His soul turned sick within him. He looked up and saw a little procession
of late revellers rushing out to the last suburban train, the girls
leaving a trail of orris perfume and a vision of dainty opera cloaks. One
of the men was a city friend of his. Dunham half envied him his
unperturbed mind. To be sure, he would not get back to the city till three
in the morning, but he would have no visions of robberies and fair
lunatics and hard pressed maidens unjustly pursued, to mar his rest.
Dunham buttoned his coat and turned up his collar as he started out into
the street, for the night had turned cold, and his nerves made him chilly.
As he walked, the blood began to race more healthily in his veins, and the
horrors of the evening papers were dispelled. In their place came pleasant
memories of the evening at Mrs. Bowman's, of the music, and of their ride
and talk together. In his heart a hope began to rise that her dark days
would pass, and that he might find her again and know her better.
His brief night's sleep was cut short by a sharp knock at his door the
next morning. He awoke with a confused idea of being on a sleeping-car,
and wondered if he had plenty of time to dress, but his sister's voice
quickly dispelled the illusion.
"Tryon, aren't you almost ready to come down to breakfast? Do hurry,
please. I've something awfully important to consult you about."
His sister's tone told him there was need for haste if he would keep in
her good graces, so he made a hurried toilet and went down, to find his
household in a state of subdued excitement.
"I'm just as worried as I can be," declared his mother. "I want to consult
you, Tryon. I have put such implicit confidence in Norah, and I cannot
bear to accuse her unjustly, but I have missed a number of little things
lately. There was my gold link bag----"
"Mother, you know you said you were sure you left that at the Century
Club."
"Don't interrupt, Cornelia. Of course it is possible I left it at the club
rooms, but I begin to think now I didn't have it with me at all. Then
there is my opal ring. To be sure, it isn't worth a great deal, but one
who will take little things will take large ones."
"What's the matter, Mother? Norah been appropriating property not her
own?"
"I'm very much afraid she has, Tryon. What would you do about it? It is so
unpleasant to charge a person with stealing. It is such a vulgar thing to
steal. Somehow I thought Norah was more refined."
"Why, I suppose there's nothing to do but just charge her with it, is
there? Are you quite sure it is gone? What is it, any way? A ring, did you
say?"
"No, it's a hat," said Cornelia shortly. "A sixty-dollar hat. I wish I'd
kept it now, and then she wouldn't have dared. It had two beautiful willow
ostrich plumes on it, but mother didn't think it was becoming. She wanted
some color about it instead of all black. I left it in my room, and
charged Norah to see that the man got it when he called, and now the man
comes and says he wants the hat, and it is _gone_! Norah insists that when
she last saw it, it was in my room. But of course that's absurd, for there
was nobody else to take it but Thompson, and he's been in the family for
so long."
"Nonsense!" said her brother sharply, dropping his fruit knife in his
plate with a rattle that made the young woman jump. "Cornelia, I'm
ashamed of you, thinking that poor, innocent girl has stolen your hat.
Why, she wouldn't steal a pin, I am sure. You can tell she's honest by
looking into her eyes. Girls with blue eyes like that don't lie and
steal."
"Really!" Cornelia remarked haughtily. "You seem to know a great deal
about her eyes. You may feel differently when I find the hat in her
possession."
"Cornelia," interrupted Tryon, quite beside himself, "don't think of such
a thing as speaking to that poor girl about that hat. I know she hasn't
stolen it. The hat will probably be found, and then how will you feel?"
"But I tell you the hat cannot be found!" said the exasperated sister.
"And I shall just have to pay for a hat that I can never wear."
"Mother, I appeal to you," said the son earnestly. "Don't allow Cornelia
to speak of the hat to the girl. I wouldn't have such an injustice done in
our house. The hat will turn up soon if you just go about the matter
calmly. You'll find it quite naturally and unexpectedly, perhaps. Any way,
if you don't, I'll pay for the hat, rather than have the girl suspected."
"But, Tryon," protested his mother, "if she isn't honest, you know we
wouldn't want her about."
"Honest, Mother? She's as honest as the day is long. I am certain of
that."
The mother rose reluctantly.
"Well, we might let it go another day," she consented. Then, looking up at
the sky, she added, "I wonder if it is going to rain. I have a Reciprocity
meeting on for to-day, and I'm a delegate to some little unheard-of place.
It usually does rain when one goes into the country, I've noticed."
She went into the hall, and presently returned with a distressed look upon
her face.
"Tryon, I'm afraid you're wrong," she said. "Now my rain-coat is missing.
My new rain-coat! I hung it up in the hall-closet with my own hands, after
it came from the store. I really think something ought to be done!"
"There! I hope you see!" said Cornelia severely. "I think it's high time
something was done. I shall 'phone for a detective at once!"
"Cornelia, you'll do nothing of the kind," her brother protested, now
thoroughly aroused. "I'll agree to pay for the hat and the rain-coat if
they are not forthcoming before a fortnight passes, but you simply shall
not ruin that poor girl's reputation. I insist, Mother, that you put a
stop to such rash proceedings. I'll make myself personally responsible for
that girl's honesty."
"Well, of course, Tryon, if you wish it----" said his mother, with anxious
hesitation.
"I certainly do wish it, Mother. I shall take it as personal if anything
is done in this matter without consulting me. Remember, Cornelia, I will
not have any trifling. A girl's reputation is certainly worth more than
several hats and rain-coats, and I _know_ she has not taken them."
He walked from the dining-room and from the house in angry dignity, to the
astonishment of his mother and sister, to whom he was usually courtesy
itself. Consulting him about household matters was as a rule merely a
form, for he almost never interfered. The two women looked at each other
in startled bewilderment.
"Mother," said Cornelia, "you don't suppose he can have fallen in love
with Norah, do you? Why, she's Irish and freckled! And Tryon has always
been so fastidious!"
"Cornelia! How dare you suggest such a thing? Tryon is a _Dunham_.
Whatever else a Dunham may or may not do, he never does anything low or
unrefined."
The small, prim, stylish mother looked quite regal in her aristocratic
rage.
"But, Mother, one reads such dreadful things in the papers now. Of course
Tryon would never _marry_ any one like that, but----"
"Cornelia!"--her mother's voice had almost reached a patrician scream--"I
forbid you to mention the subject again. I cannot think where you learned
to voice such thoughts."
"Well, my goodness, Mother, I don't mean anything, only I do wish I had
my hat. I always did like all black. I can't imagine what ails Try, if it
isn't that."
Tryon Dunham took his way to his office much perturbed in mind.
Perplexities seemed to be thickening about him. With the dawn of the
morning had come that sterner common-sense which told him he was a fool
for having taken up with a strange young woman on the street, who was so
evidently flying from justice. He had deceived not only his intimate
friends by palming her off as a fit companion for them, but his mother and
sister. He had practically stolen their garments, and had squandered more
than fifty dollars of his own money. And what had he to show for all this?
The memory of a sweet face, the lingering beauty of the name "Mary" when
she bade him good-by, and a diamond ring. The cool morning light presented
the view that the ring was probably valueless, and that he was a fool.
Ah, the ring! A sudden warm thrill shot through him, and his hand searched
his vest pocket, where he had hastily put the jewel before leaving his
room. That was something tangible. He could at least know what it was
worth, and so make sure once for all whether he had been deceived. No,
that would not be fair either, for her father might have made her think it
was valuable, or he might even have been taken in himself, if he were not
a judge of jewels.
Dunham examined it as he walked down the street, too perplexed with his
own tumultuous thoughts to remember his usual trolley. He slipped the ring
on his finger and let it catch the morning sunlight, now shining broad and
clear in spite of the hovering rain-clouds in the distance. And gloriously
did the sun illumine the diamond, burrowing into the great depths of its
clear white heart, and causing it to break into a million fires of glory,
flashing and glancing until it fairly dazzled him. The stone seemed to be
of unusual beauty and purity, but he would step into the diamond shop as
he passed and make sure. He had a friend there who could tell him all
about it. His step quickened, and he covered the distance in a short
time.
After the morning greeting, he handed over his ring.
"This belongs to a friend of mine," he said, trying to look unconcerned.
"I should like to know if the stone is genuine, and about what it is
worth."
His friend took the ring and retired behind a curious little instrument
for the eye, presently emerging with a respectful look upon his face.
"Your friend is fortunate to have such a beautiful stone. It is unusually
clear and white, and exquisitely cut. I should say it was worth at
least"--he paused and then named a sum which startled Dunham, even
accustomed as he was to counting values in high figures. He took the jewel
back with a kind of awe. Where had his mysterious lady acquired this
wondrous bauble which she had tossed to him for a trifle? In a tumult of
feeling, he went on to his office more perplexed than ever. Suspicions of
all sorts crowded thickly into his mind, but for every thought that
shadowed the fair reputation of the lady, there came into his mind her
clear eyes and cast out all doubts. Finally, after a bad hour of trying
to work, he slipped the ring on his little finger, determined to wear it
and thus prove to himself his belief in her, at least until he had
absolute proof against her. Then he took up his hat and went out, deciding
to accept Judge Blackwell's invitation to visit his office. He found a
cordial reception, and the Judge talked business in a most satisfactory
manner. His proposals bade fair to bring about some of the dearest wishes
of the young man's heart, and yet as he left the building he was thinking
more about the mysterious stranger who had disappeared from the Judge's
office the day before than about the wonderful good luck that had come to
him in a business way.
They had not talked much about her. The Judge had brought out her hat--a
beautiful velvet one, with exquisite plumes--her gloves, a costly leather
purse, and a fine hemstitched handkerchief, and as he put them sadly away
on a closet shelf, he said no trace of her had as yet been found.
On his way toward his own office, Tryon Dunham pondered the remarkable
coincidence which had made him the possessor of two parts of the same
mystery--for he had no doubt that the hat belonged to the young woman who
had claimed his help the evening before.
* * * * *
Meantime, the girl who was speeding along toward Chicago had not forgotten
him. She could not if she would, for all about her were reminders of him.
The conductor took charge of her ticket, telling her in his gruff, kind
way what time they would arrive in the city. The porter was solicitous
about her comfort, the newsboy brought the latest magazines and a box of
chocolates and laid them at her shrine with a smile of admiration and the
words, "Th' g'n'lmun sent 'em!" The suit-case lay on the seat opposite,
the reflection of her face in the window-glass, as she gazed into the inky
darkness outside, was crowned by the hat he had provided, and when she
moved the silken rustle of the rain-coat reminded her of his kindness and
forethought. She put her head back and closed her eyes, and for just an
instant let her weary, overwrought mind think what it would mean if the
man from whom she was fleeing had been such as this one seemed to be.
By and by, she opened the suit-case, half doubtfully, feeling that she was
almost intruding upon another's possessions.
There were a dress-suit and a change of fine linen, handkerchiefs,
neckties, a pair of gloves, a soft, black felt negligée hat folded, a
large black silk muffler, a bath-robe, and the usual silver-mounted
brushes, combs, and other toilet articles. She looked them over in a
business-like way, trying to see how she could make use of them. Removing
her hat, she covered it with the silk muffler, to protect it from dust.
Then she took off her dress and wrapped herself in the soft bath-robe,
wondering as she did so at her willingness to put on a stranger's
garments. Somehow, in her brief acquaintance with this man, he had
impressed her with his own pleasant fastidiousness, so that there was a
kind of pleasure in using his things, as if they had been those of a
valued friend.
She touched the electric button that controlled the lights in the little
apartment, and lay down in the darkness to think out her problem of the
new life that lay before her.
[Illustration]
V
Beginning with the awful moment when she first realized her danger and the
necessity for immediate flight, she lived over every perilous instant, her
nerves straining, her breath bated as if she were experiencing it all once
more. The horror of it! Her own hopeless, helpless condition! But finally,
because her trouble was new and her body and mind, though worn with
excitement, were healthy and young, she sank into a deep sleep, without
having decided at all what she should do.
At last she woke from a terrible dream, in which the hand of her pursuer
was upon her, and her preserver was in the dark distance. With that
strange insistence which torments the victim of such dreams, she was
obliged to lie still and imagine it out, again and again, until the face
and voice of the young man grew very real in the darkness, and she longed
inexpressibly for the comfort of his presence once more.
At length she shook off these pursuing thoughts and deliberately roused
herself to plan her future.
The first necessity, she decided, was to change her appearance so far as
possible, so that if news of her escape, with full description, had been
telegraphed, she might evade notice. To that end, she arose in the early
dawning of a gray and misty morning, and arranged her hair as she had
never worn it before, in two braids and wound closely about her head. It
was neat, and appropriate to the vocation which she had decided upon, and
it made more difference in her appearance than any other thing she could
have done. All the soft, fluffy fulness of rippling hair that had framed
her face was drawn close to her head, and the smooth bands gave her the
simplicity and severity of a saint in some old picture. She pinned up her
gown until it did not show below the long black coat, and folded a white
linen handkerchief about her throat over the delicate lace and garniture
of the modish waist. Then she looked dubiously at the hat.
With a girl's instinct, her first thought was for her borrowed plumage. A
fine mist was slanting down and had fretted the window-pane until there
was nothing visible but dull gray shadows of a world that flew
monotonously by. With sudden remembrance, she opened the suit-case and
took out the folded black hat, shook it into shape, and put it on. It was
mannish, of course, but girls often wore such hats.
As she surveyed herself in the long mirror of her door, the slow color
stole into her cheeks. Yet the costume was not unbecoming, nor unusual.
She looked like a simple schoolgirl, or a young business woman going to
her day's work.
But she looked at the fashionable proportions of the other hat with
something like alarm. How could she protect it? She did not for a moment
think of abandoning it, for it was her earnest desire to return it at
once, unharmed, to its kind purloiner.
She summoned the newsboy and purchased three thick newspapers. From these,
with the aid of a few pins, she made a large package of the hat. To be
sure, it did not look like a hat when it was done, but that was all the
better. The feathers were upheld and packed softly about with bits of
paper crushed together to make a springy cushion, and the whole built out
and then covered over with paper. She reflected that girls who wore their
hair wound about their heads and covered by plain felt hats would not be
unlikely to carry large newspaper-wrapped packages through the city
streets.
She decided to go barehanded, and put the white kid gloves in the
suit-case, but she took off her beautiful rings, and hid them safely
inside her dress.
When the porter came to announce that her breakfast was waiting in the
dining-car, he looked at her almost with a start, but she answered his
look with a pleasant, "Good morning. You see I'm fixed for a damp day."
"Yes, miss," said the man deferentially. "It's a nasty day outside. I
'spect Chicago'll be mighty wet. De wind's off de lake, and de rain's
comin' from all way 'twoncet."
She sacrificed one of her precious quarters to get rid of the attentive
porter, and started off with a brisk step down the long platform to the
station. It was part of her plan to get out of the neighborhood as quickly
as possible, so she followed the stream of people who instead of going
into the waiting-room veered off to the street door and out into the
great, wet, noisy world. With the same reasoning, she followed a group of
people into a car, which presently brought her into the neighborhood of
the large stores, as she had hoped it would. It was with relief that she
recognized the name on one of the stores as being of world-wide
reputation.
Well for her that she was an experienced shopper. She went straight to the
millinery department and arranged to have the hat boxed and sent to the
address Dunham had given her. Her gentle voice and handsome rain-coat
proclaimed her a lady and commanded deference and respectful attention. As
she walked away, she had an odd feeling of having communicated with her
one friend and preserver.
It had cost less to express the hat than she had feared, yet her stock of
money was woefully small. Some kind of a dress she must have, and a wrap,
that she might be disguised, but what could she buy and yet have something
left for food? There was no telling how long it would be before she could
replenish her purse. Life must be reduced to its lowest terms. True, she
had jewelry which might be sold, but that would scarcely be safe, for if
she were watched, she might easily be identified by it. What did the very
poor do, who were yet respectable?
The ready-made coats and skirts were entirely beyond her means, even those
that had been marked down. With a hopeless feeling, she walked aimlessly
down between the tables of goods. The suit-case weighed like lead, and she
put it on the floor to rest her aching arms. Lifting her eyes, she saw a
sign over a table--"Linene Skirts, 75 cts. and $1.00."
Here was a ray of hope. She turned eagerly to examine them. Piles of
sombre skirts, blue and black and tan. They were stout and coarse and
scant, and not of the latest cut, but what mattered it? She decided on a
seventy-five cent black one. It seemed pitiful to have to economize in a
matter of twenty-five cents, when she had been used to counting her money
by dollars, yet there was a feeling of exultation at having gotten for
that price any skirt at all that would do. A dim memory of what she had
read about ten-cent lodging-houses, where human beings were herded like
cattle, hovered over her.
Growing wise with experience, she discovered that she could get a black
sateen shirt-waist for fifty cents. Rubbers and a cotton umbrella took
another dollar and a half. She must save at least a dollar to send back
the suit-case by express.
A bargain-table of odds and ends of woollen jackets, golf vests, and old
fashioned blouse sweaters, selling off at a dollar apiece, solved the
problem of a wrap. She selected a dark blouse, of an ugly, purply blue,
but thick and warm. Then with her precious packages she asked a
pleasant-faced saleswoman if there were any place near where she could
slip on a walking skirt she had just bought to save her other skirt from
the muddy streets. She was ushered into a little fitting-room near by. It
was only about four feet square, with one chair and a tiny table, but it
looked like a palace to the girl in her need, and as she fastened the door
and looked at the bare painted walls that reached but a foot or so above
her head and had no ceiling, she wished with all her heart that such a
refuge as this might be her own somewhere in the great, wide, fearful
world.
Rapidly she slipped off her fine, silk-lined cloth garments, and put on
the stiff sateen waist and the coarse black skirt. Then she surveyed
herself, and was not ill pleased. There was a striking lack of collar and
belt. She sought out a black necktie and pinned it about her waist, and
then, with a protesting frown, she deliberately tore a strip from the edge
of one of the fine hem-stitched handkerchiefs, and folded it in about her
neck in a turn-over collar. The result was quite startling and unfamiliar.
The gown, the hair, the hat, and the neat collar gave her the look of a
young nurse-girl or upper servant. On the whole, the disguise could not
have been better. She added the blue woollen blouse, and felt certain that
even her most intimate friends would not recognize her. She folded the
rain-coat, and placed it smoothly in the suit-case, then with dismay
remembered that she had nothing in which to put her own cloth dress, save
the few inadequate paper wrappings that had come about her simple
purchases. Vainly she tried to reduce the dress to a bundle that would be
covered by the papers. It was of no use. She looked down at the suit-case.
There was room for the dress in there, but she wanted to send Mr. Dunham's
property back at once. She might leave the dress in the store, but some
detective with an accurate description of that dress might be watching,
find it, and trace her. Besides, she shrank from leaving her garments
about in public places. If there had been any bridge near at hand where
she might unobserved throw the dress into a dark river, or a consuming
fire where she might dispose of it, she would have done it. But whatever
she was to do with it must be done at once. Her destiny must be settled
before the darkness came down. She folded the dress smoothly and laid it
in the suit-case, under the rain-coat.
She sat down at a writing-desk, in the waiting-room, and wrote: "I am
safe, and I thank you." Then she paused an instant, and with nervous haste
wrote "Mary" underneath. She opened the suit-case and pinned the paper to
the lapel of the evening coat. Just three dollars and sixty-seven cents
she had left in her pocket-book after paying the expressage on the
suit-case.
She felt doubtful whether she might not have done wrong about thus sending
her dress back, but what else could she have done? If she had bought a box
in which to put it, she would have had to carry it with her, and perhaps
the dress might have been found during her absence from her room, and she
suspected because of it. At any rate, it was too late now, and she felt
sure the young man would understand. She hoped it would not inconvenience
him especially to get rid of it. Surely he could give it to some
charitable organization without much trouble.
At her first waking, in the early gray hours of the morning, she had
looked her predicament calmly in the face. It was entirely likely that it
would continue indefinitely; it might be, throughout her whole life. She
could now see no way of help for herself. Time might, perhaps, give her a
friend who would assist her, or a way might open back into her old life in
some unthought-of manner, but for a time there must be hiding and a way
found to earn her living.
She had gone carefully over her own accomplishments. Her musical
attainments, which would naturally have been the first thought, were out
of the question. Her skill as a musician was so great, and so well known
by her enemy, that she would probably be traced by it at once. As she
looked back at the hour spent at Mrs. Bowman's piano, she shuddered at the
realization that it might have been her undoing, had it chanced that her
enemy passed the house, with a suspicion that she was inside. She would
never dare to seek a position as accompanist, and she knew how futile it
would be for her to attempt to teach music in an unknown city, among
strangers. She might starve to death before a single pupil appeared.
Besides, that too would put her in a position where she would be more
easily found. The same arguments were true if she were to attempt to take
a position as teacher or governess, although she was thoroughly competent
to do so. Rapidly rejecting all the natural resources which under ordinary
circumstances she would have used to maintain herself, she determined to
change her station entirely, at least for the present. She would have
chosen to do something in a little, quiet hired room somewhere, sewing or
decorating or something of the sort, but that too would be hopelessly out
of her reach, without friends to aid her. A servant's place in some one's
home was the only thing possible that presented itself to her mind. She
could not cook, nor do general housework, but she thought she could fill
the place of waitress.
With a brave face, but a shrinking heart, she stepped into a drug-store
and looked up in the directory the addresses of several employment
agencies.
[Illustration]