “Back of the Austrians are the Germans, and those Prussians are worse than wild American Indians,” insisted Jones. “If they got their clutches on my daughter it would be more horrible than death and I don’t propose to leave her in danger a single minute. I’m going to quit this country. I’ve come for Alora. We must pack up and catch the first ship from Naples for America.”

  There was blank silence for a moment.

  “I’m not afraid,” said Alora, with a laugh, “but if it means our getting out of this tiresome place and sailing for home, I’m glad that Italy’s gone into the war.”

  Colonel Hathaway was grave and thoughtful. The agitation of the artist seemed to increase with every moment.

  “When does the next boat for America leave Naples?” asked Mary Louise.

  “Tuesday,” said Alora’s father. “We’ve just time to pack our possessions and leave.”

  “Time!” cried his daughter, “why, I can pack all my possessions in an hour. Go home, sir, and fuss around as much as you like. I’ll join you some time this evening.”

  He gave her a queer look, hesitating.

  “We are surely safe enough for the present,” remarked the Colonel. “The first act of war will be to send all the soldiers to the north border. The fighting will be done in the Trentino for some time to come.”

  “You don’t know these people,” said Jones, shifting uneasily from one foot to another. “They’re all brigands by nature and many of them by profession. As soon as the soldiers are sent north, all law and order will cease and brigandage will be the order of the day!”

  “This is absurd!” exclaimed the Colonel, testily. “You’re not talking sense.”

  “That’s a matter of opinion, sir; but I know my own business, and I’m going to get out of here.”

  “Wait a week longer,” suggested Mary Louise. “We are to sail ourselves on the boat that leaves Naples a week from Tuesday, and it will be nice for Alora and me to travel home together.”

  “No; I won’t wait. Get your things, Alora, and come with me at once.”

  “Have you made reservations on the boat?” inquired Colonel Hathaway, refusing to be annoyed by the man’s brusque words and rough demeanor.

  “I’ll do that at once, by telephone. That’s one reason I came over. I’ll telephone the steamship office while the girl is getting ready.”

  “I will go with you,” said the Colonel, as the artist turned away.

  While Jones used the telephone booth of the hotel Colonel Hathaway conversed with the proprietor, and afterward with the hall porter, who was better posted and spoke better English.

  “This is outrageous!” roared the artist, furiously bursting from the booth. “To-morrow’s boat is abandoned! The government requires it as a transport. Why? Why? Why?” and he wrung his hands despairingly.

  “I do not know, sir,” returned the Colonel, smiling at his futile passion.

  The smile seemed to strike Jones like a blow. He stopped abruptly and stared at the other man for a full minute — intently, suspiciously. Then he relaxed.

  “You’re right,” said he coldly. “It’s folly to quarrel with fate. I’ve booked for a week fro
m Tuesday, Hathaway, and we must stick it out till then. Do you take the same boat?”

  “That is my intention.”

  “Well, there’s no objection. Now I’ll go get Alora.”

  But Alora, hearing of the postponed sailing, positively refused to return home with him, and Mary Louise, supporting her new friend, urged her to extend her stay with her at the hotel. Strangely enough, the more he was opposed the more quiet and composed the artist became. He even ceased to tremble and an odd apathy settled over him.

  “The hall porter,” said the Colonel, “thinks this is the safest place in Italy. The troops have been on the border for months and their positions are strongly fortified. There is no brigandage outside of Sicily, where the Mafia is not yet wholly suppressed.”

  Jones grinned rather sheepishly.

  “All right, take his word for it,” said he. “And if you’ll be responsible for the girl you may keep her till we’re ready to sail. Perhaps that’s the best way, after all.” Then, without a word of good- bye, he entered his little motor car and started down the driveway.

  “A strange man,” said the Colonel, looking after him. “I wonder if it really was the war that frightened him — or something else — or if he was actually frightened at all?”

  Alora laughed.

  “You can’t guess father, try as you may,” she said. “Usually he is cold as ice, but once in awhile he gets these wild fits, which I find rather amusing. You can’t understand that, of course, but if you were obliged to live under the same roof with Jason Jones you would welcome his outbursts as relief from the monotony of contemptuous silence.”

  CHAPTER XII

  SILVIO’S GOLD

  Jason Jones urged his little car to its best speed until he gained his villa. Entering the ground, he was confronted by his factotum, the Italian, Silvio.

  He sprang out and approached the man.

  “Is the prisoner safe?” he whispered.

  “Certainly, Signore.”

  “Is she still in the grape-house?”

  “With the wine presses, Signore.”

  “And she can’t get out?”

  “Unless she becomes small, like a rat, Signore.”

  Jones glanced around suspiciously, then fixed his gaze on a little outbuilding of stone, with a tiled roof, which stood quite removed from the others of the group.

  “Has she screamed, or cried out?” he asked the man.

  “Not since I put her in, las’ night, Signore.”

  “Good. You’ve fed her?”

  “The plenty. She eat very well. It’s a nice lady, Signore.”

  “She’s dangerous. Listen, Silvio: we must keep her there a week longer.”

  “If I am jailer a week, I mus’ double my price,” he asserted, shrugging his shoulders.

  “Nonsense!”

  “The lady will offer me more to let her out. She say so.”

  “What! You’d betray me?”

  “Not if I have the gold — here, in my hand — now, Signore.”

  Jones grew red and then white. He eyed the man wickedly. He scowled, and Silvio smiled pleasantly. Silvio was big for an Italian; big and brawny; as his smile faded his face assumed a look of stubborn determination.

  “So you want the gold now, Silvio?”

  “At once, if it please the Signore. The gendarmes are ugly if the law is broken. Their jails are not as pleasant as the grape-house. So the gold must be twice the amount we had spoken of, Signore.”

  “And you will promise she shall not escape; that you’ll keep her safe until — until I tell you to let her go?”

  “That is our bargain, Signore.”

  Jones sighed regretfully.

  “Very well, then, Silvio,” he said. “You’re a robber — the son of a brigand — the spawn of a bandit! But come with me to the house, and you shall have your gold.”

  * * * * * * * *

  Alora stayed all that week with Mary Louise, hearing nothing of her father and almost forgetting her unhappiness in the society of her delightful new friend. It was Sunday evening when the Colonel and Mary Louise drove their guest over to the villa and the two parties did not see one another again until they met on the deck of the steamer in Naples on the following Tuesday morning.

  The Joneses came aboard very quietly just at the last moment and at the gang-plank Alora’s father was confronted by a grimy Italian boy who handed him a letter. Without pausing to read it, Jones hurried below, and he kept his stateroom until the ship was well out in the blue Mediterranean, on its way to Gibraltar and New York. But no one missed him, for Alora and Mary Louise were happy at being reunited and Gran’pa Jim was happy in seeing them happy.

  CHAPTER XIII

  DORFIELD

  In one of the middle-west states there is a delightful little city called Dorfield. It hasn’t so many thousand inhabitants, but in all its aspects and its municipal equipment it is indeed a modern city. It has factories and a big farming community to support its streets of neat and progressive shops, and at the west side of the business district is a residence section where broad, wooded streets furnish the setting for many cozy homes. Some of the houses are old and picturesque, and some are new and imposing, but each has its flower-lit garden, its fruit and shade trees and its little garage or barn tucked away in the back yard.

  When you come to Oak Street there is a rambling frame house on the corner, set well back, where Peter Conant, the lawyer, lives with his good wife and his niece Irene Macfarlane, who is seventeen. This is one of the ancient dwellings of Dorfield, for the Conants are “old inhabitants.” Right next them stands a more modern and expensive, if less attractive, mansion, with grounds twice as large and a velvet lawn that puts the Conants’ carelessly-cropped grass to shame. But the two families are neighbors and friends nevertheless, for in the new house lives Colonel James Hathaway and his granddaughter Mary Louise Burrows. At least, they live there when at home and, although they seem persistent ramblers, they are glad to have this refuge to return to when wearied with traveling and sight-seeing.

  One morning in June Mr. Conant was just seating himself at the breakfast table when a messenger-boy delivered a telegram — a “night letter” from New York. The lawyer, a short, thick-set man of middle age, with a stern countenance but mild blue eyes, laid aside his morning paper and read the telegram with his usual deliberation. Mrs. Conant silently poured the coffee, knowing any interference would annoy him. Irene, the niece, was a cripple and sat in her wheeled chair at the table, between her uncle and aunt. She was a pleasant-faced, happy little maid, consistently ignoring her withered limbs and thankful that from her knees up she was normal and that her wheeled chair rendered her fairly independent of assistance in all ordinary activities. Everyone loved Irene Macfarlane because of her brave and cheery acceptance of her misfortune, and her merry speech and spontaneous laughter rendered her, as “Aunt Hannah” often declared, “the light of the house.” Irene was, moreover, an intimate and highly valued friend of her next door neighbor, Mary Louise Burrows.

  Mr. Peter Conant, sipping his coffee reflectively, read the lengthy telegram a second time. Then he said, somewhat irritably and chopping his words into distinct syllables, as was his habit at all times:

  “I wonder why people imagine a lawyer’s duties cover every phase of life? My clients use me as a real-estate agent, a horse trader, a purchasing agent, a father confessor, an automobile expert, a medical adviser, and sometimes — in their simplicity — as a banker!”

  “What’s wrong now, Peter?” inquired Mrs. Conant with wifely sympathy.

  “Colonel Hathaway wants to know — ”

  “Oh, is Mary Louise coming back?” cried Irene eagerly.

  He frowned at her.

  “What does the Colonel wish to know, Peter?”

  “I object to this unwarrantable cross-examination,” said he. “It is customary to first allow one to state his case.”

  “Forgive me, Uncle Peter!”

  “Take your time,” s
aid Aunt Hannah, composedly buttering the toast. “You will, anyhow, and I’m sure Irene and I have both learned to curb our feminine curiosity.”

  He glanced at the telegram again.

  “Do you know if the Pelton place has been rented, my dear?”

  “The Pelton place? Why, it wasn’t rented yesterday, for I passed by there and saw the rent sign still in the window. Mr. Harlan is the agent.”

  “I know. And where can we find a female house-servant, Hannah?”

  “Now, see here, Peter; it’s all very well for you to keep your own counsel, when there’s a professional secret to be guarded, but if you want any help from me you’ve got to open your mouth and talk out plainly, so I can answer you in a sensible way.”

  “You’re always sensible, Hannah,” he observed, quite unruffled by her demand. And then he ate a whole slice of toast and drank his coffee and handed his cup for more before he spoke another word.

  Irene devoted herself to her breakfast. She knew Uncle Peter’s ways and that it was useless to attempt to hurry him or force him to explain, until he was quite ready to do so. Aunt Hannah bided her time. Peter was a thoughtful man, and he was doubtless thinking. His wife was not only a clever helpmate but was noted for her consideration of her erratic spouse.

  “The Colonel,” said Mr. Conant at last, “has run across a man who wants to make his home in Dorfield. A very sensible idea. The Colonel met the man in Europe. The man — — ”

  “What’s the man’s name?” inquired Mrs. Conant.

  He referred to the telegram.

  “Jones. Jason Jones.”

  “I never heard of him.”

  He looked at her reproachfully.

  “Why should you, my dear? The Colonel found the man in Europe. We live in Dorfield. The man, it seems, has a daughter — — ”

  “Oh, goody!” cried Irene.

  “Who has become a friend of Mary Louise, therefore the Colonel wires to ask if there is a furnished house to rent at a modest price and if a competent female servant can be secured for the man and his daughter. He requests me to wire an answer promptly. That is the gist of the telegram, although the Colonel, in his usual extravagant way, has paid for more words than were required to express his meaning.”