MARY LOUISE MEETS IRENE
As Mary Louise approached the home of the Conants, which was a pretty
little house set far back in a garden filled with trees and shrubs, she
was surprised to hear a joyous ragtime tune being drummed upon the
piano--an instrument she remembered Mrs. Conant kept in the house
exclusively as an ornament, being unable to play it. Then, as the girl
reached the porch, the melody suddenly stopped, a merry laugh rang out
and a fresh, sweet voice was heard through the open window talking
rapidly and with eager inflection.
"I wonder who that can be?" thought Mary Louise. Everyone had to speak
loudly to poor Mrs. Conant, who might be entertaining a visitor. She
rang the bell and soon her old friend appeared in the doorway.
"My dear, dear child!" cried the good lady, recognizing the girl
instantly and embracing her after a welcoming kiss. "Where on earth
have you come from?"
"From Beverly," said Mary Louise with a smile, for in her depressed
state of mind this warm greeting cheered her wonderfully.
"Come right in," said Mrs. Conant, seizing the suit case. "Have you had
breakfast?"
"Yes, indeed; hours ago. And I've seen Mr. Conant at his office. He--he
wanted me to talk to you."
She spoke loudly, as she had been accustomed to do, but now Mrs. Conant
wore on her ear an instrument similar in appearance to a small
telephone receiver, and she seemed to hear quite distinctly through its
mechanism. Indeed, she pointed to it with an air of pride and said: "I
can hear a whisper, my dear!"
As Mary Louise was ushered into the cosy sitting room she looked for
the piano-player and the owner of the merry laugh and cheery voice.
Near the center of the room was a wheeled chair in which sat a young
girl of about her own age--a rather pretty girl in spite of her thin
frame and pallid countenance. She was neatly dressed in figured dimity,
with a bright ribbon at her throat. A pair of expressive brown eyes
regarded Mary Louise with questioning earnestness. Over her lap lay a
coverlet; her slender white fingers rested upon the broad arms of her
chair.
"This," said Mrs. Conant, "is my niece, Irene Macfarlane, who is living
with us just now and is the life and joy of our formerly dull
household. You'll have to love her, Mary Louise, because no one can
help doing so."
Mary Louise advanced to the chair and took one of the wan hands in her
own. A thrill of pity flooded her heart for the unfortunate girl, who
instantly noted her expression and met it with a charmingly spontaneous
smile.
"Don't you dare think of me as a cripple!" she said warningly. "I am
not at all helpless and my really-truly friends quickly forget this
ugly wheeled chair. We're to be friends, are we not? And you're going
to stay, because I see your baggage. Also I know all about you, Mary
Louise Burrows, for Aunt Hannah never tires of singing your praises."
This was said so naturally and with such absence of affectation that
Mary Louise could not fail to respond to the words and smile.
"I'm glad to find you here, Irene," she said, "and I don't know yet
whether I'm to stay or not. That will depend on Mrs. Conant's decision."
"Then you're to stay," promptly decided the hospitable lady, who by
turning her mechanical ear toward the speaker seemed able to hear her
words clearly.
"But you don't know all the complications yet," confessed the girl.
"I've run away from school and--and there are other things you must
know before you decide. Mr. Conant wasn't at all enthusiastic over my
coming here, I assure you, so I must tell you frankly the whole story
of my adventures."
"Very good," returned Mrs. Conant. "I think I can guess at most of the
story, but you shall tell it in your own way. Presently Irene is going
out to inspect the roses; she does that every morning; so when she is
out of the way we'll have a nice talk together."
"I'm going now," said Irene, with a bright laugh at her dismissal.
"Mary Louise won't be happy till everything is properly settled; nor
will I, for I'm anxious to get acquainted with my new friend. So here I
go and when you've had your talk out just whistle for me, Mary Louise."
She could propel the chair by means of rims attached to the wheels and,
even as she spoke, began to roll herself out of the room. Mary Louise
sprang to assist her, but the girl waved her away with a little laugh.
"I'm an expert traveler," she said, "and everyone lets me go and come
as I please. Indeed, I'm very independent, Mary Louise, as you will
presently discover."
Away she went, through the hall, out at the front door and along the
broad porch, and when she had gone Mary Louise whispered softly into
Mrs. Conant's mechanical eardrum:
"What is wrong with her?"
"A good many things," was the reply, "although the brave child makes
light of them all. One leg is badly withered and the foot of the other
is twisted out of shape. She can stand on that foot to dress
herself--which she insists on doing unaided--but she cannot walk a
step. Irene has suffered a great deal, I think, and she's a frail
little body; but she has the sweetest temperament in the world and
seems happy and content from morn till night."
"It's wonderful!" exclaimed Mary Louise. "What caused her affliction?"
"It is the result of an illness she had when a baby. Irene is sixteen
and has never known what it is to be well and strong, yet she never
resents her fate, but says she is grateful for the blessings she
enjoys. Her father died long ago and her mother about a year since; so,
the child being an orphan, Peter and I have taken her to live with us."
"That is very kind of you," asserted Mary Louise with conviction.
"No; I fear it is pure selfishness," returned the good woman, "for
until she came to us the old home had been dreadfully dull--the result,
my dear, of your going away. And now tell me your story, and all about
yourself, for I'm anxious to hear what brought you to Dorfield."
Mary Louise drew a chair close to that of Aunt Hannah Conant and
confided to her all the worries and tribulations that had induced her
to quit Miss Stearne's school and seek shelter with her old friends the
Conants. Also, she related the episode of Detective O'Gorman and how
she had first learned through him that her grandfather and her mother
were not living in Dorfield.
"I'm dreadfully worried over Gran'pa Jim," said she, "for those
terrible agents of the Secret Service seem bent on catching him. And he
doesn't wish to be caught. If they arrested him, do you think they
would put him in jail, Aunt Hannah?"
"I fear so," was the reply.
"What do they imagine he has done that is wrong?"
"I do not know," said Mrs. Conant. "Peter never tells me anything about
the private affairs of his clients, and I never ask him. But of one
thing I am sure, my dear, and that is that Peter Conant would not act
as Colonel Weatherby's lawyer, and try to shield him, unless he
believed him innocent of any crime. Peter is a little odd, in some
ways, but he's honest to the backbone."
"I know it," declared Mary Louise. "Also I know that Gran'pa Jim is a
good man. Cannot the law make a mistake, Aunt Hannah?"
"It surely can, or there would be no use for lawyers. But do not worry
over your grandfather, my child, for he seems quite able to take care
of himself. It is nine or ten years since he became a fugitive--also
making a fugitive of your poor mother, who would not desert him--and to
this day the officers of the law have been unable to apprehend him. Be
patient, dear girl, and accept the situation as you find it. You shall
live with us until your people again send for you. We have excellent
schools in Dorfield, where you will not be taunted with your
grandfather's misfortunes because no one here knows anything about
them."
"Doesn't Irene know?" asked Mary Louise.
"She only knows that your people are great travelers and frequently
leave you behind them as they flit from place to place. She knows that
you lived with us for three years and that we love you."
The girl became thoughtful for a time. "I can't understand," she
finally said, "why Gran'pa Jim acts the way he does. Often he has told
me, when I deserved censure, to 'face the music' and have it over with.
Once he said that those who sin must suffer the penalty, because it is
the law of both God and man, and he who seeks to escape a just penalty
is a coward. Gran'pa knows he is innocent, but the government thinks he
is guilty; so why doesn't he face the music and prove his innocence,
instead of running away as a coward might do and so allow his good name
to suffer reproach?"
Mrs. Conant shook her head as if perplexed.
"That very question has often puzzled me, as it has you," she
confessed. "Once I asked Peter about it and he scowled and said it
might be just as well to allow Colonel Weatherby to mind his own
business. The Colonel seems to have a good deal of money, and perhaps
he fears that if he surrendered to the law it would be taken away from
him, leaving you and your mother destitute."
"We wouldn't mind that," said the girl, "if Gran'pa's name could be
cleared."
"After all," continued Mrs. Conant reflectively, "I don't believe the
Colonel is accused of stealing money, for Peter says his family is one
of the oldest and richest in New York. Your grandfather inherited a
vast fortune and added largely to it. Peter says he was an important
man of affairs before this misfortune--whatever it was--overtook him."
"I can just remember our home in New York," said Mary Louise, also
musingly, "for I was very young at the time. It was a beautiful big
place, with a good many servants. I wonder what drove us from it?"
"Do you remember your father?" asked Mrs. Conant.
"Not at all."
"Peter once told me he was a foreigner who fell desperately in love
with your mother and married her without your grandfather's full
approval. I believe Mr. Burrows was a man of much political influence,
for he served in the Department of State and had a good many admirers.
Peter never knew why your grandfather opposed the marriage, for
afterward he took Mr. and Mrs. Burrows to live with him and they were
all good friends up to the day of your father's death. But this is
ancient history and speculation on subjects we do not understand is
sure to prove unsatisfactory. I wouldn't worry over your grandfather's
troubles, my dear. Try to forget them."
"Grandfather's real name isn't Weatherby," said the girl. "It is
Hathaway."
Mrs. Conant gave a start of surprise.
"How did you learn that?" she asked sharply.
The girl took out her watch, pried open the back ease with a penknife
and allowed Mrs. Conant to read the inscription. Also she curiously
watched the woman's face and noted its quick flush and its uneasy
expression. Did the lawyer's wife know more than she had admitted?
If so, why was everyone trying to keep her in the dark?
"I cannot see that this helps to solve the mystery," said Mrs. Conant
in a brisk tone as she recovered from her surprise. "Let us put the
whole thing out of mind, Mary Louise, or it will keep us all stirred up
and in a muddle of doubt. I shall tell Peter you are to live with us,
and your old little room at the back of the hall is all ready for you.
Irene has the next room, so you will be quite neighborly. Go and put
away your things and then we'll whistle for Irene."
Mary Louise went to the well-remembered room and slowly and
thoughtfully unpacked her suit case. She was glad to find a home again
among congenial people, but she was growing more and more perplexed
over the astonishing case of Gran'pa Jim. It worried her to find that
an occasional doubt would cross her mind in spite of her intense
loyalty to her dearly loved grandparent. She would promptly drive out
the doubt, but it would insist on intruding again.
"Something is wrong somewhere," she sighed. "There must be some snarl
that even Gran'pa Jim can't untangle; and, if he can't, I'm sure no one
else can. I wish I could find him and that he would tell me all about
it. I suppose he thinks I'm too young to confide in, but I'm almost
sixteen now and surely that's old enough to understand things. There
were girls at school twenty years old that I'm sure couldn't reason as
well as I can."
After a while she went down stairs and joined Irene in the garden,
where the chair-girl was trimming rose bushes with a pair of stout
scissors. She greeted Mary Louise with her bright smile, saying:
"I suppose everything is fixed up, now, and we can begin to get
acquainted."
"Why, we ARE acquainted," declared Mary Louise. "Until to-day I had
never heard of you, yet it seems as if I had known you always."
"Thank you," laughed Irene; "that is a very pretty compliment, I well
realize. You have decided to stay, then?"
"Aunt Hannah has decided so, but Mr. Conant may object."
"He won't do that," was the quick reply. "Uncle Peter may be an
autocrat in his office, but I've noticed that Aunt Hannah is the ruler
of this household."
Mr. Conant may have noticed that, also, for he seemed not at all
surprised when his wife said she had decided to keep Mary Louise with
them. But after the girls had gone to bed that night the lawyer had a
long talk with his better half, and thereafter Mary Louise's presence
was accepted as a matter of course. But Mr. Conant said to her the next
morning:
"I have notified your grandfather, at his six different addresses, of
your coming to us, so I ought to receive his instructions within the
next few days. Also, to-day I will write Miss Stearne that you are here
and why you came away from the school."
"Will you ask her to send my trunk?"
"Not now. We will first await advices from Colonel Weatherby."
These "advices" were received three days later in the form of a brief
telegram from a Los Angeles attorney. The message read: "Colonel
Weatherby requests you to keep M. L. in Dorfield until further
instructions. Money forwarded. Hot. Caution." It was signed "O. L." and
when Mr. Conant showed Mary Louise the message she exclaimed:
"Then Mr. O'Gorman was right!"
"In what way?" questioned the lawyer.
"In the note he left for me at the hotel he said I might find my
grandfather by writing to Oscar Lawler at Los Angeles, California. This
telegram is from Los Angeles and it is signed 'O. L.' which must mean
'Oscar Lawler.'"
"How clever!" said Mr. Conant sarcastically.
"That proves, of course, that Gran'pa Jim and mother are in California,
But how did the detective know that?" she asked wonderingly.
"He didn't know it," answered Peter Conant. "On the contrary, this
message proves to me that they are not there at all."
"But the telegram says--"
"Otherwise," continued the lawyer, "the telegram would not have come
from that far-away point on the Pacific coast. There now remain five
other places where Colonel Weatherby might be located. The chances are,
however, that he is not in any of them."
Mary Louise was puzzled. It was altogether too bewildering for her
comprehension.
"Here are two strange words," said she, eyeing the telegram she still
held. "What does 'hot' mean, Mr. Conant?"
"It means," he replied, "that the government spies are again seeking
Colonel Weatherby. The word 'caution' means that we must all take care
not to let any information escape us that might lead to his arrest.
Don't talk to strangers, Mary Louise; don't talk to anyone outside our
family of your grandfather's affairs, or even of your own affairs. The
safety of Colonel Weatherby depends, to a great extent, on our all
being silent and discreet."