It was about this time that the firm of Blackwell, Hanover & Dunham had a
difficult case to work out which involved the gathering of evidence from
Chicago and thereabouts, and it was with pleasure that Judge Blackwell
accepted the eager proposal from the junior member of the firm that he
should go out and attend to it.
As Tryon Dunham entered the sleeper, and placed his suit-case beside him
on the seat, he was reminded of the night when he had taken this train
with the girl who had come to occupy a great part of his thoughts in these
days. He had begun to feel that if he could ever hope to shake off his
anxiety and get back to his normal state of mind, he must find her and
unravel the mystery about her. If she were safe and had friends, so that
he was not needed, perhaps he would be able to put her out of his
thoughts, but if she were not safe----He did not quite finish the
sentence even in his thoughts, but his heart beat quicker always, and he
knew that if she needed him he was ready to help her, even at the
sacrifice of his life.
All during the journey he planned a campaign for finding her, until he
came to know in his heart that this was the real mission for which he had
come to Chicago, although he intended to perform the other business
thoroughly and conscientiously.
Upon his arrival in Chicago, he inserted a number of advertisements in the
daily papers, having laid various plans by which she might safely
communicate with him without running the risk of detection by her enemy.
If M.R. is in Chicago, will she kindly communicate with T.
Dunham, General Delivery? Important.
Mrs. Bowman's friend has something of importance to say to the
lady who dined with her October 8th. Kindly send address to T.D.,
Box 7 _Inter-Ocean_ office.
"Mary," let me know where and when I can speak with you about a
matter of importance. Tryon D., _Record-Herald_ L.
These and others appeared in the different papers, but when he began to
get communications from all sorts of poor creatures, every one demanding
money, and when he found himself running wild-goose chases after different
Marys and M.R.s, he abandoned all hope of personal columns in the
newspapers. Then he began a systematic search for music teachers and
musicians, for it seemed to him that this would be her natural way of
earning her living, if she were so hard pressed that this was necessary.
In the course of his experiments he came upon many objects of pity, and
his heart was stirred with the sorrow and the misery of the human race as
it had never been stirred in all his happy, well-groomed life. Many a poor
soul was helped and strengthened and put into the way of doing better
because of this brief contact with him. But always as he saw new miseries
he was troubled over what might have become of her--"Mary." It came to
pass that whenever he looked upon the face of a young woman, no matter how
pinched and worn with poverty, he dreaded lest _she_ might have come to
this pass, and be in actual need. As these thoughts went on day by day, he
came to feel that she was his by a God-given right, his to find, his to
care for. If she was in peril, he must save her. If she had done
wrong--but this he could never believe. Her face was too pure and lovely
for that. So the burden of her weighed upon his heart all the days while
he went about the difficult business of gathering evidence link by link in
the important law case that had brought him to Chicago.
Dunham had set apart working hours, and he seemed to labor with double
vigor then because of the other task he had set himself. When at last he
finished the legal business he had come for, and might go home, he
lingered yet a day, and then another, devoting himself with almost
feverish activity to the search for his unknown friend.
It was the evening of the third day after his law work was finished that
with a sad heart he went toward the hotel where he had been stopping. He
was obliged at last to face the fact that his search had been in vain.
He had almost reached the hotel when he met a business acquaintance, who
welcomed him warmly, for far and wide among legal men the firm of which
Judge Blackwell was the senior member commanded respect.
"Well, well!" said the older man. "Is this you, Dunham? I thought you were
booked for home two days ago. Suppose you come home to dinner with me.
I've a matter I'd like to talk over with you before you leave. I shall
count this a most fortunate meeting if you will."
Just because he caught at any straw to keep him longer in Chicago, Dunham
accepted the invitation. Just as the cab door was flung open in front of
the handsome house where he was to be a guest, two men passed slowly by,
like shadows out of place, and there floated to his ears one sentence
voiced in broadest Irish: "She goes by th' name of Mary, ye says? All
roight, sorr. I'll keep a sharp lookout."
Tryon Dunham turned and caught a glimpse of silver changing hands. One man
was slight and fashionably dressed, and the light that was cast from the
neighboring window showed his face to be dark and handsome. The other was
short and stout, and clad in a faded Prince Albert coat that bagged at
shoulders and elbows. He wore rubbers over his shoes, and his footsteps
sounded like those of a heavy dog. The two passed around the corner, and
Dunham and his host entered the house.
They were presently seated at a well appointed table, where an elaborate
dinner was served. The talk was of pleasant things that go to make up the
world of refinement; but the mind of the guest was troubled, and
constantly kept hearing that sentence, "She goes by the name of Mary."
Then, suddenly, he looked up and met her eyes!
She was standing just back of her mistress's chair, with quiet, watchful
attitude, but her eyes had been unconsciously upon the guest, until he
looked up and caught her glance.
She turned away, but the color rose in her cheeks, and she knew that he
was watching her.
Her look had startled him. He had never thought of looking for her in a
menial position, and at first he had noticed only the likeness to her for
whom he was searching. But he watched her furtively, until he became more
and more startled with the resemblance.
She did not look at him again, but he noticed that her cheeks were
scarlet, and that the long lashes drooped as if she were trying to hide
her eyes. She went now and again from the room on her silent, deft
errands, bringing and taking dishes, filling the glasses with ice water,
seeming to know at a glance just what was needed. Whenever she went from
the room he tried to persuade himself that it was not she, and then became
feverishly impatient for her return that he might anew convince himself
that it _was_. He felt a helpless rage at the son of the house for the
familiar way in which he said: "Mary, fill my glass," and could not keep
from frowning. Then he was startled at the similarity of names. Mary! The
men on the street had used the name, too! Could it be that her enemy had
tracked her? Perhaps he, Dunham, had appeared just in time to help her!
His busy brain scarcely heard the questions with which his host was plying
him, and his replies were distraught and monosyllabic. At last he broke in
upon the conversation:
"Excuse me, but I wonder if I may interrupt you for a moment. I have
thought of something that I ought to attend to at once. I wonder if the
waitress would be kind enough to send a 'phone message for me. I am afraid
it will be too late if I wait."
"Why, certainly," said the host, all anxiety. "Would you like to go to the
'phone yourself, or can I attend to it for you? Just feel perfectly at
home."
Already the young man was hastily writing a line or two on a card he had
taken from his pocket, and he handed it to the waitress, who at his
question had moved silently behind his chair to do his bidding.
"Just call up that number, please, and give the message below. They will
understand, and then you will write down their answer?"
He handed her the pencil and turned again to his dessert, saying with a
relieved air:
"Thank you. I am sorry for the interruption. Now will you finish that
story?" Apparently his entire attention was devoted to his host and his
ice, but in reality he was listening to the click of the telephone and the
low, gentle voice in an adjoining room. It came after only a moment's
pause, and he wondered at the calmness with which the usual formula of the
telephone was carried on. He could not hear what she said, but his ears
were alert to the pause, just long enough for a few words to be written,
and then to her footsteps coming quietly back.
His heart was beating wildly. It seemed to him that his host must see the
strained look in his face, but he tried to fasten his interest upon the
conversation and keep calm.
He had applied the test. There was no number upon the card, and he knew
that if the girl were not the one of whom he was in search, she would
return for an explanation.
If you are "Mary Remington," tell me where and when I can talk
with you. Immediately important to us both!
This was what he had written on the card. His fingers trembled as he took
it from the silver tray which she presented to him demurely. He picked it
up and eagerly read the delicate writing--hers--the same that had
expressed her thanks and told of her safe arrival in Chicago. He could
scarcely refrain from leaping from his chair and shouting aloud in his
gladness.
The message she had written was simple. No stranger reading it would have
thought twice about it. If the guest had read it aloud, it would have
aroused no suspicion.
Y.W.C.A. Building, small parlor, three to-morrow.
He knew the massive building, for he had passed it many times, but never
had he supposed it could have any interest for him. Now suddenly his heart
warmed to the great organization of Christian women who had established
these havens for homeless ones in the heart of the great cities.
He looked up at the girl as she was passing the coffee on the other side
of the table, but not a flicker of an eyelash showed she recognized him.
She went through her duties and withdrew from the room, but though they
lingered long over the coffee, she did not return. When they went into
the other room, his interest in the family grew less and less. The
daughter of the house sat down at the piano, after leading him up to ask
her to sing, and chirped through several sentimental songs, tinkling out a
shallow accompaniment with her plump, manicured fingers. His soul revolted
at the thought that she should be here entertaining the company, while
that other one whose music would have thrilled them all stayed humbly in
the kitchen, doing some menial task.
He took his leave early in the evening and hurried back to his hotel. As
he crossed the street to hail a cab, he thought he saw a short, baggy
figure shambling along in the shadow on the other side, looking up at the
house.
He had professed to have business to attend to, but when he reached his
room he could do nothing but sit down and think. That he had found her for
whom he had so long sought filled him with a deeper joy than any he had
ever known before. That he had found her in such a position deepened the
mystery and filled him with a nameless dread. Then out of the shadow of
his thoughts shambled the baggy man in the rubbers, and he could not rest,
but took his hat and walked out again into the great rumbling whirl of the
city night, walking on and on, until he again reached the house where he
had dined.
He passed in front of the building, and found lights still burning
everywhere. Down the side street, he saw the windows were brightly lighted
in the servants' quarters, and loud laughter was sounding. Was she in
there enduring such company? No, for there high in the fourth story
gleamed a little light, and a shadow moved about across the curtain.
Something told him that it was her room. He paced back and forth until the
light went out, and then reverently, with lifted hat, turned and found his
way back to the main avenue and a car line. As he passed the area gate a
bright light shot out from the back door, there was a peal of laughter, an
Irish goodnight, and a short man in baggy coat and rubbers shambled out
and scuttled noiselessly down to the back street.
[Illustration]
X
Dunham slept very little that night. His soul was hovering between joy and
anxiety. Almost he was inclined to find some way to send her word about
the man he had seen lingering about the place, and yet perhaps it was
foolish. He had doubtless been to call on the cook, and there might be no
connection whatever between what Dunham had heard and seen and the lonely
girl.
Next day, with careful hands, the girl made herself neat and trim with the
few materials she had at hand. Her own fine garments that had lain
carefully wrapped and hidden ever since she had gone into service were
brought forth, and the coarse ones with which she had provided herself
against suspicion were laid aside. If any one came into her room while she
was gone, he would find no fine French embroidery to tell tales. Also, she
wished to feel as much like herself as possible, and she never could feel
quite that in her cheap outfit. True, she had no finer outer garments
than a cheap black flannel skirt and coat which she had bought with the
first money she could spare, but they were warm, and answered for what she
had needed. She had not bought a hat, and had nothing now to wear upon her
head but the black felt that belonged to the man she was going to meet.
She looked at herself pityingly in the tiny mirror, and wondered if the
young man would understand and forgive? It was all she had, any way, and
there would be no time to go to the store and buy another before the
appointed hour, for the family had brought unexpected company to a late
lunch and kept her far beyond her hour for going out.
She looked down dubiously at her shabby shoes, their delicate kid now
cracked and worn. Her hands were covered by a pair of cheap black silk
gloves. It was the first time that she had noticed these things so keenly,
but now it seemed to her most embarrassing to go thus to meet the man who
had helped her.
She gathered her little hoard of money to take with her, and cast one
look back over the cheerless room, with a great longing to bid it farewell
forever, and go back to the world where she belonged; yet she realized
that it was a quiet refuge for her from the world that she must hereafter
face. Then she closed her door, went down the stairs and out into the
street, like any other servant on her afternoon out, walking away to meet
whatever crisis might arise. She had not dared to speculate much about the
subject of the coming interview. It was likely he wanted to inquire about
her comfort, and perhaps offer material aid. She would not accept it, of
course, but it would be a comfort to know that some one cared. She longed
inexpressibly for this interview, just because he had been kind, and
because he belonged to that world from which she had come. He would keep
her secret. He had true eyes. She did not notice soft, padded feet that
came wobbling down the street after her, and she only drew a little
further out toward the curbing when a blear-eyed, red face peered into
hers as she stood waiting for the car. She did not notice the shabby man
who boarded the car after she was seated.
Tryon Dunham stood in the great stone doorway, watching keenly the passing
throng. He saw the girl at once as she got out of the car, but he did not
notice the man in the baggy coat, who lumbered after her and watched with
wondering scrutiny as Dunham came forward, lifted his hat, and took her
hand respectfully. Here was an element he did not understand. He stood
staring, puzzled, as they disappeared into the great building; then
planted himself in a convenient place to watch until his charge should
come out again. This was perhaps a gentleman who had come to engage her to
work for him. She might be thinking of changing her place. He must be on
the alert.
Dunham placed two chairs in the far corner of the inner parlor, where they
were practically alone, save for an occasional passer through the hall. He
put the girl into the most comfortable one, and then went to draw down the
shade, to shut a sharp ray of afternoon sunlight from her eyes. She sat
there and looked down upon her shabby shoes, her cheap gloves, her coarse
garments, and honored him for the honor he was giving her in this attire.
She had learned by sharp experience that such respect to one in her
station was not common. As he came back, he stood a moment looking down
upon her. She saw his eye rest with recognition upon the hat she wore, and
her pale cheeks turned pink.
"I don't know what you will think of my keeping this," she said shyly,
putting her hand to the hat, "but it seemed really necessary at the time,
and I haven't dared spend the money for a new one yet. I thought perhaps
you would forgive me, and let me pay you for it some time later."
"Don't speak of it," he broke in, in a low voice. "I am so glad you could
use it at all. It would have been a comfort to me if I had known where it
was. I had not even missed it, because at this time of year I have very
little use for it. It is my travelling hat."
He looked at her again as though the sight of her was good to him, and his
gaze made her quite forget the words she had planned to say.
"I am so glad I have found you!" he went on. "You have not been out of my
thoughts since I left you that night on the train. I have blamed myself
over and over again for having gone then. I should have found some way to
stand by you. I have not had one easy moment since I saw you last."
His tone was so intense that she could not interrupt him; she could only
sit and listen in wonder, half trembling, to the low-spoken torrent of
feeling that he expressed. She tried to protest, but the look in his face
stopped her. He went on with an earnestness that would not be turned aside
from its purpose.
"I came to Chicago that I might search for you. I could not stand the
suspense any longer. I have been looking for you in every way I could
think of, without openly searching, for that I dared not do lest I might
jeopardize your safety. I was almost in despair when I went to dine with
Mr. Phillips last evening. I felt I could not go home without knowing at
least that you were safe, and now that I have found you, I cannot leave
you until I know at least that you have no further need for help."
She summoned her courage now, and spoke in a voice full of feeling:
"Oh, you must not feel that way. You helped me just when I did not know
what to do, and put me in the way of helping myself. I shall never cease
to thank you for your kindness to an utter stranger. And now I am doing
very well." She tried to smile, but the tears came unbidden instead.
"You poor child!" His tone was full of something deeper than compassion,
and his eyes spoke volumes. "Do you suppose I think you are doing well
when I see you wearing the garb of a menial and working for people to whom
you are far superior--people who by all the rights of education and
refinement ought to be in the kitchen serving you?"
"It was the safest thing I could do, and really the only thing I could get
to do at once," she tried to explain. "I'm doing it better every day."
"I have no doubt. You can be an artist at serving as well as anything
else, if you try. But now that is all over. I am going to take care of
you. There is no use in protesting. If I may not do it in one way, I will
in another. There is one question I must ask first, and I hope you will
trust me enough to answer it. Is there any other--any other man who has
the right to care for you, and is unable or unwilling to do it?"
She looked up at him, her large eyes still shining with tears, and
shuddered slightly.
"Oh, no!" she said. "Oh, no, I thank God there is not! My dear uncle has
been dead for four years, and there has never been any one else who cared
since Father died."
He looked at her, a great light beginning to come into his face; but she
did not understand and turned her head to hide the tears.
"Then I am going to tell you something," he said, his tone growing lower,
yet clear enough for her to hear every word distinctly.
A tall, oldish girl with a discontented upper lip stalked through the
hall, glanced in at the door, and sniffed significantly, but they did not
see her. A short, baggy-coated man outside hovered anxiously around the
building and passed the very window of that room, but the shade opposite
them was down, and they did not know. The low, pleasant voice went on:
"I have come to care a great deal for you since I first saw you, and I
want you to give me the right to care for you always and protect you
against the whole world."
She looked up, wondering.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that I love you, and I want to make you my wife. Then I can defy
the whole world if need be, and put you where you ought to be."
"Oh!" she breathed softly.
"Wait, please," he pleaded, laying his hand gently on her little,
trembling one. "Don't say anything until I have finished. I know of course
that this will be startling to you. You have been brought up to feel that
such things must be more carefully and deliberately done. I do not want
you to feel that this is the only way I can help you, either. If you are
not willing to be my wife, I will find some other plan. But this is the
best way, if it isn't too hard on you, for I love you as I never dreamed
that I could love a woman. The only question is, whether you can put up
with me until I can teach you to love me a little."
She lifted eloquent eyes to his face.
"Oh, it is not that," she stammered, a rosy light flooding cheek and brow.
"It is not that at all. But you know nothing about me. If you knew, you
would very likely think as others do, and----"
"Then do not tell me anything about yourself, if it will trouble you. I do
not care what others think. If you have poisoned a husband, I should know
that he needed poisoning, and any way I should love you and stand by you."
"I have not done anything wrong," she said gravely.
"Then if you have done nothing wrong, we will prove it to the world, or,
if we cannot prove it, we will fly to some desert island and live there in
peace and love. That is the way I feel about you. I know that you are good
and true and lovely! Any one might as well try to prove to me that you
were crazy as that you had done wrong in any way."
Her face grew strangely white.
"Well, suppose I was crazy?"
"Then I would take you and cherish you and try to cure you, and if that
could not be done, I should help you to bear it."
"Oh, you are wonderful!" she breathed, the light of a great love growing
in her eyes.
The bare, prosaic walls stood stolidly about them, indifferent to romance
or tragedy that was being wrought out within its walls. The whirl and hum
of the city without, the grime and soil of the city within, were alike
forgotten by these two as their hearts throbbed in the harmony of a great
passion.
"Do you think you could learn to love me?" said the man's voice, with the
sweetness of the love song of the ages in its tone.
"I love you now," said the girl's low voice. "I think I have loved you
from the beginning, though I never dared to think of it in that way. But
it would not be right for me to become your wife when you know practically
nothing about me."
"Have you forgotten that you know nothing of me?"
"Oh, I do know something about you," she said shyly. "Remember that I have
dined with your friends. I could not help seeing that they were good
people, especially that delightful old man, the Judge. He looked
startlingly like my dear father. I saw how they all honored and loved you.
And then what you have done for me, and the way that you treated an
utterly defenceless stranger, were equal to years of mere acquaintance. I
feel that I know a great deal about you."
He smiled. "Thank you," he said, "but I have not forgotten that something
more is due you than that slight knowledge of me, and before I came out
here I went to the pastor of the church of which my mother is a member,
and which I have always attended and asked him to write me a letter. He is
so widely known that I felt it would be an introduction for me."
He laid an open letter in her lap, and, glancing down, she saw that it was
signed by the name of one of the best known pulpit orators in the land,
and that it spoke in highest terms of the young man whom it named as "my
well-loved friend."
"It is also your right to know that I have always tried to live a pure and
honorable life. I have never told any woman but you that I loved
her--except an elderly cousin with whom I thought I was in love when I was
nineteen. She cured me of it by laughing at me, and I have been
heart-whole ever since."
She raised her eyes from reading the letter.
"You have all these, and I have nothing." She spread out her hands
helplessly. "It must seem strange to you that I am in this situation. It
does to me. It is awful."
She put her hands over her eyes and shuddered.
"It is to save you from it all that I have come." He leaned over and spoke
tenderly, "Darling!"
"Oh, wait!" She caught her breath as if it hurt her, and put out her hand
to stop him, "Wait! You must not say any more until I have told you all
about it. Perhaps when I have told you, you will think about me as others
do, and I shall have to run from you."
"Can you not trust me?" he reproached her.
"Oh, yes, I can trust you, but you may no longer trust me, and that I
cannot bear."
"I promise you solemnly that I will believe every word you say."
"Ah, but you will think I do not know, and that it is your duty to give me
into the hands of my enemies."
"That I most solemnly vow I will never do," he said earnestly. "You need
not fear to tell me anything. But listen, tell me this one thing: in the
eyes of God, is there any reason, physical, mental, or spiritual, why you
should not become my wife?"
She looked him clearly in the eyes.
"None at all."
"Then I am satisfied to take you without hearing your story until
afterwards."
"But I am not satisfied. If I am to see distrust come into your eyes, it
must be now, not afterwards."
"Then tell it quickly."
He put out his hand and took hers firmly into his own, as if to help her
in her story.
[Illustration]