Outside the church Murray Van Rensselaer, somewhat fortified within by
the stolen bun and the two frosted cakes, whose crumbs were yet upon
his lips, started in astonishment.
Of the unexpectedly warm greeting he caught but one word, “Murray,”
his own name, and as he took it in, thinking at first that he had been
recognized, it came to him what it would mean. The whole careful fabric
of his intricate escape was undone. Unless he disappeared at once into
vacancy he would be brought speedily forth into the light and have to
explain. Some dratted girl he had probably met at a dance somewhere
and didn’t remember. But everybody knew him. That was the trouble with
belonging to a family like his and being prominent in society and clubs
and sports. His picture had been in the paper a thousand times--when
he took the blue-ribbon at the horse-show, when he played golf with
a visiting Prince at Palm Beach, on his favorite pony playing polo,
smashing the ball across the net to a world champion tennis player; the
notable times were too numerous to mention. She didn’t know. She hadn’t
seen the city papers yet or hadn’t noticed. Probably didn’t think it
was the same name--It wouldn’t take long for the news to travel, even
four hundred miles. That was nothing. He must get out of here!
He made a wild dash in the other direction, but came sharply in contact
with a stiff branch of syringa which jabbed him in the eye right
smartly, and for an instant the pain was so great that he could do
nothing but stand still.
The girl in the doorway was tall and slim, and she stood where the
light from the chapel shone full behind her and silhouetted a very
pleasant outline. Also she knew that the light caught and scintillated
from her crystal necklace, which hung to her very long indefinable
waist, and that she presented thus a trim appearance. But she might
as well have been short and fat for all he saw of her as he stood and
held his eye, and groped about with his other hand on what seemed an
interminable stone wall behind him. Was there no way to get out of this?
Jane was not a girl to give up the vantage she had gained of being the
first to welcome this new hero to town. He had backed off into the
shrubbery, shy perhaps, and had not answered, but she was reasonably
sure of her man. Of course it must be he. He was likely reconnoitring
to be sure he was in the right place, and it wouldn’t do to let him
slip away. He might be one of those who were shy of an open welcome,
and needed to be caught or he would escape. So Jane proceeded to catch
him.
With nimble feet she descended the three stone steps and was upon him
before he knew it, with a slim white hand outheld.
“Your name is Murray, isn’t it? I was sure it must be”--as he did not
dissent. “Mine is Jane Freeman, and we’re awfully glad you’ve come to
town. We’re expecting you to supper you know, and you might as well
come right in. Everybody else will be here pretty soon, and we’ll just
have that much more time to get acquainted. Won’t the girls be humming
though when they find out I met you first! But I had a sort of a right,
because my mother and your mother were schoolmates together, you know!
Were you trying to find the right door. It is confusing here. Doctor
Harrison’s study is that door, and that one goes into the choir-room,
and this enters the kitchen and dining-rooms. We go over to this other
door, and enter through the chapel. Every one gets lost here at first.”
“Yes, I guess I did lose my way,” murmured Murray Van Rensselaer,
feeling it imperative to say something, under the circumstances, and
casting furtive glances behind him to see how he could get away.
“Come right around this way,” went on Jane volubly. “Here’s the path.
Have you been over to Mrs. Summers’ yet? Isn’t she coming over? I
thought she would have shown you the way.”
“No, I haven’t been to Mrs. Summers’ yet,” he said, catching eagerly at
the idea. “But I really can’t go in this way, I’ve--You see there was a
wreck on the road--”
“Oh, were you _really_ in the wreck after all? How wonderful! And you
got through? How ever did you do it? Why, the relief train hasn’t come
back yet--at least it hadn’t when I came over.”
“Oh, I walked part of the way and got on the freight--”
“Oh, really! How thrilling! Then you can tell us all about the wreck.
We haven’t heard much. Come right in and meet Anita. I want you to tell
her about the wreck.”
But the young man halted firmly on the walk.
“Indeed,” said he decidedly, “it’s quite impossible. I’m a wreck
myself. I’ve got to dress before I could possibly meet anybody, except
in the dark, and I think you’ll have to excuse me tonight. My trunk
hasn’t come yet, you know, and I’m really not fit to be seen. You don’t
know what a wreck is, I guess.”
“Oh, were you really in it like that!” exclaimed Jane adoringly. “How
wonderful that you escaped! But you’re mistaken about your trunk. It
came yesterday. Mrs. Summers told me this morning it had arrived, and
it’s over in your room. If you really must dress first I’ll show you
the way to Mrs. Summers’, but it wouldn’t be necessary, you know.
You would be all the more a hero. You could come right in the church
dressing-room and wash and comb your hair. It would be terribly
interesting and dramatic for you to appear just as you came from the
wreck, you know.”
“Thank you,” said the young man dryly. “Much too interesting for me.
I’ll just get over to my trunk if you don’t mind,” he insinuated
soothingly. “Which way is the house? I won’t have any trouble in
finding it. It’s not far away, you say?”
“Oh no, it’s right here,” she said excitedly, with a vague wave of her
hand. “Come right across the lawn. It’s shorter. I don’t mind running
over in the least. In fact I’ve got to go and see if I can’t borrow
another vase for some roses that just arrived. You must be very tired
after such an exciting afternoon. Was it very terrible at first? The
shock, I mean?”
“Oh! Terrible? Yes, the wreck. Why, rather unpleasant at first, you
know. The confusion and--and--”
“I suppose the women all screamed. They usually do when they are
frightened. I never can see why. Now, I never scream. When I’m
frightened I’m just as cool. My father says he can always trust me in a
crisis because I keep still and do something. You look as if you were
that way, too. But then men are, of course.”
She was steering him swiftly toward a neat Queen Anne house of somewhat
ancient date, perhaps, but very pretty and attractive, in spite of
the fact that the maples with which it was surrounded were bare of
leaves, and most of the vines had dropped their leaves. There were
little ruffled curtains at the windows, and plants, and old-fashioned
lamps with bright shades, and a gray-haired woman moving about in a
bay-window watering a fern. It was a picture of a sweet, quiet home,
and something of its peace stole out into the November night with its
soft lights like a welcome. Murray looked with hungry eyes. There would
be beds in that house, and warmth, and a table with good things to
eat. The bite he had stolen had but whetted his appetite. How good if
he had a right to enter this home as the boy who was expected would
do presently; welcomed, a festive supper prepared, perhaps a place
where he might earn enough to live, and friends to make life worth the
living. It was the first time in his life he had ever felt an urge to
work. His father’s business had seemed a bore to him. He had pitied
him now and then when he happened to think of it at all, that he was
old and had to go down town every day to “work”--not that he had to.
Murray knew his father could retire a good many times over and not feel
it. But he had pitied him that he was old and therefore had nothing to
interest him in life but dull business. Now business suddenly seemed a
haven to be desired.
But all this was merely an undercurrent of thought while he was really
casting about in his mind how he might rid himself of this pest of a
girl, and was furtively observing the street and the lay of the bushes
that he might suddenly dodge away and leave her in the darkness. He
hesitated to do it lest she might even pursue him, and he felt that in
case of fleeing his strength would probably leave him altogether, and
he would drop beside some dreary bush and be overtaken.
He could not quite understand his attitude toward this girl. He had
been somewhat of a lady-killer, and no girl had held terrors for him in
the old life. He knew they always fell for him, and he could take any
line he liked and they would follow. Now here was a girl, just a common
little country girl, filling him with terror. She seemed to possess
almost supernatural power over him, as if she had eyes that could see
through to his soul, and would expose him to the scorn of the world if
he for one moment angered her and let her get a chance to look into
his poor shaken mind. “Murray Van Rensselaer! Why, Murray, what’s the
matter with you?” he said to himself. And then, “But I’m not Murray
Van Rensselaer any more. I’m a murderer fleeing from justice! I must
get away!”
Then right before him, what he thought was a long French window turned
into a glass door and opened in front of his unwilling feet, and there
stood in the broad burst of light the woman with the gray hair whom he
had seen through the window going about the room.
She stood there with a questioning look upon her face, and she had kind
eyes--eyes like Mrs. Chapparelle’s--_mother_-eyes. They looked into
the darkness of the yard as if they were waiting for him, searching,
expecting him, and he found his feet would go no further. They would
not take the dash into the darkness of the shrubbery that his situation
required. They just stopped and waited. It had been growing upon his
consciousness for some time that this thing would happen pretty soon;
that he would stop and get caught, and he wondered almost apathetically
what he would do then. Just wait, and let them do with him what they
pleased?
But Jane’s voice rang out triumphantly:
“He’s come, Mrs. Summers. He didn’t get hurt after all. He came through
all right. Isn’t that great? But he’s all messed up and he wants to
clean up. I told him I was sure his trunk had come. It has, hasn’t it?”
“Oh, is that you, Jane? Yes, his trunk has come,” said the lady with
a smile. Then she turned toward the shivering youth and put out both
hands eagerly, taking his cold ones in hers, that felt to him like
warm little veined rose-leaves. She drew him without his own volition
across the brick terrace into the light.
“So this is Allan Murray!” she said, and her voice was like a mother’s
caress. “My dear boy! I’m so glad to have you with me! You don’t know
how precious your dear mother was to me! And I shall be so glad if you
will let me take her place while you are here, as much as any one could
take the place of a woman like your mother!”
Now was the time for him to bolt, of course, if he was ever going to
get away, just jerk his hands from her frail touch and bolt! But his
feet didn’t seem to understand. They just stood! And his eyes lingered
hungrily on her loving ones. He longed, oh, how he wished that this
woman really was a friend of his mother--that he had had a mother who
could have been a friend of a woman like this one, that he might now
be befriended by her. And his hands warmed to the soft vital touch of
those little frail rose-leaf hands. They seemed to be warming his very
soul, clear to the frightened centre where he knew he was a murderer
and an outlaw. But he hadn’t vitality enough left to vanish. He would
have been glad if some magic could have made him invisible, or if he
could have suddenly been extinguished. But nothing like that happened
to men who were in trouble.
Then, his hands and his feet having failed him in this predicament,
he tried his lips, and to his surprise words came; fluently from long
habit, with quite a nice sound to his voice; modest and grateful and
polite and apologetic.
“So kind of you!” he murmured safely, the old vernacular returning
from habit to his lips. “But I’m not fit to be touched. It’s been
awful, you know--smoke and soot and cinders and broken things. I’m torn
and dirty--I’m not fit to be seen!”
“Why, of course!” said the dear lady comprehendingly. “You don’t want
me to look you over and see how much you resemble your mother till
you’ve had a bath and a shave. I know. I’ve had a boy of my own,
you know. He died in the war”--with the breath of a sigh--“But come
right up to your room. Everything is all ready, and there’s plenty of
hot water. The bath-room is right next to your room, and your room
is at the top of the stairs on the right. There are towels and soap
and everything you need. If I’d only had your trunk-key I would have
presumed to take out your clothes and hang them in the closet for you.
It would have been such a pleasure to get ready for a boy again. And
it would have taken out the wrinkles. But I’ve my electric iron, all
ready, and I can press anything that needs it while you are taking your
bath. Suppose I go up with you, and you unlock the trunk and hand me
out your suit and I’ll just give it a mite of a pressing while you’re
in the bath-room. It won’t take a minute, and I’d love to.”
She led him as she spoke to the foot of the stairs where a soft light
above invited to the quiet restfulness of upstairs, and a gleam of a
white bath-room lured unspeakably his tired body. But his brain was
functioning again. He saw a way of escape from this delightful but
fearful situation.
“That’s the trouble,” he said, “I have lost my keys! They were in my
bag, and the bag rolled down the embankment into the burning cars.”
“Oh!”
“Ah!” from the two women as he hurried on.
“I am sorry to disappoint you, but I guess I’ll have to forego the
supper. It will take too long to get that trunk open and get ready. You
two just better go over to the church, and I’ll stick around here and
get shaped up for tomorrow. You know I’ve been through a pretty rough
time and--”
“I know you have,” broke in the gentle voice firmly, “but I’m afraid
you’ll really have to go to that supper. It’s all been prepared as a
welcome for you on account of your father and mother, you know, and
it’s pretty much for a church and a town to remember and love people
like that through thirty years of absence. Besides, Mr. Harper, the
president of the bank, will be there, and I don’t suppose it would be a
very good thing for your future as the new teller if you were to stay
away. You see, really, they are honoring you, and will be terribly
disappointed--”
Murray Van Rensselaer began to feel as if he really were the person
who was being waited for over at that church supper, and his natural
_savoir-faire_ came to his assistance.
“Oh, in that case of course,” he said gallantly, “it wouldn’t do to
disappoint them, but how can I possibly manage it? You don’t happen to
have a suit of your son’s that you’d be willing to loan me?”
He said it with just the right shade of depreciation and humility. It
was a great favor of course to ask for the suit of her dead son. But
she flashed a pleasant tender look at him.
“No, dear, I haven’t. I gave them all away where they would be useful.
But I am sure we can get that trunk of yours open.”
“Couldn’t we pick the lock?” said Jane, wishing she still wore
hairpins. It would be so romantic to lend the hairpin that opened the
new hero’s trunk.
But Mrs. Summers opened a little locker seat by the foot of the stairs,
and took out a hammer and screw-driver.
“I think we’ll manage with these,” she said pleasantly. “Jane, if
you’ll just take those two vases and that maple cake and run over to
the church and tell them we’ll be a few minutes late, but we’re coming,
then I needn’t stop to go over just yet. Now, Allan Murray, come on!”
she said, and started up the stairs.
Murray Van Rensselaer hesitated and looked toward the door, but the
reluctant Jane, with arms full of cake and vases, was still filling it,
eyeing him blissfully, and there was no escape that way. Perhaps if he
once got in the room above with the door locked he could climb from the
window and get away in the dark. So he dragged himself up the stairs
after his hospitable hostess, and was ushered into a bedroom, the like
of which for sweetness and restfulness had never met his eye before.
There were thin white smooth curtains at three low windows, a white
bed with plump pillows that looked the best thing in the world for his
weary body, a little stand beside it with a shaded lamp, and a Bible.
Queer! A Bible! Across the room was a fireplace under a white mantel,
and drawn up beside it under a tall shaded lamp was a big luxurious
chair with a book-case full of books beside it.
Then he turned to the inner side of the room, and there a bureau with a
great mirror suddenly flung his own vision back to him and startled him.
The last time he had seen himself in a mirror was at his tailor’s
trying on a new suit that had just been finished for his order. He
could see the trim lines of his figure now, the sharp creases of
well-pressed garments, the smart cut, the fine texture of the material,
his own well-groomed appearance, his handsome careless face, shaven
and sure of himself and his world, the grace of his every movement. He
had not known he was particularly vain of himself, but now as he gazed
on this forlorn, unshaven object, with bloodshot eyes, with coarse,
ill-cut garments, and a shapeless cap crushed in his dirty, trembling
hand, he was suddenly filled with a great shame.
Mrs. Summers was down on her knees beside a neat trunk, making strong,
efficient strokes with a hammer on the lock.
“I don’t belong here!” The words were as audible to his ears as if he
had spoken them aloud, and he turned with a swift motion to glide out
the door and away; but too late. The lock of the trunk had given, way
with a rasping sound, and Mrs. Summers rose with a little smile of
triumph on her lips and looked toward him. He could not flee with those
kind mother eyes upon him.
“Now, if you’ll help me pull it out from the wall we can open it,” she
said pleasantly, and there was nothing for him to do but acquiesce,
although he really was very little help with that trunk, for his arms
were weak, and when he stooped a great dizziness came over him, so that
he almost thought he was going to fall.
Mrs. Summers swung the top of the trunk open deftly.
“We can have Mr. Klingen, the locksmith, up in the morning to fix that
lock before we put the trunk away in the attic for the winter,” she
said, smiling. “Now, which is the suit you want to wear tonight? This
blue one right on top? We’ve got to hurry a little because it’s getting
late. And I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve got three big pans of scalloped
oysters down stairs piping hot and just ready to be eaten, and I want
you to help me carry them over to the church. They’re a surprise. They
don’t know they’re going to have scalloped oysters. They think they’re
only having roast lamb and mashed potatoes, but I just thought I’d have
a little celebration on my own hook, so I made these without telling.
Do you like scalloped oysters?”
“Do I like scalloped oysters?” beamed Murray, forgetting his rôle of
outlaw, and realizing his empty stomach. “Lead me to ’em.”
His hostess smiled appreciatively.
“All right, you hurry then, and I’ll have your clothes up in a jiffy!
Here’s the bath-room, and this is the hot water.” She turned the faucet
on swiftly. “And this wheel controls the shower. Bob always liked a
shower. Do you?”
“I certainly do!” said Murray fervently.
“Well, now, hurry up! I’ll have your suit up in no time. Let’s run a
race!”
She ran smiling down the stairs as if she were an old comrade, and
he stood still in the cosey little bath-room with the steam of the
nice hot water rising in the white tub, and what seemed like a
perfect army of clean, luxurious towels with big embroidered S’s on
them, and Turkish wash-rags with blue crocheted edges, and cakes of
sweet-smelling soap all calling him to the bath that his aching body so
much desired, and yet now was the time when he ought to be going! He
_must_ be going!
He glanced back from the door and down the stairs. He could just see an
ironing-board beyond the dining-room door, right in the doorway, and
the blue suit lying across it, the trousers folded in the most approved
manner, and there was her step. She was standing right in the doorway
with the iron in her hand, and facing toward the stairs! He could not
get away without passing her, at least not by going down the stairs.
And well--why not take a bath? He certainly needed it. There would be a
way to get away later. And oh, scalloped oysters, and those good things
he had seen through the windows! But of course he couldn’t go to that
supper! Still, there was the bath all ready, and no telling when he
would ever get a chance again.
So he locked the door and began swiftly to take off the alien garments
that in the three weeks of his wanderings he had managed to acquire. At
least, here was a bath, and why not take the goods the gods provided?