L. Frank Baum_Aunt Jane 06 (17 page)

"Don't forget the monster hotel, with its hundred towers and gables,
dominating the strip of land between the bay and the ocean," added
Beth. "How near it seems, and yet it is many miles away."

Some one had told them that moonstones were to be found on the beach
at the base of the cliff; so they all climbed down the steep path,
followed by Mumbles, who had not perceptibly grown in size during the
trip but had acquired an adventurous disposition which, coupled with
his native inquisitiveness, frequently led him into trouble.

Now, when they had reached the narrow beach, Mumbles ran ahead, passed
around the corner of a cliff that almost touched the water, and was
presently heard barking furiously.

"Sounds as if he scented game," said Patsy.

"A turtle, perhaps, or a big fish washed ashore," suggested the Major.

But now the small dog's voice changed suddenly and became a succession
of yelps expressing mingled pain and terror.

"Oh, he's hurt!" cried Myrtle; and they all hurried forward, Uncle
John leading them on a run, and passed around the big rock to rescue
their pet.

Some one was before them, however. The foolish dog had found a huge
crab in the sand and, barking loudly, had pushed his muzzle against
the creature, with the result that the crab seized his black nose in
a gripping claw and pinched as hard as it was able. Mumbles tried to
back away, madly howling the while; but the crab, although the smaller
antagonist, gripped a rock with its other claw and held on, anchoring
the terrified dog to the spot.

But help was at hand. A tall, thin man hurried to the rescue, and just
as Uncle John came in sight, leading his procession, a knife severed
the crab's claw and Mumbles was free. Seeing his mistress, the puppy,
still whining with pain, hurried to her for comfort, while Uncle John
turned to the man and said:

"Thank you, Mr. Jones, for assisting our poor beast. Mumbles is an
Eastern dog, you know, and inexperienced in dealing with crabs."

Mr. Jones was examining the claw, the despoiled owner of which had
quickly slid into the water.

"It is a species of crawfish," he observed, meditatively. Then, seeing
the girls approach, he straightened up and rather awkwardly lifted his
hat.

The gesture surprised them all. Heretofore, when they had met, the man
had merely stared and turned away, now his attempt at courtesy was
startling because unexpected.

Myrtle came close to his side.

"How nice to find you here, Mr. Jones," she said brightly. "And oh, I
must thank you for my lovely roses."

He watched her face with evident interest and it seemed that his own
countenance had become less haggard and sad than formerly.

"Let me introduce my friends," said the girl, with sudden recollection
of her duty. "This is Mr. Merrick, my good friend and benefactor; and
this is Major Doyle and his daughter Miss Patricia Doyle, both of whom
have the kindest hearts in the world; Miss Beth De Graf, Mr. Merrick's
niece, has watched over and cared for me like a sister, and—oh, I
forgot; Miss Patsy is Mr. Merrick's niece, too. So now you know them
all."

The man nodded briefly his acknowledgment.

"You—you are Mr. Jones, I believe, of—of Boston?"

"Once of Boston," he repeated mechanically. Then he looked at her and
added: "Go on."

"Why—what—I don't understand," she faltered. "Have I overlooked
anyone?"

"Only yourself," he said.

"Oh; but I—I met you last night."

"You did not tell me your name," he reminded her.

"I'm Myrtle," she replied, smiling in her relief. "Myrtle Dean."

"Myrtle Dean!" His voice was harsh; almost a shout.

"Myrtle Dean. And I—I'm from Chicago; but I don't live there any
more."

He stood motionless, looking at the girl with a fixed expression that
embarrassed her and caused her to glance appealingly at Patsy. Her
friend understood and came to her rescue with some inconsequent remark
about poor Mumbles, who was still moaning and rubbing; his pinched
nose against Patsy's chin to ease the pain.

Mr. Jones paid little heed to Miss Doyle's observation, but as Myrtle
tried to hide behind Beth Mr. Merrick took the situation in hand by
drawing the man's attention to the scenery, and afterward inquiring if
he was searching for moonstones.

The conversation now became general, except that Mr. Jones remained
practically silent He seemed to try to interest himself in the chatter
around him, but always his eyes would stray to Myrtle's face and hold
her until she found an opportunity to turn away.

"We've luncheon in the car," announced Uncle John, after a time.
"Won't you join us, Mr. Jones?"

"Yes," was the unconventional reply. The man was undoubtedly
abstracted and did not know he was rude. He quietly followed them up
the rocks and when they reached the automobile remained by Myrtle's
side while Wampus brought out the lunch basket and Beth and Patsy
spread the cloth upon the grass and unpacked the hamper.

Mr. Jones ate merely a mouthful, but he evidently endeavored to follow
the conversation and take an interest in what was said. He finally
became conscious that his continuous gaze distressed Myrtle, and
thereafter strove to keep his eyes from her face. They would creep
back to it, from time to time; but Beth, who was watching him
curiously, concluded he was making a serious effort to deport himself
agreeably and credited him with a decided improvement in manners as
their acquaintance with him progressed.

After luncheon, when their return by way of Old Town and the Spanish
Mission was proposed, Mr. Jones said, pointing to the car that stood
beside their own:

"This is my automobile. I drive it myself. I would like Myrtle Dean to
ride back with me."

The girl hesitated, but quickly deciding she must not retreat, now she
had practically begun the misanthrope's reformation, she replied:

"I will be very glad to. But won't you take one of my friends, also?
That will divide the party more evenly."

He looked down at his feet, thoughtfully considering the proposition.

"I'll go with you," said Beth, promptly. "Get into the front seat with
Mr. Jones, Myrtle, and I'll ride behind."

The man made no protest. He merely lifted Myrtle in his arms and
gently placed her in the front seat. Beth, much amused, took the seat
behind, unassisted save that the Major opened the door for her. Mr.
Jones evidently understood his car. Starting the engines without
effort he took his place at the wheel and with a nod to Mr. Merrick
said:

"Lead on, sir; I will follow."

Wampus started away. He was displeased with the other car. It did
not suit him at all. And aside from the fact that the sour-faced
individual who owned it had taken away two of Wampus' own passengers,
the small shaggy Mumbles, who had been the established companion of
Uncle John's chauffeur throughout all the long journey, suddenly
deserted him. He whined to go with the other car, and when Patsy
lifted him aboard he curled down beside the stranger as if thoroughly
satisfied. Patsy knew why, and was amused that Mumbles showed his
gratitude to Mr. Jones for rescuing him from the crab; but Wampus
scowled and was distinctly unhappy all the way to Old Town.

"Him mebbe fine gentleman," muttered the Canadian to the Major; "but
if so he make a disguise of it. Once I knew a dog thief who resemble
him; but perhaps Mumble he safe as long as Miss Myrtle an' Miss Beth
they with him."

"Don't worry," said the Major, consolingly. "I'll keep my eye on the
rascal. But he's a fine driver, isn't he?"

"Oh,
that
!" retorted Wampus, scornfully. "Such little cheap car like
that he drive himself."

At Old Town Mr. Jones left them, saying he had been to the Mission and
did not care for it. But as he drove his car away there was a gentler
and more kindly expression upon his features than any of them had ever
seen there before, and Myrtle suspected her charm was working and the
regeneration really begun.

That evening after dinner, as Mr. Merrick sat alone in the hotel
lobby, the girls having gone to watch the Major bowl tenpins, Mr.
Jones approached and sat down in the chair beside him.

Uncle John greeted the man with an attempt at cordiality. He could not
yet bring himself to like his personality, but on Myrtle's account and
because he was himself generous enough to wish to be of service to
anyone so forlorn and unhappy, he treated Mr. Jones with more respect
than he really thought he deserved.

"Tell me, Mr. Merrick," was the abrupt request, "where you found
Myrtle Dean."

Uncle John told him willingly. There was no doubt but Myrtle had
interested the man.

"My girls found her on the train between Chicago and Denver," he
began. "She was on her way to join her uncle in Leadville."

"What is her uncle's name?"

"Anson Jones. But the child was almost helpless, ill and without
friends or money. She was not at all sure her uncle was still in
Leadville, in which case she would be at the mercy of a cold world. So
I telegraphed and found that Anson Jones had been gone from the mining
camp for several months. Do you know, sir, I at first suspected you
might be the missing uncle? For I heard you were a miner and found
that your name is Jones. But I soon discovered you are not Anson
Jones, but C.B. Jones—which alters the case considerably."

Mr. Jones nodded absently.

"Tell me the rest," he said.

Uncle John complied. He related the manner in which Beth and Patsy
had adopted Myrtle, the physician's examination and report upon her
condition, and then told the main points of their long but delightful
journey from Albuquerque to San Diego in the limousine.

"It was one of the most fortunate experiments we have ever tried," he
concluded; "for the child has been the sweetest and most agreeable
companion imaginable, and her affection and gratitude have amply
repaid us for anything we have done for her. I am determined she shall
not leave us, sir. When we return to New York I shall consult the best
specialist to be had, and I am confident she can be fully cured and
made as good as new."

The other man had listened intently, and when the story was finished
he sat silent for a time, as if considering and pondering over what he
had heard. Then, without warning, he announced quietly:

"I am Anson Jones."

Uncle John fairly gasped for breath.

"
You
Anson Jones!" he exclaimed. Then, with plausible suspicion he
added: "I myself saw that you are registered as C.B. Jones."

"It is the same thing," was the reply. "My name is Collanson—but my
family always called me 'Anson', when I had a family—and by that name
I was best known in the mining camps. That is what deceived you."

"But—dear me!—I don't believe Myrtle knows her uncle's name is
Collanson."

"Probably not. Her mother, sir, my sister, was my only remaining
relative, the only person on earth who cared for me—although I
foolishly believed another did. I worked for success as much on
Kitty's account—Kitty was Myrtle's mother—as for my own sake. I
intended some day to make her comfortable and happy, for I knew her
husband's death had left her poor and friendless. I did not see her
for years, nor write to her often; it was not my way. But Kitty always
knew I loved her."

He paused and sat silent a moment. Then he resumed, in his quiet, even
tones:

"There is another part of my story that you must know to understand
me fully; to know why I am now a hopeless, desperate man; or was
until—until last night, perhaps. Some years ago, when in Boston, I
fell in love with a beautiful girl. I am nearly fifty, and she was not
quite thirty, but it never occurred to me that I was too old to win
her love, and she frankly confessed she cared for me. But she said she
could not marry a poor man and would therefore wait for me to make a
fortune. Then I might be sure she would marry me. I believed her. I do
not know why men believe women. It is an absurd thing to do. I did it;
but other men have been guilty of a like folly. Ah, how I worked and
planned! One cannot always make a fortune in a short time. It took me
years, and all the time she renewed her promises and kept my hopes and
my ambitions alive.

"At last I won the game, as I knew I should do in time. It was a big
strike. I discovered the 'Blue Bonnet' mine, and sold a half interest
in it for a million. Then I hurried to Boston to claim my bride....
She had been married just three months, after waiting, or pretending
to wait, for me for nearly ten years! She married a poor lawyer, too,
after persistently refusing me because
I
was poor. She laughed at
my despair and coldly advised me to find some one else to share my
fortune."

He paused again and wearily passed his hand over his eyes—a familiar
gesture, as Myrtle knew. His voice had grown more and more dismal as
he proceeded, and just now he seemed as desolate and unhappy as when
first they saw him at the Grand Canyon.

"I lived through it somehow," he continued; "but the blow stunned me.
It stuns me yet. Like a wounded beast I slunk away to find my sister,
knowing she would try to comfort me. She was dead. Her daughter
Myrtle, whom I had never seen, had been killed in an automobile
accident. That is what her aunt, a terrible woman named Martha Dean,
told me, although now I know it was a lie, told to cover her own
baseness in sending an unprotected child to the far West to seek an
unknown uncle. I paid Martha Dean back the money she claimed she had
spent for Myrtle's funeral; that was mere robbery, I suppose, but not
to be compared with the crime of her false report. I found myself
bereft of sweetheart, sister—even an unknown niece. Despair claimed
me. I took the first train for the West, dazed and utterly despondent.
Some impulse led me to stop off at the Grand Canyon, and there I saw
the means of ending all my misery. But Myrtle interfered."