XI

He helped her unpack the basket and put her things away, and he gave

a wistful look about the pretty cosey room. He had never supposed

there were homes like this anywhere. There was nothing formal about

the place, and yet there were bits of fine old furniture, pictures,

and bric-à-brac that spoke of travel and taste. It just seemed a place

where one would like to linger, and where home had been impressed upon

everything about like a lovely monogram worked into the very fabric of

it.

“Now,” said Mrs. Summers as she whirled about from the cake-box, where

she had been bestowing a dozen lovely frosted sponge cakes that had

been left over and she had bought, “you must get to bed! I know you are

all worn out, and you’ve got to be on hand early tomorrow morning. What

time did Mr. Harper say he wanted you at the bank? Was it nine o’clock?

I thought so. So I won’t keep you up but a minute more, I thought it

would be nice if we just had a bit of a prayer together this first

night, and a verse. I always like a verse for a pillow to sleep on,

don’t you? Even if it is late. Will you read or shall I?” and she held

out a little limp-covered book that looked, like everything else in the

house, as if it had been used lovingly and often.

“Oh, _you_!” gasped Murray embarrassedly, looking at the book as if it

had been a toad suddenly lifting its head in the way, and wondering

what strange new ceremony now was being thrust at him. There seemed

no end to the queer things they did in this pleasant, unusual place.

Take that thing they called “blessing,” and was a prayer! It was like

that book his nurse used to read him in his childhood, called “Alice in

Wonderland.” You never knew what you would be called upon to do next

before you could eat or sleep. Did they do these things all the time,

every day, or just once in a while, when they were initiating some new

member? It must be a great deal of trouble to them to keep it up every

day, and must take up a good deal of time.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Summers. “You sit in that big chair, and I’ll

just read a little bit where I left off last night.”

They did it every night, then! Like massaging one’s face and putting

on night garments, as his mother always did, lovely gauzy things with

floating scarfs like wings. This must be a sort of massaging for the

soul.

He settled down in the comfortable chair and watched the white fingers

of the lady flutter open the leaves of the book, familiarly and

lovingly.

He liked the shape of her lips as she spoke, the sound of her voice.

There was a fascination in watching her, so sweet and strong and

pleasant.

“There was a man of the Pharisees, named Nicodemus, a ruler of the

Jews: The same came to Jesus by night, and said unto him, Rabbi, we

know that thou art a teacher come from God: for no man can do these

miracles that thou doest, except God be with him.”

Murray heard the words, but they meant nothing to him. He was not

listening. He was thinking what it would have been like if he had been

born into this home. Then suddenly into his thoughts came those words,

so startling. Where had he heard them before? “Jesus answered and said

unto him, Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born again,

he cannot see the kingdom of God.”

Why! How very strange! Those were the words he had seen in the

street-car. Almost the identical words, “Ye must be born again!” He

would never forget them, because that had seemed the only way out of

his difficulty. And now she was reading again, this time identical:

“Marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born again.”

Why! It was like some one answering his thoughts. What did it all mean?

He listened and tried to get the sense. It appeared to be an argument

between one named Nicodemus and one Jesus. There was talk of wind

blowing and water and a Spirit. It was all Greek to him. A serpent

lifted in the wilderness, of believing and perishing, and eternal life.

He almost shuddered at that. Eternal life! Who would want to live

forever when he was a murderer and an outcast? “For God sent not his

Son into the world to _condemn_ the world;” went on the steady voice,

“but that the world through him might be _saved_.”

Astonishing words! They got him! Condemnation was what he was under.

Saved! He almost groaned. Oh, if there were but a way for him to be

saved from this that had come upon him!

“He that believeth on him is not condemned.”

Queer words again, and of course it all meant nothing--nothing that

could apply to his case. Depression came upon his soul again. The

condemnation of the law overshadowed him. He looked restlessly toward

the door. Oh, if he could get away now, and go--go swiftly before

condemnation overtook him and got him in its iron grip forever!

The little book was closed and the astonishing little lady suddenly

rose from her chair and knelt down beside it. He was embarrassed beyond

measure. He wanted to do the proper thing and excite no suspicions, but

how was one to know what to do in a situation like this? Kneeling down

in a parlor beside a Morris chair! How could any one possibly know that

that was the thing expected? Or was it expected?

Then he began slowly, noiselessly, to move his weary, stiffened

muscles, endeavoring to transfer his body into a kneeling posture

without the slightest sound, the least possible hint that he had not of

course been kneeling from the start.

Strange happening for this one-time social star to be kneeling now

in this humble cottage, hearing himself (or what was supposed to be

himself) prayed for, earnestly, tenderly; with loving chains of prayer

“binding his soul about the feet of God.” He grew red and embarrassed.

He felt tears stinging into his eyes. How was it that a possibility of

anything like this being done anywhere in the universe for him never

entered his mind before? It was indeed as if he was born into a new

universe, and yet he still had the consciousness of his old self, his

old guilt, upon him. It was intolerable. He never had felt so mean

in his life as while he knelt there, hearing himself brought to the

presence of God, and knowing that he had cheated this wonderful woman

who was praying for him, and that he was presently going to steal from

her house in the night and never be seen by her any more. What would

she think? And how would she meet her God the next time she prayed?

Would she curse him, perhaps, and would worse punishment come upon him

than had come already? And how would a God feel about it? He had never

been much concerned about God, whether He was or was not, but now he

suddenly knew as this woman talked with Him with that assurance, that

face-to-face acquaintance, that intimacy of voice, that there _was_ a

God. Whatever anybody might say, he knew now that there _was_! It was

as if he had seen Him, he had felt Him, anyway, in a strange convincing

power like the look from a great man’s eyes whom one has never met

before, nor heard much of, yet recognizes at the first glimpse as

being mighty! Well! There was a Power he hadn’t reckoned on! The Power

of God! He knew the details of the Power of the Law. But what if he

also was in danger from the Power of God? What if this deception, just

for the sake of a bath and a supper, should anger God and turn the

vengeance of heaven and hell upon his soul? He vaguely knew that there

were yet unfathomable depths of misery that he had not sounded, and his

burden seemed greater than he could bear. If he only might become some

one else, be born again, as the book had said, so that no one would

ever recognize him, not even God! But would that be possible? Could one

be born at all without God about?

Floundering amid these perplexities, he suddenly became aware that the

lady had risen, and, red with embarrassment, aware of tears upon his

face which he could not somehow wipe away quickly enough, he struggled

to his own feet.

She was not looking at him. She had moved across the room to a pitcher

of ice-water she had prepared before she began to read, and now she

poured a glass and handed it to him. He was struck with the look of

peace upon her lips. It seemed a look that no one he had ever known

before had worn. Stay, yes, Mrs. Chapparelle sometimes had looked that

way, even when they had very little for supper. Once he had stayed with

them when there were only potatoes and corn bread. No butter, only salt

for the potatoes, and a little milk, two glasses, one for him and one

for Bessie. She must have gone without herself, and yet she had that

look of peace upon her lips! Had even smiled! What was it? Talking with

God that made it?

He got himself up the little white staircase with the mahogany-painted

rail and the softly-carpeted treads of gray carpet, and locked himself

inside his room. He knew he had said good-night and agreed upon

something about when he would come to breakfast in the morning. As he

did not intend to be present at breakfast the next morning, he had paid

little heed to what she had said. His soul was in a turmoil, and he was

weary to the bone. He dropped into the big chair and gazed sadly about

him on the pretty room.

He had it in mind to make a little stir of preparation for bed, and

then wait quietly until the house was still and he could steal down

the stairs or out the window, whichever seemed the easiest way, and be

seen no more. But he felt a heaviness upon him that was overpowering.

He looked at the white bed with the plump pillows and the smooth sheets

that had been turned back for his use. His eyes dwelt upon the softness

of blankets and the immaculate cleanness of everything, and he longed

with inexpressible longing to get into it and go to sleep, but he knew

he must not yield. He knew that it would not be safe for him to linger

till the morning. The fame of him would have gone forth even by this

time, and some one somewhere would say that he knew that the man he was

supposed to be was dead, or hurt, or else was coming in the morning.

No, he must get up and get into his coarse clothes at once and be ready

to depart. It would not do to be quiet now and noisy later. She would

think it queer of him to be long in getting to bed. He must hurry!

He took off the shoes that were a bit too large for him and crinkled

his tired toes luxuriously. He took off the suit that was not his,

and folded it for the trunk-tray. He took off the collar and necktie

and put them back in the trunk. Then he looked at the pile of soiled

underwear which he had brought back from the bath-room after his

bath, and his soul rebelled. If the fellow he was supposed to be ever

came back from the wreck and got his good job and his good home, he

might thank his lucky stars and not bother if he was minus a suit of

undergarments. He couldn’t go in those soiled, tattered things any

longer. And besides, if he was a murderer, why not be a thief too, to

that extent, anyway? He was sure if he was in the other fellow’s place

he wouldn’t begrudge a poor lost soul a few of his clothes.

So he gathered the soiled clothes into a bundle, laid them on the

coals that were still red in his fireplace, and watched them blaze

up into flames with weary satisfaction. Then he turned out the light

and tiptoed over to the window. He raised the shade and looked out to

reconnoitre.

The window overlooked the street, and there was a great arc light hung

in the trees, so that it shone full upon his windows. Moreover, there

were people passing, and cars flying by, not a few. Marlborough had by

no means gone to bed, even though the Presbyterian church social was

over and the last member of the committee gone to her home. It was no

use to try to escape yet. He must wait till after midnight.

So he tiptoed back, intending to turn on the light and begin to get

together the rest of his things. But the flickering firelight from a

charred stick, that had broken in two and fallen apart to blaze up

again feebly, fell invitingly over the white bed, and played with the

shadows over the pillow. An inexpressible longing came over him to just

see how it felt to lie down in that soft clean whiteness and rest for

five minutes. He would not stay for more than five minutes or he might

fall asleep, and that would be disastrous, but he must rest a moment or

two while he was waiting, or he would not be able to travel, he was

so tired. He would open the window so that when he was ready to go he

would not be making a noise again, and then he would rest.

So, just as he was, he lay cautiously down and drew the soft blankets

about him, with the fragrant sheet against his face, and closed his

weary eyes.

The night wind stole softly in and breathed restfully upon him, filling

his lungs with clean, pure air, and fanning his hot forehead, and

the little charred stick collapsed with a soft shudder and went out,

leaving the room in darkness, and Murray Van Rensselaer slept.