“Does he go there often?” she asked in surprise.
“Why, he mostly lives there,” asserted the maid.
Alora laughed, and afterward told Mary Louise, as a bit of humorous gossip, that the man who had heretofore failed to find any interest in life had at last succumbed to the fascination of the aeroplane.
“Well, I’m glad of it,” said Mary Louise. “I’ve often wondered, Lory, how your father could be so infatuated with novel-reading, absorbing stories of human interest, if they have any interest at all, with such avidity, while the real people all around him failed to interest him at all. I have thought perhaps he read to keep his mind from — from other things that it would make him unhappy to dwell upon.”
“I have thought so, too,” replied Alora, musingly. “And this queer fancy of his for a new and unusual invention may serve the same purpose. But I, too, am glad he has found a diversion that will keep him away from home. That barn of a cottage will become more homelike without his eternal presence.”
Peter Conant, the lawyer, had paid little heed to Jason Jones since the latter’s arrival in Dorfield. He had heard his wife and Irene gossip about the girl and her father and state that Alora was an heiress and Mr. Jones merely the guardian of her fortune until she came of age, but his legal mind decided that the girl’s “fortune” must be a modest one, since they lived so economically and dressed so plainly. Colonel Hathaway, who might have undeceived him in this regard, seldom spoke to the lawyer of anything but his own affairs and had forborne to mention Mr. Jones and his personal affairs in any way.
Therefore Mr. Conant was somewhat surprised when one morning Jason Jones called at his office and asked for an interview. The lawyer was busy that day, and attaching little importance to his caller he demanded brusquely:
“Well, sir, what can I do for you?”
The man seated himself and glanced around the room before replying. The big desk, littered with papers, the cabinet files and stiff chairs seemed to meet his approval. In the outer office a girl was busily clicking a typewriter.
“You are Colonel Hathaway’s lawyer, I believe?” said Jones.
“I have that honor, sir.”
“That’s why I came to you. The Colonel is a prosperous man and has judgment. I want your advice about investing some money.”
Peter Conant regarded him with a speculative gaze. The thought flashed through his mind that if Jones had any money to invest he might better buy himself a new necktie and have his shoes repaired, or even invest in a new dress for his daughter, who needed it. But he merely said in his peculiar way of chopping each word off short as he uttered it:
“How much have you to invest?”
“Not a great deal at this moment, but I am I constantly receiving dividends and interest on my daughter’s securities and so, if I am going to live in Dorfield, I shall need a lawyer to advise me how to reinvest the money, as well as how to make out the papers properly. I don’t want to make any mistakes and get robbed — even by my lawyer. But I’ll pay you a fair price. Perhaps I should explain that while the income is derived from my daughter’s property the investments are to be made in my name.”
“Why so?”
“The income belongs to me, by my dead wife’s will, as long as Alora is alive and in my keeping. When the girl is eighteen she will manage her own affairs, and I’ll be quit of her — and out of any further income, as well. So I’m investing now to secure my future.”
“I see. How old is your daughter at this time?”
“Fifteen.”
“So you’ve three years more to grab the income.”
“Exactly.”
“How much money do you wish to invest to-day?”
“Twelve thousand dollars.”
Peter Conant sat up straight in his chair.
“And you say this is but part of the income?”
“The estate is valued at nearly two million dollars.”
The lawyer gave a low whistle of amazement. Beside this enormous sum, even Colonel Hathaway’s holdings shrank into insignificance.
“You surprise me,” he said. “I imagine, then, that you can afford to live somewhat better than you do.”
“That is none of your business.”
“True. Good day, Mr. Jones.”
“Eh?”
“I won’t accept you as a client.”
“Why not, sir?”
“Thank you for asking. In the first place, I don’t like you,” said Peter Conant. “Nor do I approve of your treating your daughter — a great heiress — as you do, and hoarding all her enormous income for your personal use. You’re not toting fair. It is an unjust arrangement and I’ll have nothing to do with it.”
Jason Jones sat still and stared at him.
“Good day, sir!” repeated the lawyer, curtly.
The man did not move. Peter turned to his papers.
“See here,” the artist presently remarked; “let’s come to an understanding. I don’t like you, either. You’re insulting. But you’re honest, and I think I could trust you.”
“I’m not especially honest,” retorted the lawyer, “but I’m particular. I don’t need clients, and I don’t want a client I’m ashamed of.”
Still the man did not offer to go. Instead, he reflected for awhile in his stolid, unemotional way, while Peter Conant frowned and examined the papers on his desk.
“I believe you’ll see the thing in a different light if you read my wife’s will,” said Jones. “I’ve brought a copy of it with me, thinking it might help you to understand my affairs.”
“Is it an attested copy?” asked the lawyer, turning around again.
“Yes.”
“Let me see it.”
Mr. Conant decided to read the will, with the idea that he might find in it some way to assist Alora. When he had finished the document he was disappointed. Mrs. Antoinette Seaver Jones, a woman clever enough to make a fortune, had been foolish enough to give her former husband autocratic power over her money during her daughter’s minority. Had the man been a gentleman, the folly would have been mitigated, but Jason Jones, in Mr. Conant’s opinion, was a selfish, miserly, conscienceless rascal. Enjoying a yearly income that was a small fortune in itself, he had neglected to educate his daughter properly, to clothe her as befitted her station in life or to show her ordinary fatherly consideration. Affection and kindness seemed foreign to the man’s nature. He handed the will back and said:
“You have taken an unfair advantage of the confidence reposed in you by your dead wife, who doubtless loved her child. Legally your actions cannot be assailed, but morally they should ostracize you from decent society. As I said before, I do not want your business. I’ll have nothing to do with you.”
Jones remained unruffled.
“I’m a stranger in the city,” he remarked. “Perhaps you will recommend me to some good lawyer.”
“No. There are a score of lawyers in town. Make your own choice.”
The man rose and put on his hat.
“I said you were honest, and I was right,” he calmly remarked. “I’ll say now that you are a fool, and I’m right in that, also,” and with these words he walked away.
That was his only protest to the humiliating rebuff. He showed no anger. He did not seem annoyed. He simply rode down in the elevator, examined the directory, and selected another lawyer in the same building.
CHAPTER XVI
ALORA WINS HER WAY
Mary Louise decided that Alora Jones improved on acquaintance. There were many admirable traits in her character that had lain dormant until developed by association with two girls of her own age who were themselves gentle and considerate. It is true that Alora at times was still headstrong and willful and unable to bridle her tongue when irritated, but neither Mary Louise nor Irene ever reproved her by word or look, so that she grew ashamed of her outbursts and when at home her father aroused her to anger she fled to her girl friends and sought in their companionship the antidote to her vexat
ion. The two friends had decided it was unwise to comment on Alora’s unhappy family relations and soon she discovered this and refrained from burdening them with her home quarrels.
No one could witness Irene’s patient resignation to misfortune without admiring her character and being touched by her bravery and gentleness, and association with this crippled girl was softening Alora’s hard and defiant nature wonderfully. Had the association continued it might have redeemed the prospective heiress from many of the faults she had acquired through years of neglect and rebellion against fate, but the close triumvirate of girl friends was suddenly dissolved, early in July, by no less a person than Will Morrison — a wealthy and kindly natured gentleman who was a friend of both the Conants and Colonel Hathaway.
Will Morrison had purchased a yacht; it was anchored in the breakwater near the Chicago Yacht Club, and its owner intended making a summer trip through the Great Lakes and cordially invited the Conants and Irene, and Mary Louise and Colonel Hathaway to accompany his party.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Conant at that time was ill. She had contracted a lingering but mild form of spring fever that would keep her in bed for weeks, and Irene, who was devoted to her aunt, would not leave her to the mercies of a nurse. Mary Louise wanted to go, though, for the Morrisons were delightful people and any yacht they purchased would be sure to be safe and comfortable.
Since the Conants could not go, Mary Louise suggested to her grandfather that they ask Will Morrison to invite Alora Jones, and the Colonel approved the idea because he thought it would do Alora much good to mingle with refined people such as were sure to form the yacht party. So, when he answered Mr. Morrison’s letter, he told him something of Alora and asked permission to fetch her along.
“I’m not at all sure,” he said to Mary Louise, “that Mr. Jones will permit Alora to go with us.”
“Nor am I,” the girl replied; “but perhaps Alora can coax him to consent. It might be a good idea for you to ask him, too, Gran’pa Jim.”
“My dear!” he remonstrated, “do you think I ought to hazard that man’s sneers and insults, even to favor your friend Alora?”
“No; I do not, Gran’pa Jim,” she laughingly rejoined. “That was a foolish suggestion, and I withdraw it. If Alora fails, I’ll speak to him myself. I’m not afraid of Jason Jones, and he doesn’t growl at me as he does at poor Lory.”
They did not mention the proposal to Alora until the Colonel had received a telegram from Will Morrison saying: “By all means invite Miss Jones to join us. Knew her mother, once, and will be glad to have her with us.”
Alora was delighted at the prospect of a yachting trip and decided at once that she would go, especially as Colonel Hathaway said she would be Mary Louise’s guest on the trip to Chicago and no money would be needed for expenses. So she attacked her father in a somewhat original manner.
Mr. Jones had conceived a passion for flying and had just purchased an aeroplane. He was to begin his lessons at once and was so thoroughly immersed in his strange fancy that he paid little heed to anything else. His books were neglected. His former quiet life — amounting almost to physical inertion — had given place to a nervous and all- consuming desire to master the rather strenuous art of aviation. Alora was quite unaware of this transformation, for as usual Jason Jones kept his own counsel and followed his inclinations without conference with anyone. The girl knew that her father haunted the aviation field, but anything that kept him amused away from home was gratefully approved by her.
Usually the two breakfasted together in silence. Lately Mr. Jones had hurried through with the meal so as to get away, and he did not return for lunch. So on this important morning Alora said casually:
“I’m going away for three or four weeks.”
“Where to?” he asked sharply, suddenly rousing from his abstraction.
“I’m going on a yachting trip with Mary Louise and Colonel Hathaway. We’re to be the guests of a Mr. Morrison and his wife, who own the yacht.”
“Morrison? Morrison?” he repeated suspiciously. Then, as if relieved: “I don’t know any Morrisons.”
“Nor do I. They are old friends of the Hathaways and the Conants, however.”
“Well, you can’t go. It’s nonsense.”
“Why?”
“Yachts are dangerous. I don’t want you drowned.”
“I’d be as safe on a yacht as I would be in this house,” she declared. “Do you think I intend to take any chances with my life? Please remember that when I’m eighteen I shall have a fortune and be able to lead an independent life — a pleasant life — a life in sharp contrast to this one. Therefore, I’m going to live to enjoy my money.”
He gave her a shrewd look of approval. The argument seemed to appeal to him. It quieted, to an extent, his fears for her safety.
“Anyhow,” said Alora bluntly, “I’m going, and I dare you to stop me.”
He was silent a while, considering the proposition. Just now he would be busy at the aviation field and in Colonel Hathaway’s charge the girl was likely to be quite safe. He was inclined to relax his vigilance over his precious daughter, on this occasion.
“How long do the Hathaways expect to be away?” he inquired.
“Mary Louise says we will surely be home three weeks from the day we leave.”
“Surely?”
“Without fail.”
“H-m-m. It’s a risk. Something might delay you. Do you know what would happen if you left me for sixty days or more?”
“Of course I do. That will of my mother’s states that if at any time my devoted father develops any neglect of me, or lack of interest in his darling daughter, such as allowing me to become separated from him for longer than sixty days at one time, the court has the privilege, at its option, of deposing him as administrator of my estate and appointing another guardian. The other guardian, however, is to be paid a salary and the income, in that case, is to accrue to the benefit of my estate.”
“How did you learn all that?” he demanded.
“You left a copy of the will lying around, and I read it and made a copy of it for myself. I now know my mother’s will by heart. She suggests that if we must live together, ‘in loving companionship,’ you will probably have me educated by tutors, at home, and her objection to girls’ schools — I wonder why? — was the principal reason she inserted the clause that we must never be separated. It would prevent you from sending me away to school. But as for the tutors, I haven’t yet made their acquaintance.”
“Tutors cost money,” he said in a surly tone.
“I realize that; and while there is an abundance of money, the will states that it is to be entirely in your control. But we’ve quarreled on that subject too many times already, without your loosening your grip on the dollars. To get back to our subject, I assure you I shall not be gone longer than twenty-one days, and the trip won’t cost you a single penny.”
“When did you propose going?”
“We take the noon train on Monday for Chicago.”
He got his hat and left the house without another word, leaving Alora exultant. She hurried over to tell Mary Louise the good news.
“Did he really consent?” asked Mary Louise.
“Well, he didn’t forbid it,” said the girl, “and that’s the same thing.”
CHAPTER XVII
THE DISAPPEARANCE
The train was late getting into Chicago that Monday night. Colonel Hathaway took Mary Louise and Alora to the Blackington, but the hotel was so crowded that the girls could not get adjoining rooms. However, they secured rooms just across the hall from one another and the Colonel’s room was but two doors removed from that of his granddaughter, so the three were not greatly separated.
“Never mind, dear,” said Mary Louise, as she kissed her friend good night; “to-morrow we go aboard the yacht, and that will be our home for a long time.”
“What time will you breakfast?” asked Alora.
“Well, we’re up late, and Gran’pa Ji
m likes to sleep mornings. Can you fast until half-past eight, Alora?”
“Yes, indeed,” with a laugh. “I’m used to somewhat early hours, so I shall probably be dressed by seven. But I’ll find plenty to amuse me until you are up, and I’ll knock on your door at eight-thirty.”
But in the morning Alora failed to knock on Mary Louise’s door, as she had promised. The Colonel was ready for breakfast, having enjoyed a good night’s rest, and Mary Louise said to him:
“Alora probably slept later than she expected to. Shall I risk wakening her, Gran’pa Jim?”
“I think so,” he replied. “She has slept long enough, for a young girl.”
Mary Louise ran across the hall and knocked at the door of 216. She knocked again, for there was no answer. She did not dare call out, for fear of disturbing other guests of the hotel. The Colonel now came and rapped upon the panels, but without any better result.
“I think she must have left her room and is perhaps in the parlor, or in the hotel lobby,” he said.
A chambermaid was passing through the hall and overheard the remark.
“The party in 216 has been up a long time, sir,” she asserted. “I found the door ajar at six o’clock, and so I went in and made up the room.”
“Poor Alora!” exclaimed Mary Louise laughingly; “she was too excited to sleep, and, as you say, we shall probably find her somewhere about the hotel, enjoying the sights.”
But they could not find the girl anywhere in the hotel. After a long and careful search for her, Colonel Hathaway left word at the desk that if his room or Mary Louise’s room was called, to report that they would be found in the breakfast room.
The old gentleman was distinctly annoyed as they sat down to breakfast.
“The foolish girl is wandering about the streets, somewhere,” he complained, “and it was unmannerly to leave the hotel without consulting me, since she is our guest and in my care.”
Mary Louise’s sweet face wore a troubled expression.
“It is not like Alora, Gran’pa Jim,” she asserted in defense of her friend. “Usually I have found her quite considerate.” Then, after a pause: “I — I hope nothing has happened to her.”
Complete Works of L. Frank Baum Page 605
