L. Frank Baum_Aunt Jane 06 (16 page)

Myrtle did not reply to this, although it pleased her. She presently
pleaded weariness and asked permission to return to her room. Beth
and Patsy wanted to go into the great domed ballroom and watch the
dancing; so Myrtle bade them good night and ascended by the elevator
to her floor.

Softly stepping over the thick carpets, which deadened the sound of
the crutches—now becoming scarcely necessary to her—the young girl
passed along the corridor, passing angles and turns innumerable on her
way to her room. Some erratic architect certainly concocted the
plan of the Hotel del Coronado. It is a very labyrinth of passages
connecting; its nine hundred rooms, and one has to have a good bump of
location to avoid getting lost in its mazes.

Near one of the abrupt turns a door stood ajar, and in passing Myrtle
glanced in, and then paused involuntarily. It was a small parlor,
prettily furnished, and in a big chair reclined a man whose hands were
both pressed tight against his face, thus covering it completely. But
Myrtle knew him. The thin frame, as well as the despairing attitude,
marked him as the man who had come so strangely into her life and
whose personality affected her so strangely. She now stood in the
dimly lighted corridor looking in upon him with infinite pity, and as
she looked her glance fell upon the table beside him, where something
bright glittered beneath the electric lamps.

Her heart gave a sudden thump of mingled fear and dismay. She knew
intuitively what that "something" was. "Let him," Uncle John had said;
but Myrtle instantly determined
not
to let him.

She hesitated a moment; but seeing that the man remained motionless,
his eyes still covered, as if lost to all his surroundings, she softly
crept forward and entered the room. She held the crutches under her
arms, but dared not use them for fear of making a noise. Step by step
she stole forward until the table was within reach. Then she stretched
out her hand, seized the revolver, and hid it in the folds of her
blouse.

Turning for a final glance at the man she was startled to find he had
removed his hands and was steadfastly regarding her.

Myrtle leaned heavily on her crutches. She felt faint and miserable,
like a criminal caught in the act. As her eyes fell before the intent
gaze her face turned scarlet with humiliation and chagrin. Still, she
did not attempt to escape, the idea not occurring to her; so for a
time the tableau was picturesque—the lame girl standing motionless
with downcast eyes and the man fixedly staring at her.

"Three times!" he slowly said, in a voice finally stirred by a trace
of emotion. "Three times. My child, why are you so persistent?"

Myrtle tried to be brave and meet his gaze. It was not quite so
difficult now the silent man had spoken.

"Why do you force me to be persistent?" she asked, a tremor in her
voice. "Why are you determined to—to—"

Words failed her, but he nodded to show he understood.

"Because," said he, "I am tired; very tired, my child. It's a big
world; too big, in fact; but there's nothing in it for me any more."

There was expression enough in his voice now; expression of utter
despondency.

"Why?" asked Myrtle, somewhat frightened to find herself so bold.

He did not answer for a long time, but sat reading her mobile face
until a gentler look came into his hard blue eyes.

"It is a story too sad for young ears," he finally replied. "Perhaps,
too, you would not understand it, not knowing or understanding me. I'm
an odd sort of man, well along in years, and I've lived an odd sort
of life. But my story, such as it is, has ended, and I'm too weary to
begin another volume."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Myrtle, earnestly. "Surely this cannot be the
fulfillment and end of your life. If it were, why should
I
come into
your life just now?"

He stared at her with a surprised—an even startled—look.

"Have you come into my life?" he inquired, in a low, curious tone.

"Haven't I?" she returned. "At the Grand Canyon—"

"I know," he interrupted hastily. "That was your mistake; and mine.
You should not have interfered. I should not have let you interfere."

"But I did," said Myrtle.

"Yes. Somehow your voice sounded like a command, and I obeyed it;
perhaps because no living person has a right to command me. You—you
took me by surprise."

He passed his hand over his eyes with that weary gesture peculiar to
him, and then fell silent.

Myrtle had remained standing. She did not know what to do in this
emergency, or what more to say. The conversation could not be ended in
this summary fashion. The hopeless man needed her in some way; how,
she did not know. Feeling weak and very incompetent to meet the
important crisis properly, the girl crept to a chair opposite the man
and sank into it. Then she leaned her chin upon her hand and looked
pleadingly at her strange acquaintance. He met her eyes frankly.
The hard look in his own seemed to have disappeared, dispelled by a
sympathy that was new to him.

And so they sat, regarding one another silently yet musingly, for a
long time.

"I wish," said Myrtle once, in her softest, sweetest tones, "I could
help you. Some one helped me when I was in great trouble, so I want to
help you."

He did not reply, and another period of silence ensued. But his next
speech showed he had been considering her words.

"Because you have suffered," he said, "you have compassion for others
who suffer. But your trouble is over now?"

"Almost," she said, smiling brightly.

He sighed, but questioned her no farther.

"A while ago," she volunteered, "I had neither friends nor relatives."
He gave her a queer look, then. "I had no money. I had been hurt in an
accident and was almost helpless. But I did not despair, sir—and I am
only an inexperienced girl.

"In my darkest hour I found friends—kind, loving friends—who showed
me a new world that I had not suspected was in existence. I think
the world is like a great mirror," she continued, meditatively, "and
reflects our lives just as we ourselves look upon it. Those who turn
sad faces toward the world find only sadness reflected. But a smile is
reflected in the same way, and cheers and brightens our hearts. You
think there is no pleasure to be had in life. That is because you are
heartsick and—and tired, as you say. With one sad story ended you are
afraid to begin another—a sequel—feeling it would be equally sad.
But why should it be? Isn't the joy or sorrow equally divided in
life?"

"No," he replied.

"A few days ago," she continued earnestly, "we were crossing the
Arizona deserts. It was not pleasant, but we did not despair, for
we knew the world is not all desert and that the land of roses and
sunshine lay just beyond. Now that we're in California we've forgotten
the dreary desert. But you—Why, sir, you've just crossed your desert,
and you believe all the world is bitter and cruel and holds no joy for
you! Why don't you step out bravely into the roses and sunshine of
life, and find the joy that has been denied you?"

He looked into her eyes almost fearfully, but it seemed to her that
his own held a first glimmer of hope.

"Do you believe there can be joy for me anywhere in the world?" he
asked.

"Of course. I tell you there's just as much sweet as there is bitter
in life. Don't I know it? Haven't I proved it? But happiness doesn't
chase people who try to hide from it. It will meet you halfway, but
you've got to do your share to deserve it. I'm not preaching; I've
lived this all out, in my own experience, and know what I'm talking
about. Now as for you, sir, I can see very plainly you haven't been
doing your duty. You've met sorrow and let it conquer you. You've
taken melancholy by the hand and won't let go of it. You haven't tried
to fight for your rights—the rights God gave to every man and expects
him to hold fast to and take advantage of. No, indeed!"

"But what is the use?" he asked, timidly, yet with an eager look in
his face. "You are young, my child; I am nearly old enough to have
been your father. There are things you have not yet learned; things I
hope you will never learn. An oak may stand alone in a field, and be
lonely because it cannot touch boughs with another. A flower may bloom
alone in a garden, and wither and die for want of companionship. God's
wisdom grouped every living thing. He gave Adam a comrade. He created
no solitary thing. But see, my child: although this world contains
countless thousands, there is not one among them I may call my
friend."

"Oh, yes; just one!" said Myrtle quickly. "I am your friend. Not
because you want me, but because you need me. And that's a beginning,
isn't it? I can find other friends for you, among
my
friends, and
you will be sure to like them because I like them."

This naive suggestion did not affect him as much as the fact that this
fair young girl had confessed herself his friend. He did not look at
Myrtle now; he stared straight ahead, at the wall paper, and his brow
was furrowed as if he was thinking deeply.

Perhaps any other man would have thanked the girl for her sympathy and
her proffered friendship, or at the least have acknowledged it. But
not so this queer Mr. Jones; eccentric, indeed, as the shrewd landlord
had described him. Nor did Myrtle seem to expect an acknowledgment.
It was enough for her that her speech had set him thinking along new
lines.

He sat musing for so long that she finally remembered it was growing
late, and began to fear Patsy and Beth would seek their rooms, which
connected with her own, and find her absent. That would worry them. So
at last she rose softly, took her crutches and turned to go.

"Good night, my—friend," she said.

"Good night, my child," he answered in a mechanical tone, without
rousing from his abstraction.

Myrtle went to her room and found it was not so late as she had
feared. She opened a drawer and placed the revolver in it, not without
a little shudder.

"At any rate," she murmured, with satisfaction, "he will not use this
to-night."

Next morning a beautiful bunch of roses was brought to Myrtle's
room—roses so magnificent that it seemed impossible they could be
grown out of doors. But there are few hothouses in California, and the
boy who brought the flowers confided to her the information that they
were selected from more than five hundred blooms. She ran to show them
to Patsy and Beth, who were amazed not only by the roses but by the
fact that the queer Mr. Jones had sent them to Myrtle. There was no
card or note accompanying the gift, but after the younger girl had
related her conversation with Mr. Jones the previous evening, they
could not doubt but he had sent the flowers.

"Perhaps," reflected Patsy, "we've been misjudging him. I never beheld
such a stolid, unimpressive countenance in my life; but the man must
have a soul of some sort, or he would not think of sending flowers to
his new friend."

"It's a pretty idea," said Beth. "He wanted to assure Myrtle that he
appreciated her kindness."

"I'm sure he likes me," declared Myrtle, simply. "He wasn't a bit
cross when I ran in and took away his pistol, or when I preached to
him. I really gave him a good talking to, and he didn't object a bit."

"What he needs," commented Beth, "is to get away from himself, and
mingle with people more. I wonder if we could coax him to join us in
our ride to Point Loma."

"Would we care to ask him?" said Patsy. "He's as sour and crabbed in
looks as he is in disposition, and has treated Uncle John's advances
shamefully. I'd like to help Myrtle bring the old fellow back to life;
but perhaps we can find an easier way than to shut him up with us in
an automobile."

"He wouldn't go, I'm sure," declared Myrtle. "He has mellowed a
little—a very little—as these roses prove. But he treated me last
night just as he does Mr. Merrick, even after our conversation. When
I said 'Good night' I had to wait a long time for his answer. But I'd
like you to meet him and help cheer him up; so please let me introduce
him, if there's a chance, and do be nice to him."

"I declare," cried Patsy, laughing, "Myrtle has assumed an air of
proprietorship over the Sad One already."

"She has a right to, for she saved his life," said Beth.

"Three times," Myrtle added proudly. "He told me so himself."

Uncle John heard the story of Myrtle's adventure with considerable
surprise, and he too expressed a wish to aid her in winning Mr. Jones
from his melancholy mood.

"Every man is queer in one way or another," said he, "and I'd say the
women were, too, if you females were not listening. I also imagine a
very rich man has the right to be eccentric, if it pleases him."

"Is Mr. Jones rich, then?" inquired Beth.

"According to the landlord he's rich as Croesus. Made his money in
mining—manipulating stocks, I suppose. But evidently his wealth
hasn't been a comfort to him, or he wouldn't want to shuffle off his
mortal coil and leave it behind"

They did not see the object of this conversation before leaving for
the trip to Point Loma—a promontory that juts out far into the
Pacific. It is reached by a superb macadamized boulevard, which passes
down the north edge of the promontory, rounds the corner where stands
the lighthouse, and comes back along the southern edge, all the time a
hundred feet or more in elevation above the ocean.

The view from the Point is unsurpassed. Wampus stopped his car beside
a handsomely appointed automobile that was just then deserted.

"Some one is here before us," remarked Patsy. "But that is not
strange. The wonder is that crowds are not here perpetually."

"It is said," related the Major, who had really begun to enjoy
California, "that the view from this Point includes more varied
scenery than any other that is known in the world. Here we see the
grand San Bernardino range of mountains; the Spanish Bight on the
Mexican shore; the pretty city of San Diego climbing its hills, with
the placid bay in front, where float the warships of the Pacific
Squadron; the broad stretch of orange and lemon groves, hedged with
towering palm trees; Santa Catalina and the Coronado Islands; the blue
Pacific rolling in front and rugged Loma with its rocky cliffs behind.
What more could we ask to see from any one viewpoint?"