Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
AN INTERRUPTED NIGHT (from inside flap of dust jacket)
By ISABELLA M. ALDEN (PANSY)
Author of "Ester Ried," "Wise and Otherwise," etc.
In her preface Grace Livingston Hill, a niece of Pansy's, explains
that this tale is based on actual facts told by the woman impersonated
in the story by Mrs. Dunlap. Pansy, now eighty-seven years old and
bed-ridden, found herself unable to complete the preparation of her
story and entrusted the task of putting it into shape to Mrs. Hill,
herself an author of great prominence. In spite of Pansy's advanced
years she still shows the same sparkle and sincerity and understanding
of youth that gave such interest and charm to "Ester Ried" and "Four
Girls at Chautauqua." This story tells of how a young girl comes up
against one of life's most terrible experiences and with the help of
her new-found friend, Mrs. Dunlap, fights her way through a maze of
trickery and deceit to a fuller understanding of life—and romance in
all its beauty.
AN
INTERRUPTED
NIGHT
By
ISABELLA M. ALDEN
("Pansy")
_Author of_
_"The Fortunate Calamity,"_
_"Esther Reid," "Wise and Otherwise,"_
_"Three People," "Four Girls at Chautauqua," etc._
_With a Foreword by_
GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL
[Illustration]
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
1 9 2 9
[Illustration]
Copyright, 1929, by J. B. Lippincott Company
Printed in the United States of America
FOREWORD
AS LONG ago as I can remember there was always a radiant being who was
next to my mother and father in my heart, and who seemed to me to be a
sort of a combination of fairy godmother, heroine, and saint. I thought
her the most beautiful, wise, and wonderful person in my world, outside
of my home. I treasured her smiles, copied her ways, and listened
breathlessly to all she had to say, sitting at her feet worshipfully
whenever she was near; ready to run any errand for her, no matter how
far.
I measured other people by her principles and opinions, and always
felt that her word was final. I am afraid I even corrected my beloved
parents sometimes when they failed to state some principle or opinion
as she had done.
When she came on a visit the house seemed glorified because of her
presence; while she remained, life was one long holiday; when she went
away it seemed as if a blight had fallen.
Her eyes were dark and had interesting twinkles in them that children
loved; her hair was long and dark and very heavy, dressed in two wide
braids that were wound round and round her lovely head in smooth coils,
fitting close like a cap, but when it was unbraided and brushed out,
it fell far below her knees and was like a garment folding her about.
How I adored that hair and longed to have hair just like it! How I even
used in secret to tie an old brown veil about my head and let it fall
down my back, and try to see how it would feel to have hair like that.
She had delicate features and a wonderful smile. Nobody else in the
world looked just as lovely as did she. But once I found a picture of
Longfellow's Evangeline in a photograph album, in exquisite classic
profile, and thought it was her likeness. She was like that—if you have
that old faded photograph somewhere in an old album with quaint clasps.
She was wonderful!
And she was young, gracious, and very good to be with.
This radiant creature was known to me by the name of "Auntie Belle,"
though my mother and my grandmother, called her "Isabella!" Just like
that! Even sharply sometimes when they disagreed with her—"Isabella!" I
wondered that they dared. I sometimes resented it.
Later I found that other people had still other names for her. To the
congregation of which her husband was pastor she was known as "Mrs.
Alden." It seemed to me too grownup a name for her and made her appear
more stately and sedate than she really was. I remember resenting it
that these strange people should seem to have rights in her. She was
mine. What were they?
But when a little later my world grew larger, and knowledge increased,
I found that this precious aunt of mine did not belong entirely to us
as I had supposed. She had another world in which she moved and had
her being when she went from us from time to time; or when at certain
hours in the day she shut herself within a room that was sacredly known
as a "study," and wrote for a long time, while we all tried to keep
still; and in this other world of hers she was known as "Pansy." It was
a world that loved and honored her, a world that gave her homage and
flowers, and wrote her letters by the hundreds each week.
It was not long, too, before I had learned to preen myself like a young
peacock because I "belonged" to her, and I am afraid I felt a superior
pity and contempt for the thousands of other children who read her
paper called "The Pansy" which she edited, but who did not "belong"
to her. They could only write letters to her, while I could often be
with her every day, sometimes for weeks, and could talk with her all I
pleased.
As I grew still older and learned to read I devoured her stories
chapter by chapter. Even sometimes page by page as they came hot from
the typewriter; occasionally stealing in for an instant when she left
the study, to snatch the latest page and see what happened next; or to
accost her as her morning's work was done, with: "Oh, have you finished
another chapter?"
And often the whole family would crowd around, leaving their work when
the word went around that the last chapter was finished and it was
going to be read aloud. And now we listened, breathless, as she read,
and made her characters live before us. They were real people to us, as
real as if they lived and breathed before us.
She was at the height of her popularity just then, and the letters that
poured in at every mail were overwhelming. Asking for her autograph
and her photograph, begging for pieces of her best dress to sew into
patchwork; begging for advice how to become a great author; begging for
advice on every possible subject, from how to get the right kind of a
husband, to how to stop biting one's nails.
And she answered them all!
It was a Herculean task. Sometimes she let us help her when she was
very much rushed, but usually she kept her touch on every letter that
went out—and they were thousands.
Then there was the editorship of "The Pansy," a young people's paper
which was responsible for more thousands of letters from the children
who had joined the Pansy Society, and who wrote to her about their
faults and how to give them up, "For Jesus' Sake," which was their
motto.
Sometimes I look back on her long and busy life and marvel what she has
accomplished.
She was a marvelous housekeeper, knowing every dainty detail of her
home to perfection; able to cook anything in the world just a little
better than anybody else—except my mother and her—; able to set fine
stitches in patches and darning that were works of art; able to make
even dishwashing fun!
Sometimes when we were all together for a season, visiting, or during
the winters we spent in Florida and lived together, it fell to her
part and mine to do the dinner dishes together every night, and we
raced, she washing, I wiping and putting away; making a record each
night and trying to beat it the next. And such good, good times as we
had together, my beloved aunt and I, as we worked with a will and left
the kitchen immaculate for the next morning. Oh, she was a wonderful
housekeeper!
Yes, and a marvelous pastor's wife! She took the whole parish into her
life and gave herself to the work. She was not a modern minister's
wife, who only goes to teas and receptions, and plays bridge and
attends to the social end of life, never bothering about the church.
She was the real old-fashioned kind, who made calls on all the
parishioners with her husband, knew every member intimately, cared for
the sick, gathered the young people into her home making both a social
and religious center for them with herself as leader and adviser; grew
intimate with each one personally and led them to Christ; became their
confidante; and loved them all as if they had been her brothers and
sisters. She taught the Primary class—and incidentally the mothers of
the Primary class. She quietly and unobtrusively managed the Missionary
Society and the Ladies' Aid, not always as its executive officer,
often keeping quite in the background. She became the dear friend of
every woman in the church without making any of them jealous. She was
beloved, almost adored of them all.
She was a tender, vigilant, wonderful mother, such a mother as few are
privileged to have, giving without stint of her time and her strength
and her love and her companionship.
Even while she was quite young, when I was a small child she began to
go out into the world, to speak in public, to read her stories, to lead
Primary Sunday School Conferences, and, as I grew older and developed
a delight in drawing, she sometimes took me along to do her blackboard
work for her, at which privilege I swelled with pride. She was much in
demand in those days, and I remember the awe with which I regarded her
as one of the great ones of the earth, who was paid large sums to tell
other people the best ways of teaching, and to read her fascinating
stories. How I loved her and hung upon her every word and smile. How
proud I was to belong to her! And am still.
All these things she did, and yet wrote books! Stories out of real
life, that struck home and showed us to ourselves as God saw us; that
sent us to our knees to talk with Him.
With marvelous skill she searched hearts, especially of the easy-going
Christian, whether minister or layman, young and old, and brought them
awake and alive to their inconsistencies. She wove her stories around
their common, everyday life, till all her characters became alive and
real to those who read. They still live within our memories like people
we have known intimately and dwelt among. Ester Reid and Julia Reid,
the Four Girls at Chautauqua, Mrs. Solomon Smith. I almost expect to
meet some of them in Heaven.
Perhaps she wrote more and better because she was doing so eagerly in
every direction. Her public, her church, her family, her home.
I wish I might paint you a picture of that home as I knew it; of my
home, its counterpart; of the years the two families spent much time
together as one family. The days were one long dream. Hard work? Yes,
but good fellowship. Everybody working together with a common aim, and
joy in the work and the fellowship!
And the evenings! Oh, those evenings, the crown of the days, the time
to which we all looked forward as to a goal when our work was done!
Those evenings are bright spots in my youth. Especially the evenings
of the years we all spent together in Florida, when the sun went
down sharply and the light went velvet black at evening, until the
great tropical moon came out. Those long evenings when the soft dense
darkness shut us in to a cheerful supper table, and, after we had
hustled through the dishes, we all gathered in the big sitting-room
around the open fire for family worship. Yes, we were as old-fashioned
as that! We had family worship both morning and evening. And I am not
of those modern ones who tell such things to scoff at them and say how
sick they got of religion because of it, and lay to that their present
indifference to God and the Bible. I look back to those times as the
most precious, the most beautiful, the most powerful influence that
came into my life. I thank God for a family that worshipped Him morning
and evening and gave me an early knowledge and love for the Bible and
the things of the Kingdom. Either my uncle or my father would conduct
the little service, and often the one or the other of them would say to
my dear aunt: "You read the chapter to-night, Belle," just because she
was such a beautiful reader and we all loved to listen to her. At other
times, we would recite verses, all around, a verse apiece, and then
kneel in a circle for the prayer.
Oh, those prayers of the years that made my life inevitably acquainted
with God, and the Lord Jesus, so that I never could be troubled by the
doubts of to-day, because I know Him, "whom to know is life eternal."
I cannot be thankful enough for those prayers, and that sacred time of
worship every day that brought me into His very Presence.
And then the evening that followed!
We would all get our work, sewing or drawing, painting or knitting,
or embroidery. My father, and my uncle would each take his particular
chair in a shaded corner, and a book would be brought out. It was
always a book that had been selected with great care, usually a story,
now and again a great missionary book but more often a good novel.
And this aunt would usually do the reading. Sometimes my aunt and my
mother took turns reading. They both were remarkable readers, and
knit close in spirit since early childhood. For two, sometimes three
beautiful hours we reveled in the book. Reluctantly, when the word
went forth that it was time to stop, we folded up our work and went to
bed—sometimes pleading for just another chapter—now and then actually
staying up breathless till all hours to finish some great climax. We
always went off to rest with a bright eagerness for the morrow and the
evening, and the story again—or a new one if we had finished one.
So we read the works of George Macdonald—we loved the Scotch, and our
readers knew how to put the burr of the dialect upon their tongues—Ian
Maclaren, Barrie—much of Dickens, some of Scott, Björnson, William Dean
Howells, Jean Ingelow's few matchless novels, Frank Stockton, with his
charming absurdities and a host of other writers whose stories seem to
have become submerged and forgotten in this day of modern literature.
But I look back to those stories as my meeting time with the great
of the earth. How real the Bonnie Brier Bush and all its quaint true
people were! How tender and strong was the Marquis of Lossie and Sir
Gibbie! How I thrilled over the "Men of the Moss Hags," "Ben Hur," "The
Virginian," "Jane Eyre." I mention them at random. It is my ambition
to some day possess in a special set of shelves, every one of those
wonderful stories that thrilled me so when I was young. Oh, don't
try to tell me I would not care for them now! I do. They were real
books, books that do not change because they told of human life as it
is really lived in hearts. They may need to be furnished with a few
electric lights and radios and airplanes and automobiles to make them
up-to-date, but otherwise you will not find them out of tune with life
as it is to-day, except that they are perhaps too clean and wholesome
to be natural to-day.
There were frequent times when this beloved aunt, around whom we all
seemed in those days to center, was called away to deliver an address,
or to conduct a conference, or to furnish an evening's entertainment
in some distant place; but when she returned from one of these trips
we all gathered around to hear her tell her experiences, for we were
always sure of stories. She saw everything, and she knew how to tell
with glowing words about the days she had been away so that she lived
them over again for us. It was almost better than if we had been along
because she knew how to bring out the touch of pathos or beauty or fun,
and her characters were all portraits. It listened like a book.
It was on one of these occasions that she told on her return from
a trip, the story of this book. I remember it as if it were but
yesterday, though the whole thing happened many years ago, for modern
as this story is, the main part of it happened, really happened, to her
personal knowledge, over thirty-five years ago.
It was told to her by a woman who was so well-known all over our
country at that time that if I were to name her you could not help
but remember how active she was in Woman's Suffrage and W. C. T. U.
work, besides several other notable reforms and organizations. She was
a brilliant public speaker, much in demand, and a great worker for
young girls. She recounted this story to my aunt as a recent personal
experience, and gave her permission to use it in a story (after a
suitable interval of time of course, and without the original names.)
The story was written in brief form and appeared several years after
its happening in a periodical as a short serial; but it is now
appearing in book form for the first time. The dear author, after an
interval of several years, during which on account of ill health and a
feeling that her work was done, has taken up her pen once more. But at
what odds! She is now eighty-seven years old and confined to her bed,
the result of a fall and a broken hip. In the intervals of pain she has
been elaborating and preparing this story for book form.
And now, because the manuscript was to have been in the hands of the
publisher long ago, and because pain has held her in its grip for an
unusually long period of weeks lately, leaving her unfit for work for
the present, she has trusted me with the task of putting it into final
shape. This story seems to me peculiarly fitting as a message for this
present time.
I approach the work with a kind of awe upon me that I should be working
on her story!
If, long ago in my childhood, it had been told me that I should ever be
counted worthy to do this, I would not have believed it. Before her I
shall always feel like the little worshipful child I used to be.
I recall a Christmas long ago when I was just beginning to write scraps
of stories myself, with no thought of ever amounting to anything as a
writer. Her gift to me that year was a thousand sheets of typewriter
paper; and in a sweet little note that accompanied it she wished me
success and bade me turn those thousand sheets of paper into as many
dollars.
It was my first real encouragement. The first hint that anybody thought
I ever could write, and I laughed aloud at the utter impossibility
of its ever coming true. But I feel that my first inspiration for
story-telling came from her, and from reading her books in which as a
child I fairly steeped myself.
So I beg the leniency of her readers of to-day as I approach the task
that is set before me. I know I shall have hers. My one hope is that I
shall not in any way mar the message of this true and thrilling tale,
that certainly is needed in this day and generation. I trust that she
may soon be well enough to write once more, herself, another tale as
good if not better.
Let me tell you a secret. I happen to know that this wonderful little
brave aunt of mine is at work on the story of her younger years. She
calls it "Yesterdays." I have had the pleasure of reading a few of
the earlier chapters where she tells of her childhood and her young
womanhood; the quaint things that happened to her; the dear home
in which she lived; the great people of other days whom she knew
intimately and with whom she grew up.
I pray she may be spared with strength to finish her story of her
"Yesterdays," and many more beside.
GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
AN INTERRUPTED NIGHT
CHAPTER I
THE train had limped along all the afternoon with engine trouble, and
now at evening the passengers learned that they were two hours behind
schedule and still losing time.
Mrs. Dunlap put away her writing materials and sat up with a sigh to
look about her. It began to look as if she might be going to miss her
connections unless relief from this state of things came soon.
She had just finished correcting the last galley of her new book which
was to come out that fall; she had gone over the notes for her new
addresses she was on her way to make at several appointed places; she
had finished reading her magazine from cover to cover; she had even
written a couple of letters to friends; and here she was with time on
her hands! An almost unheard of thing for this busy woman. Not many
hours of leisure came her way, and when one did, it filled her almost
with dismay at the enforced waste of time.
Off in the west a thread of crimson still lingered on the horizon,
but it soon faded into a line of pale amber and then disappeared. The
lights of the train blared out and shut the travelers into the narrow
confines of the car, and Mary Dunlap leaned back in her seat and fell
to studying her fellow passengers.
The usual mother with many children who had been the usual noisy
nuisance all the afternoon, had subsided into quiet for the time being;
the mother and the littlest baby being asleep, the rest occupied with a
picture book some thoughtful traveler had donated.
The personnel of the car had changed somewhat during the afternoon.
Several people had got out at the stations along the way and others
had come in. Among the latter were the two people who occupied the
seat directly in front of Mary Dunlap, and before she realized it,
she was thoroughly absorbed in studying them, her interest caught by
the singularly pure and lovely outline of the young woman's face, in
profile.
They were apparently a young married couple, though the man was not so
young as the girl, who looked entirely too young to be married yet. As
she studied them she could not help wondering over the girl's choice of
a husband. They did not seem at all well mated. The girl was the far
more attractive of the two.
Mary Dunlap decided that they were newly wed. The man had an air of
proprietorship which she thought could only be explained by that
relation. To the girl everything seemed to be strange and new, but she
did not wear a happy face.
"Poor child!" thought the watcher. "She has just said goodbye to her
mother, I suppose."
Then for a moment, memory carried her swiftly back to the day when she
had been called upon to bid one dear girl the long goodbye.
Still, she reflected, on this girl's face there was unrest—real
anxiety. There were even moments when she fancied that there was actual
fear! What could be the explanation?
The husband had been most attentive, almost oppressively so. Could he
be urging her to some course she did not approve?
"The man looks like a gentleman tyrant!" she told herself. "He will be
certain to have his own way in the end. That poor child might as well
yield first as last."
The call for dinner in the dining car took her away from their vicinity
for a little while, and before she returned they had followed her to
the diner. But later in the evening when they came back to their seats,
she could not help seeing that they were having some kind of a heated
argument, and that the girl was deeply distressed, almost on the verge
of tears, the man alternately vexed and cajoling.
Mary Dunlap was a woman of wide interests and keen insight into
character. She could not help siding with the young wife, and feeling
that the man was in the wrong. He looked like a man who would have his
own way at all costs.
In vain did she tell herself that she was probably all wrong. The
girl might be a spoiled darling who was childishly insisting on some
extravagance which the man, older and wiser, was trying to reason her
out of. But try as she would, she could not make it seem that way. The
man had a selfish sophistication about him that made her distrust him.
Both the young people were well dressed, with that regard to quiet
elegance that showed they had plenty of money, and belonged to what is
known as the higher social class. The trouble could not be about money.
Mary Dunlap turned her eyes away from them at last, resolved to wonder
no more about these strangers who had caught her passing interest. It
was none of her business anyway, what troubled these two. They would
have to settle their own affairs. There was obviously no way in which
she could help them; and perhaps even this kindly observation was a
species of eavesdropping. She would think no more about them.
With her eyes on the dark landscape outside the window, she began to
think about those two hours that the train had lost and to wonder what
she could possibly do about it in case she missed her connection at the
junction. Being a methodical woman, and a careful planner she was not
used to missing her appointments, and it was most annoying to have the
train crawl along this way, and then stop for unexplainable periods.
Nevertheless, there was a certain resignation about her annoyance.
She believed fully that design, not mere chance or Fate determines
our ways, and reorders our plannings sometimes, in accordance with
All-seeing wisdom; and she could not help wondering why her plans had
been put in jeopardy.
For a long time she watched the lights of the little villages go flying
by, for now the train seemed to have taken up a steady, dogged trot,
and rolled along without stopping as if it had made up its mind to get
home sometime.
But when she finally turned her gaze back to the car again she could
see that the two in front of her had not settled their argument
yet. They were not talking much now, but each face was eloquent of
disagreement. The girl's eyes held unshed tears, and her look was
openly anxious. Now and then she cast a pleading look at her companion,
and said a little wistful word, ending in a sigh. The man was still
stubbornly positive, his lips curving in a superior smile of amusement
at the girl's reiterated objections. Again Mary Dunlap began to realize
that her own interest in the affair was unwarrantably eager. She must
stop thinking about these two people or they would pretty soon turn
around suddenly and see her staring at them.
But just at that instant there occurred a happy interruption. The
brakeman came eagerly through the train as one bearing welcome news,
shouting the name of the Junction at last.
Mrs. Dunlap sat up briskly and looked at her watch. Ten minutes past
midnight! Would the other train have waited?
Capably and quickly she straightened her hat, put on her gloves,
buttoned her coat, gathered her hand bag, brief case, and suit case,
and was ready at the door of the car when the train came to a halt.
But a glance at the track on the other side of the station showed that
the train had not waited! The station looked deserted and dirty in the
dim midnight, and her heart sank. Now, why had this had to happen?
Mrs. Dunlap paused for a moment in the doorway of the station as the
disappointed crowds surged from the belated train. They had all more
or less of a discouraged look and she sympathized with them. It was
a new experience to her to be stranded unexpectedly at midnight in a
strange place. Her delay would undoubtedly disappoint many people; but
it certainly was not her fault. She had planned carefully as usual,
and now must send telegrams in various directions to explain her
non-appearance; her first disappointment as a platform speaker after
years of service. She could not possibly reach her first appointment
now in time and the whole schedule would be thrown out. Too bad, but
she must make the best of it.
As she made her way to the telegraph office the man, who had for
several hours occupied the seat in front of her, brushed past her. He
too had probably missed connections and must telegraph. She wondered
where he had left his young wife and wished she might have had a chance
to show her some little kindness. She felt strangely drawn to the girl,
who looked too young to be a wife and seemed so utterly troubled.
"I wonder if they are as much disappointed as I am over the upset of
plans, and if they are disappointing as many people as I am?" she said
to herself, and again a question came to her mind; "I wonder why it was
allowed to happen? I certainly thought I was needed at that meeting
to-morrow morning! They have been planning for it so long! It is so
embarrassing to have to disappoint them this way!"
It very soon became necessary however to give undivided attention to
the question of where she was to spend the remainder of the night. The
Kennard House to which she had been recommended by the ticket agent
proved to be crowded and the gentlemanly and sympathetic clerk could
give her no encouragement.
He shook his head in response to her question: "The Albemarle? No, they
are as badly off as we are. A car just drove away from here with people
who had tried the Albemarle first. It is certainly an unfortunate night
for that express train to be late! The city is overcrowded on account
of the Convention. You are alone, madam? I hardly know what to suggest
to you. We let our very last room go, about three minutes before you
came in, to a couple who were your fellow passengers."
Was that a courteous hint that if she hadn't been so slow in her
movements she might have had their room? Was the fortunate couple the
two who had held her thoughts for hours? If so, she was glad she had
been late; that sad-eyed little wife needed a quiet room for getting
her nerves under control.
Then came another hotel official to exchange a few words in undertone
with the one who was trying to serve her. A moment, then her
sympathetic friend turned to her again.
"Madam, I have just heard that the man who engaged No. 38 for the
night, has changed his mind, and is staying with friends in town. If
you cared to wait in the reception room for a few minutes we could have
it ready for you."
Grateful thanks were of course the only reply to make to this.
As she took up the pen to register Mrs. Dunlap remarked: "It seems
almost foolish to register for the few hours there are left of the
night." But she said it with a genial smile and the friendly air that
made clerks and porters and all who served her, glad to offer a helping
hand.
The name just preceding her own held her attention as probably the one
that belonged to the couple who had so continually interested her that
evening. "R. H. Keller and wife." They were booked for Room 537. That
must be four floors above her own. She wished they had been nearer,
then she might have opportunity to exchange courtesies with that
frightened little bride; if she could only mother her a little, she
would be glad.
The parlor in which she waited looked vast and gloomy in its midnight
dimness and solitude. No not quite solitude, there were other
occupants, a man and woman, probably waiting like herself for a room to
be made ready. Her first impulse was to choose a corner as far removed
from them as space would permit. Instead, she took possession of one
of the couches quite near where they were standing for she suddenly
recognized them as her traveling companions, and her interest in the
girl flamed anew as she caught sight of her face.
What could be troubling that girl! The more she saw of the man's
face the more she distrusted him. Perhaps she imagined it, but it
seemed as though he had recognized her close proximity with a frown!
Nevertheless, she determined not to retreat. What if there should be
a chance just to speak a cheery word to the girl? She tucked herself
among the cushions, drew her coat closely about her, and seemed to
sleep, but she had never felt wider awake. Her nervousness was taking
the form of a premonition.
The man had turned toward his wife. "We may as well be comfortable
while we wait," he said. "It is beastly luck to have to wait at all.
These second class towns never have proper hotel accommodations. Let us
go over to that couch at the other end of the room where the pillows
look less stinted."
The girl looked over at the distant couch then glanced back to the one
where Mrs. Dunlap rested.
"Oh, no," she said, moving nearer to the fireplace. "I am chilly;
I would rather stay here. Suppose you push a couple of those large
rocking chairs up this way?"
"I can make you much more comfortable on the couch," he said, his tone
indicating annoyance. "That fire will not keep you warm, there is
nothing left of it but charred old stumps. Do let me snug you up among
the cushions."
He essayed to pass an arm about her as he spoke, but she drew away from
him with a wan smile as she said:
"I would rather stay here; it seems less lonely to be near a woman. Why
did we trouble about rooms? I think I would just as soon stay where I
am?"
"Standing?" he asked in a tone which to the woman on the couch sounded
sullen.
"No," answered the girl with that pitiful attempt at a smile, "I would
be willing to sit if you would bring up chairs. There cannot be much
longer to wait, I should think. What time did you say we could get a
train?"
When he told her, the response was almost a wail.
"Oh, Rufus! That was not what you said before? Why, that is not until
another day!"
The woman on the couch held herself motionless by a strong effort of
will. This was not the tone of a happy wife! She was certain now that
something was wrong besides a few hours of delay. This was more like
the outbreak of a woman half afraid of the man who was supposed to be
caring for her.
"It is beastly luck," the man said again. "Something is always the
matter on this confounded branch road! If you hadn't been staying in
such an out of the way place, we should have been saved all this.
Still, I don't understand why we should make it any more uncomfortable
than it is. You ought to be resting quietly, instead—"
Her voice interrupted him, louder than it had been before. "I cannot
rest: I cannot! I can only think of my mother's utter dismay and—and
terror when she hears—"
"H-sh!" The man's sibilant whisper was sudden and fierce!
No wonder the girl started, and cried out in fright: "Oh, what is it!"
He bent over her and spoke lower.
"It is nothing at all, my dear, except that you are utterly tired out
and your nerves are on edge. But you must be careful what you say.
That confounded eavesdropper has planted herself as close to us as she
could, and may get the idea from your words that I am a fiend of some
kind. Thank goodness, though, she has gone to sleep, at last! I must
say they are taking an unaccountable time to get that room ready."
"That room!" repeated the still frightened voice. "There are two rooms,
of course?"
"Of course," he repeated hastily, "but I could wait for mine, you know."
"I don't like it," the girl said, quite as if she had not heard him,
"I don't like anything about it! I wish—Oh, Rufus, can't we go on
to-night? Or go somewhere and talk things over and make other plans. I
don't want any room!"
He spoke kindly but with great firmness.
"That is impossible, dear, as you will realize when you think a moment.
All the arrangements are made, and my friend is waiting and will be
there for the next train. There is no other train until morning that
will do us any good. Why can you not be the sensible girl you have been
all the afternoon and let me do the extra planning that this detention
has made necessary? I assure you I can take care of you." As he spoke,
he tried to draw her nearer.
She made a despairing movement away from him and said:
"Oh, I cannot make you understand! I know how strange it seems to you,
but if you could think for a moment of my side of it! Can't you realize
how different it will all be to me when I have the right to be with
you anywhere and always? As it is, I cannot help feeling strangely
alone and—and almost disgraced! I do, Rufus, I cannot help it. Mother
has always been so particular about me; and she would think this that
we are doing was terrible! I know now that she would. Can't we go
somewhere on the cars, and talk it all over? I don't feel so perfectly
strange when we are moving. Hark! Was that one o'clock? And we were to
have been there long before twelve! And you were to telegraph to mother
early in the morning! Oh, this is dreadful!"
He bent toward her and spoke gently. "Daisy, listen, you are making
yourself ill over troubles that do not exist. Everything is all right;
we shall be in by noon, and my friend will meet the train. Meantime in
the early morning I will wire your mother, as we planned; and—"
She interrupted him. "But we don't get in until noon! And what you were
going to say won't be true!"
"Oh, nonsense! Why, my dear, if you were not so tired as to be beyond
reasoning, I could convince you in a very few minutes of the folly of
that! I shall only be anticipating the truth by a very few hours in
order to relieve her anxiety."
"Rufus, I cannot help it. I cannot have our life together begin with
falsehood! It is bad enough as it is. I cannot help being sorry that we
did not wait until mother had a chance to know you better. She is not a
hard or unreasonable woman."
"I see plainly that you do not trust me." He spoke with such bitterness
and sharpness that the listener on the couch who could catch only
portions of the girl's words, felt as though she would like to spring
up that minute and defend her. But the voice rose clearer just then.
"Rufus! How can you say that to me? If I had not trusted you utterly,
would I be here to-night? If you had a mother, you would understand how
perfectly dreadful it is to—"
As she hesitated for words, a hotel official came towards them.
"Are you Mr. R. H. Keller, sir? If so, you are wanted at the office
telephone."
"Confound the fellow!" muttered Keller. Then, in a gentler tone, "Don't
let that frighten you, Daisy. It is a business call that I have been
expecting; but it comes at an inopportune time, of course. I shall be
back in a very few minutes."
Left to herself, the girl walked back and forth in front of the fire,
seeming to catch her breath in convulsive little sobs. She was so near
the couch that Mrs. Dunlap could have put out her hand and touched her.
When that good woman saw a pair of small hands clenched and heard a low
moan, she came suddenly to a sitting posture and in a moment more was
speaking in a low tone.
"Will you forgive me, dear? I am the mother of a precious girl who was
about your age when God called her home. And I miss her so! I cannot
help seeing that you are in trouble. May I not play mother to you for a
little while and try to comfort you?"
But the girl's face at that moment expressed such abject terror, that
she made haste to add:
"There is nothing to be frightened over, dear; this is a quiet,
entirely respectable house, and your husband will be back in a few
moments." It was the probing word that this student of human nature had
resolved should open her way, and it succeeded.
"He is not my husband!" the girl exclaimed. "Not yet," she added
quickly. "We were to have been married as soon as the train reached our
destination; but the train was delayed; we could not go on; and there
were no rooms to be had without this awful waiting! I wish now that we
had not—" She stopped abruptly, then began again.
"I know I must appear very silly indeed to a stranger. But I cannot
seem to help it. And I cannot explain, either, why it should suddenly
seem so perfectly dreadful to me, but it does! I am so used to
traveling with my mother; I cannot get away from the thought of how
perfectly awful it would seem to her if she knew that I—"
The tremulous voice stopped again; and at that moment Mrs. Dunlap felt
that she could almost enjoy shooting the man who had deliberately
planned such a state of things for this frightened child. She passed a
protecting arm about the trembling form and spoke low and tenderly.
"My child, will you trust me and tell me all about it? You remind me of
my own dear daughter; I am sure that you have a precious mother. Does
she know that you expected to be married to-night?"
"No, oh, no! She doesn't dream of such a thing! We couldn't tell her
because she—she is prejudiced against Mr. Keller; he has enemies, we
think, who are trying to injure him because he is a more successful man
than they are, and she—Why, she wasn't even willing to have me walk
out with him, alone! But I thought—I mean I think that when we are
married, and everything is settled forever, we shall be able to make
her understand. It really isn't as though I were a child; I am of age."
At this, the child-woman drew herself up with such a pitiful attempt at
womanhood that Mrs. Dunlap, under happier circumstances, felt sure she
would have asked how many hours it was since the child had attained to
that dignity!
The tremulous voice continued:
"Still, I could not live without my mother; and I do not need to, of
course. As soon as she discovers how truly good and noble Mr. Keller
is, and what a devoted son he is ready to be to her, it will be all
right. Mother has always wanted a son."
A note of appeal had crept into her voice as though she longed to hear
from even this stranger an assurance that all would be well. Mrs.
Dunlap's mother-heart bled for her, and a throb of thankfulness for the
absolute safety of her own daughter thrilled through her. With it came
the determination to do what she could to help this girl, even at the
cost of a possible mistake.
"My child," she said, "I feel that I must tell you something that I
think you ought to know. You are registered at this hotel as 'R. H.
Keller and wife!' And one room—not two—is being made ready for you."