THE PUZZLE BECOMES INTRICATE
Alora formed an immediate friendship for crippled Irene Macfarlane,
first based on sympathy and afterward on genuine admiration. That one
condemned to pass her entire life in a wicker wheel-chair should be so
bright and cheerful, with no word of protest or even a reference to her
own misfortune, was deemed wonderful by Alora, and she soon found that
Irene had an excuse or explanation for every seeming annoyance her
friends suffered and delighted to console them. At the same time she
allowed no one to console her, because she declared she needed no
consolation.
Such a disposition invited confidence, and soon Irene knew more of
Alora's past history, including her trials and tribulations, than even
Mary Louise had yet learned, and was shocked and grieved at the girl's
vengeful defiance of her father, due to his neglect and coldness as
well as to his contemptible selfishness. But Irene had an excuse ready
even for the artist.
"Poor Mr. Jones!" she said one day, when the three girls were together
and had been discussing Alora's troubles; "think what a trial must have
been to him to be saddled with the care of a child he had not seen
since babyhood and had no especial interest in. As for affection
between them, it could not sprout nor grow because there was no mutual
understanding to germinate it. Your father's life, my dear, had been
wrecked by his separation from your mother and the money meant little
to him at that period of his life when you were left to his care. But
did he refuse the obligation so inconsiderately thrust upon him? No.
Although a man of reserved nature--almost a recluse--self absorbed and
shrinking from association others, he accepted the care of an eleven
year old child and, without being able to change his disposition to
suit her requirements, has guarded her health and safety ever since."
"So that he can use my money," added Alora, with a shrug.
"But you admit that he doesn't squander money on himself."
"I don't know what he does with it. If he wants books, he buys them; he
bought a rickety automobile in Italy and never took me to ride in it;
but his extravagance seems to end there. I've read some letters that he
left around, showing that he is investing thousands in his own name--
what for, I can't guess, as he is too miserly ever to have a use for
it."
"Well, he may be intending to endow some deserving charity," suggested
Irene. "And, as for his not loving you, Alora, I fancy you have never
tried to win your father's love."
"No one could love that man."
"You have never been able to get beneath his reserve. You came to him
from a luxurious life, a petted and pampered child, and his simple
tastes and unemotional nature repelled you from the first. Is it not
so?"
"I'm not sure, Irene. I needed sympathy and affection. Had my father
been different, had he shown love for me, or even fatherly
consideration, I would have responded eagerly. But he ignored me. There
has never been any companionship between us. He has guarded my personal
safety because I was of financial value to him. Once, when I contracted
a fever, he was really worried, and hired a skillful doctor and a
trained nurse; but he never entered my sickroom. When I was well, he
reproached me for costing him so much money. I told him it was my
money, and he was costing me more than I could ever cost him. I
reminded him he would have been a beggar, but for my income, and that
shut him up at once."
"There's the whole trouble," declared Irene. "Constant friction and a
lack of consideration for one another. Such remarks could not have made
him more gracious toward you, Alora, and you did not appreciate his
care in furnishing you with the means of recovery."
"Had I died," said the girl, "my fortune would have gone to a bunch of
third-cousins whom I have never seen. That would have stopped father's
right to the income, you see."
Irene sighed and Mary Louise smiled. It was almost impossible to defend
Mr. Jones consistently, with Alora present to accuse him.
The artist at first took little interest in his new home. The cottage
was small and not very cheerful, but it was cheap, and all that Jason
Jones seemed to care for was a place to stay that was not expensive. He
continued his reading and had a book in his hand from morning till
night. He seldom left the cottage except for a trip to the public
library or to a book-store, and never spoke to anyone unless it was
necessary.
Their maid was Jane Gladys O'Donnel, stout and good-natured, an
indifferent cook and rather untidy. She was twenty years old and the
eldest of a large and impoverished family. Her mother was a laundress--
"took in washin'"--and her earnings, with the wages of Jane Gladys,
must suffice to feed many hungry mouths. That was why Mrs. Conant had
hired Jane Gladys. Aunt Hannah knew the girl was not very competent,
but she was cheap, so Mr. Jones accepted her without protest. Alora had
lived so long abroad that she did not know what a competent American
housemaid is.
One forenoon--they had now been a month at Dorfield--Mr. Jones was
seated on the little front porch, reading as usual, when a queer
buzzing in the air overhead aroused his attention.
"What's that?" he called sharply, and Jane Gladys, who was dusting in
the little room behind him, replied:
"That, sor, is only Steve Kane's flyin' machine."
"A what?"
"A flyin'-machine, sor. Kane has a facthry fer makin' the crazy things
in the town yonder--over by the South Side."
"Indeed!" He got up and went into the yard to watch the far-away speck
in the sky that was humming so persistently. "Why, there's another!
There are two of them," he exclaimed, as if to himself.
"There might be a dozen, sor, 'cause there's a school for airy--airy--
airy-flyin' over by Kane's facthry, where they teaches the folks to fly
that buy the machines."
He stood a long time, watching the sky. When the last aeroplane had
disappeared he resumed his reading. But the next day he watched for the
machines again, abandoning his book to follow the course of the flyers.
"Where did you say that factory is located?" he asked Jane Gladys.
"Over by the gas works, sor, be the South Side. Ye takes the Ellem
street car, at the four corners. On a Sunday there be crowds a-watchin'
the air-divils."
He started to read again, but gave it up and glanced nervously up and
down the little porch. Jane Gladys noted this with surprise, for he was
usually quiet and unobservant, "like th' toad in th' garden, what
squats under a bush all day an' fergits he's alive till a fly lights on
his nose," as she expressed it to the family at home.
After lunch Mr. Jones went to town and after making inquiries took the
car to the aviation works and field. He watched the construction of
flying machines in the factory and saw one or two pupils take short
flights in the air. And Jason Jones was so interested that he was late
to dinner that evening.
Next day he was at the aviation field again, and from that time he
haunted the place, silent and composed but watching every detail of
manufacture and listening to the experts as they instructed the pupils.
These were not many--three altogether--although Stephen Kane's
aeroplane was now admitted to be one of the safest and most reliable
ever invented. And one day one of the instructors, noticing the silent
man who had watched so long, invited him to take a flight, thinking
perhaps to frighten him; but Jason Jones promptly accepted the
invitation and with perfect composure endured the strange experience
and returned to ground with heightened color but no other evidence of
excitement. Could Alora have seen him that day she would have acquitted
him of cowardice.
But Alora knew nothing of her father's odd fancy for some time after he
became interested in aeroplanes. She was not often at home during the
day, frequently taking lunch with Mary Louise or Irene and passing much
of her time in their company. She had no interest whatever in her
father's movements and Jane Gladys didn't think to mention the matter
to her, for "flyin'-machines" had ceased to be a novelty in Dorfield
and the sound of their buzzing through the air was heard many times a
day. But in turning over a pile of her father's books one day in his
absence, Alora found several treatises on aviation and was almost
startled to find that Jason Jones cared for any reading aside from
light novels.
She had been hunting, at the time, for a novel to read herself, so
turning from the aviation literature to a shelf of fiction she began
searching for an interesting title. Presently, as she drew out one of
her father's books, it opened by accident at a place where a letter had
been tucked in--a letter written on soiled and coarse paper of a
foreign make. It was addressed: "Sig. Jaysn Jones, at the Steamer
Hercules to sail for New York, U.S.A." Opening it, she found it signed:
"Silvio Alleghero."
That was their man-servant in Italy, so with a smile of anticipated
amusement she read the letter. It was brief, indeed, but the girl's
expression soon changed to a puzzled look, for the scrawl said:
"Honored Signore: At your command I have this morning, three hours
after your departure for Naples, allowed the prisoner to escape."
"How funny!" she exclaimed, knitting her brows. "I can't remember any
prisoner at the villa. Perhaps it was the cat. It would be just like
Silvio to consider the release of a cat a important event."
She replaced the letter in the book and after selecting another novel
forgot Silvio's epistle entirely.
Another time, when Alora happened to be at home for their noon-day
luncheon and her father did not appear, Jane Gladys quietly remarked in
answer to her query that "th' ol' man was prob'ly over to the
flyin'-machine works."
"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.