Mary Louise by Lyman Frank Baum (top 100 books of all time checklist .txt) 📖
- Author: Lyman Frank Baum
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“Being exiles, if not regular hermits,” observed the crippled girl, sunning herself on the small porch outside the den, book in hand, “we may loaf and dream to our hearts’ content, and without danger of reproach.”
But not for long were they to remain wholly secluded. On Thursday afternoon they were surprised by a visitor, who suddenly appeared from among the trees that lined the roadway and approached the two girls who were occupying a bench at the edge of the bluff.
The new arrival was a lady of singularly striking appearance, beautiful and in the full flush of womanhood, being perhaps thirty years of age. She wore a smart walking-suit that fitted her rounded form perfectly, and a small hat with a single feather was jauntily perched upon her well-set head. Hair and eyes, almost black, contrasted finely with the bloom on her cheeks. In her ungloved hand she held a small walking-stick.
Advancing with grace and perfect self-possession, she smiled and nodded to the two young girls and then, as Mary Louise rose to greet her, she said:
“I am your nearest neighbor, and so I have climbed up here to get acquainted. I am Agatha Lord, but of course you do not know me, because I came from Boston, whereas you came from—from—”
“Dorfield,” said Mary Louise. “Pray be seated. Let me present Irene Macfarlane; and I am Mary Louise Burrows. You are welcome, Miss Lord—or should I say Mrs. Lord?”
“Miss is correct,” replied their visitor with a pleasant laugh, which brought an answering smile to the other faces; “but you must not address me except as ‘Agatha.’ For here in the wilderness formalities seem ridiculous. Now let us have a cosy chat together.”
“Won’t you come into the Lodge and meet Mrs. Conant?”
“Not just yet. You may imagine how that climb winded me, although they say it is only half a mile. I’ve taken the Bigbee house, just below you, you know, and I arrived there last night to get a good rest after a rather strenuous social career at home. Ever since Easter I’ve been on the ‘go’ every minute and I’m really worn to a frazzle.”
She did not look it, thought Mary Louise. Indeed, she seemed the very picture of health.
“Ah,” said she, fixing her eyes on Irene’s book, “you are very fortunate. The one thing I forgot to bring with me was a supply of books, and there is not a volume—not even a prayer-book—in the Bigbee house. I shall go mad in these solitudes if I cannot read.”
“You may use my library,” promised Irene, sympathizing with Miss Lord’s desire. “Uncle Peter brought a great box of books for me to read and you are welcome to share their delights with me, I believe there are fifty of them, at the least; but many were published ages ago and perhaps,” with a glance at the dainty hands, “you won’t care to handle secondhand books.”
“This ozonic air will fumigate them,” said Agatha Lord carelessly. “We don’t absorb bindings, Irene, but merely the thoughts of the authors. Books are the one banquet-table whereat we may feast without destroying the delicacy or flavor of the dishes presented. As long as the pages hold together and the type is legible a book is as good as when new.”
“I like pretty bindings, though,” declared Irene, “for they dress pretty thoughts in fitting attire. An ill-looking book, whatever its contents, resembles the ugly girl whose only redeeming feature is her good heart. To be beautiful without and within must have been the desire of God in all things.”
Agatha gave her a quick look of comprehension. There was an unconsciously wistful tone in the girl’s voice. Her face, though pallid, was lovely to view; her dress was dainty and arranged with care; she earnestly sought to be as beautiful “without and within” as was possible, yet the twisted limbs forbade her attaining the perfection she craved.
They sat together for an hour in desultory conversation and Agatha Lord certainly interested the two younger girls very much. She was decidedly worldly in much of her gossip but quick to perceive when she infringed the susceptibilities of her less sophisticated companions and was able to turn the subject cleverly to more agreeable channels.
“I’ve brought my automobile with me,” she said, “and, unless you have a car of your own, we will take some rides through the valley together. I mean to drive to Millbank every day for mail.”
“There’s a car here, which belongs to Mr. Morrison,” replied Mary Louise, “but as none of us understands driving it we will gladly accept your invitations to ride. Do you drive your own car?”
“Yes, indeed; that is the joy of motoring; and I care for my car, too, because the hired chauffeurs are so stupid. I didn’t wish the bother of servants while taking my ‘rest cure,’ and so my maid and I are all alone at the Bigbee place.”
After a time they went into the house, where Miss Lord was presented to Aunt Hannah, who welcomed their neighbor with her accustomed cordiality. In the den Agatha pounced upon the books and quickly selected two which she begged permission to take home with her.
“This is really a well selected collection,” she remarked, eyeing the titles critically. “Where did Mr. Conant find it?”
“At an auction of secondhand junk in New York,” explained Irene. “Uncle Peter knows that I love the old-fashioned books best but I’m sure he didn’t realize what a good collection this is.”
As she spoke, Irene was listlessly running through the leaves of two or three volumes she had not before examined, when in one of them her eye was caught by a yellowed sheet of correspondence paper, tucked among the pages at about midway between the covers. Without removing the sheet she leaned over to examine the fine characters written upon it and presently exclaimed in wondering tones:
“Why, Mary Louise! Here is an old letter about your mother—yes, and here’s something about your grandfather, too. How strange that it should be—”
“Let me see it!” cried Mary Louise, eagerly stretching out her hands.
But over her friend’s shoulder Irene caught the expression of Agatha Lord—tense, startled, with a gleam of triumph in the dark eyes. It frightened her, that look on the face of one she had deemed a stranger, and it warned her. She closed the book with a little slam of decision and tucked it beside her in her chair.
“No,” she said positively, “no one shall see the letter until I’ve had time to read it myself.”
“But what was it about?” asked Mary Louise.
“I don’t know, yet; and you’re not to ask questions until I DO know,” retorted Irene, calmly returning Miss Lord’s curious gaze while addressing Mary Louise. “These are my books, you must admit, and so whatever I find in them belongs to me.”
“Quite right, my dear,” approved Agatha Lord, with her light, easy laugh. She knew that Irene had surprised her unguarded expression and wished to counteract the impression it had caused.
Irene returned the laugh with one equally insincere, saying to her guest:
“Help yourself to whatever books you like, neighbor. Carry them home, read them and return them at your convenience.”
“You are exceedingly kind,” answered Agatha and resumed her examination of the titles. Mary Louise had not observed the tell-tale expression on Miss Lord’s face but she was shrewd enough to detect an undercurrent of ice in the polite phrases passing between her companions. She was consumed with curiosity to know more of the letter which Irene had found in the book but did not again refer to it in the presence of their visitor.
It was not long before Agatha rose to go, a couple of books tucked beneath her arm.
“Will you ride with me to Millbank to-morrow?” she asked, glancing from one face to another.
Mary Louise looked at Irene and Irene hesitated.
“I am not very comfortable without my chair,” she said.
“You shall have the rear seat all to yourself, and it is big and broad and comfortable. Mary Louise will ride with me in front. I can easily drive the car up here and load you in at this very porch. Please come!”
“Very well, since you are so kind,” Irene decided, and after a few more kindly remarks the beautiful Miss Lord left them and walked with graceful, swinging stride down the path to the road and down the road toward the Bigbee house.
When their visitor had departed Mary Louise turned to her friend.
“Now, Irene, tell me about that queer letter,” she begged.
“Not yet, dear. I’m sure it isn’t important, though it’s curious to find such an old letter tucked away in a book Uncle Peter bought at an auction in New York—a letter that refers to your own people, in days long gone by. In fact, Mary Louise, it was written so long ago that it cannot possibly interest us except as proof of the saying that the world’s a mighty small place. When I have nothing else to do I mean to read that old epistle from start to finish; then, if it contains anything you’d care to see, I’ll let you have a look at it.”
With this promise Mary Louise was forced to be content, for she did not wish to annoy Irene by further pleadings. It really seemed, on reflection, that the letter could be of little consequence to anyone. So she put it out of mind, especially as just now they spied Bub sitting on the bench and whittling as industriously as ever.
“Let me go to him first,” suggested Irene, with a mischievous smile. “He doesn’t seem at all afraid of me, for some reason, and after I’ve led him into conversation you can join us.”
So she wheeled her chair over to where the boy sat. He glanced toward her as she approached the bench but made no movement to flee.
“We’ve had a visitor,” said the girl, confidentially; “a lady who has taken the Bigbee house for the summer.”
Bub nodded, still whittling.
“I know; I seen her drive her car up the grade on high,” he remarked, feeling the edge of his knife-blade reflectively. “Seems like a real sport—fer a gal—don’t she?”
“She isn’t a girl; she’s a grown woman.”
“To me,” said Bub, “ev’rything in skirts is gals. The older they gits, the more ornery, to my mind. Never seen a gal yit what’s wuth havin’ ‘round.”
“Some day,” said Irene with a smile, “you may change your mind about girls.”
“An’ ag’in,” said Bub, “I mayn’t. Dad says he were soft in the head when he took up with marm, an’ Talbot owned a wife once what tried ter pizen him; so he giv ‘er the shake an’ come here to live in peace; but Dad’s so used to scoldin’s thet he can’t sleep sound in the open any more onless he lays down beside the brook where it’s noisiest. Then it reminds him o’ marm an’ he feels like he’s to home. Gals think they got the men scared, an’ sometimes they guess right. Even Miss’ Morrison makes Will toe the mark, an’ Miss’ Morrison ain’t no slouch, fer a gal.”
This somewhat voluble screed was delivered slowly, interspersed with periods of aimless whittling, and when Irene had patiently heard it through she decided it wise to change the subject.
“To-morrow we are going to ride in Miss Lord’s automobile,” she remarked.
Bub grunted.
“She says she
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