When Mrs. Chapparelle left her kitchen and the white face pressed
against the window-pane and hurried to answer the wheezy old door-bell,
her only thought was to hurry and get back to her hot griddle. She knew
it was almost smoking hot now, and she wanted to try a little batter to
see if there was just the right amount of soda in it before Bessie came.
She glanced at the clock as she passed through the door. It was late
for Bessie already. What could have kept her? But then she must have
lingered longer at the library, for this was her holiday, and books
were always such a temptation to her dear girl. How she wished she were
able to buy more of them for her very own.
This would be Bessie, of course. She must have forgotten her key.
Strange! Bessie never forgot things like that.
But it was not Bessie standing in the dusky street, with the big
glaring arc light casting long shadows on the step. It was the same boy
with the silver buttons and the mulberry uniform who had been there
that afternoon with the two great big suit boxes, and insisted on
leaving them there for a Miss Elizabeth Chapparelle. She had told him
very decidedly that nothing of the sort belonged there, and that she
could not inform him where they should go. She had even looked in the
telephone book for another Chapparelle, but had not found any. Then she
had told him that he had better go back to the shop and get further
information. Now! Here was that boy again! What could be the meaning of
it? She wished Bessie would come home while he was here and tell him
herself that the packages were not hers. Bessie might know to whom they
belonged.
But the boy was under orders this time.
“Lady, they’re a present,” he announced, with a knowing wink. “I knowed
I was right the first time. I’ve lived in this city since I was born,
and I get around some every day. You can’t kid me about an _ad_-dress!
This here consignment belongs here, and don’t belong nowheres else.”
Mrs. Chapparelle was quite indignant.
“I’m sorry,” she said firmly, “but I’m sure there’s a mistake. There
is no one who would send my daughter a gift from that shop. I cannot
receive it. I cannot be responsible for goods kept here that do not
belong to us. You must take it back and say the people would not
receive it.”
“Say, lady, would you want me to lose my job? You don’t know Madame!
She said I was to leave it, see? And when Madame says leave it, I leave
it. You c’n fight it out yerself with Madame, but I ain’t risking my
job. You’ll find the young lady will know all about it, and I’m leaving
it. It’s all paid for, lady, so dontcha worry.”
He dropped the package swiftly and retired to the street, where he
lost no time at all in swinging himself into the mulberry car with the
silver script lettering, and glided away from the door, leaving the
usually capable Mrs. Chapparelle standing annoyed and hesitating in
the open door, the pancake turner in one hand and the two big boxes
at her feet. What in the world could have contrived to bring about
this ridiculous situation? Now here were likely some very valuable
garments that would most certainly have cost a great deal of money,
landed at her feet for safe-keeping. She disliked to harbor them even
until morning. Something might happen to them. The house might get on
fire and they be destroyed, and she would be responsible. It would
not matter so much if they had money to pay for such things, but they
had not, and would be in real trouble if anything was damaged. It was
likely the freak of the delivery boy, who did not want to bother to
take the things back, and thought this an easy way out of it. She would
not stand it. She would call up the shop at once, and demand that they
come after their property. It was not much after six. If she telephoned
at once she might catch them before closing.
She closed the door and, stooping, read the name and address on the
boxes. Grevet’s. She studied the telephone book, and was presently
talking with one of the employees in the office.
“No, ma’am. I don’t know anything about it, Ma’am. The shop is closed.
Madame is gone. You’ll have to call again in the morning, ma’am. I’m
only one of the service girls. I don’t know anything about it.”
She hung up and turned annoyed eyes toward the front door, wishing
Bessie would come. How late it was! Why should Bessie be so late? It
could not be possible that the child had been saving up money and had
bought something for her to surprise her? She surely would not be so
improvident. It would not be like Bessie. Bessie would know that she
would not like it. And Bessie would never go and get anything for
herself, either, at a shop like that. It would cost a fortune. As for
its being a present, as the boy had said, that was all nonsense. Who
would ever send Bessie a present from Grevet’s? Nobody had any right to
send Bessie presents. No, it was a mistake, of course. They would open
it by and by when Bessie came, and find out if there was any clue to
its owner. Just now she could smell the griddle burning, so she dropped
the boxes on a chair in the front room, and fled back to her kitchen.
The griddle was sending up blue smoke, and she quickly turned down
her lights and mopped off the burning grease with an old dishcloth,
promptly subduing her griddle back to its smooth steady heat again.
The batter hissed and sputtered and flowed out on the black griddle,
shaping itself into a smooth round cake and puffing at once into lovely
lightness, with even little bubbles all over its gray-white surface.
Her practised eye watched it rise, and knew that the cake was just
right, just enough soda, just light enough, and just milk enough to
give it a crisp brownness. She slid a deft turner under its curling
edges, flopped it over exactly in its own spot, its surface evenly
browned. Then she turned her attention to the amber syrup bubbling
slowly to just the right consistency of limpid clearness. She shoved
the coffee pot to the back of the stove, lifted the cake to a hot plate
on the top of the oven, tore a bit out of it and tasted it to make sure
it was perfect, and then looked at the clock. Why, it was a quarter to
eight! Was it possible? What had become of Bessie? How could she stay
out so late? She knew her mother would worry! What should she do?
Often she had rehearsed in her mind through the years what she would do
if anything happened ever that Bessie did not come home some evening.
She would go about it in a most systematic way. She would phone to
the office to see if she was there. She would ask the janitor if he
knew when she left the building, and who she was with? She would phone
to the other girls in the office. She had carefully gleaned their
addresses one by one from her unsuspecting daughter to be prepared for
such a time of trouble. Failing in getting any help from the girls or
their employer, she would phone to the nearest police station, and to
the big radio stations, and ask for help.
All this carefully planned program began to rush before her mind now
as if a scroll with it written thereon had been unfolded. How many
mothers have been through such a season of anxiety, and had a like plan
present itself, and say, “Here, now, is the time to use me?” and yet
the mother hesitates. So this mother waited and hesitated. Bessie was
so careful and so sensible. Bessie had so much common sense. Terrible
things did not happen in the world very often. There was some little
simple explanation to this delay, and Bessie would surely walk in in
five minutes more. Bessie would hate so to have her make a fuss, as if
she could not take care of herself. Yet she might have telephoned if
she had to stay.
So the mother reasoned, and shoved back the griddle, turned the gas
very low, lighted the oven, and put the rest of the meal to keep hot;
finally abandoning clock, griddle, oven, and all, she went into the
little dark front room to sit at the window, as mothers will, and look
out and watch the passers-by, waiting for the loved one.
The clock struck eight, and Bessie did not come. There lay those two
strange boxes. They could have no connection, of course, with Bessie’s
being late, and yet they annoyed her. Bessie would be annoyed, too,
when she came and found them. Perhaps she would not tell about them
till her daughter had eaten her supper. Of course, she would soon come
and they would be eating griddle cakes and syrup, and she could take a
deep breath again, and know that all was well.
Was that the clock striking the half-hour? Oh, what could have
happened to Bessie? Never had she stayed away like this before without
telephoning. Of course it was not late for a grown girl to be out in
the bright city streets, but Bessie always let her know where she was.
There had not been anything planned for this evening. She had been
going to the library. Perhaps somehow she had got locked in the library
through lingering too long. How could she find out? Would there be a
night watchman who would go and search for her? What was the name of
the library Bessie went to? She searched her brain for the right name,
as she strained her eyes to the street, which seemed full of strangers
passing, but no sign of her girl. She made an errand to the kitchen,
warm and cosey and safe, with the batter waiting in a yellow bowl on
the tiny old-fashioned marble-topped table beside the stove. The first
buckwheats of the season, and Bessie loved them so! She looked in
a panic at the clock, which was nearing a quarter to nine, and went
hurriedly for the telephone book to look up a number. She really could
not remain longer inactive. She had set nine o’clock as her limit to
wait, but she must be ready with numbers to call when the first stroke
rang. Bessie would not let her go later than nine without phoning.
There was a kind of compact between them that she would not get anxious
nor do anything foolish till after nine.
She had written out the numbers of three libraries and the police
station, and it was three minutes to nine when she heard the front
door open. She was so frightened she was trembling, and for a moment
her voice went down in her throat somehow, and she could not call. She
could hear a voice. Was it Bessie’s?
“I’m quite all right now, thank you--” it sounded weak and tired. She
got to her feet and stood as the kitchen door opened and Bessie walked
in.
“I’m so sorry, mother! You were frightened. But I couldn’t help it.
Have you had supper? I’m nearly famished. Couldn’t we have supper first
and let me tell you all about it afterwards?”
Bessie sat down by the table and began to take off her hat. Her face
looked white and tired, whiter than her mother had ever seen her look
before, but she was smiling. Her mother rushed over and clasped her in
her arms.
“My little girl!” she whispered softly with her face against the soft
hair. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“All right, mother dearie, only so hungry--and a little tired--” and
she put her arm down on the white table and laid her head upon it.
“Cakes! I’m so glad there are cakes! It didn’t hurt them to wait, did
it? I’m so sorry I troubled you. I just know you have been all worried
up.”
Mrs. Chapparelle smiled and poured a foaming glass of milk.
“Drink some of this quick, dearie. It will hearten you up, and I’ve got
the griddle on back keeping warm. It won’t be a second now till I’ll
have a piping hot cake for you.”
Bessie drank the milk slowly, and the color began to steal into her
cheeks faintly, but there was a sad, troubled look about her eyes. Her
mother watched her furtively as she went briskly about getting the
supper on the table. She knew something unusual had happened.
“But she’s here, dear Lord, safe and sound!” she said in her heart
thankfully, as she felt the glad tears come into her eyes.
Mrs. Chapparelle did not ask questions. They talked, not much, about
the little occurrences of the mother’s day. Yes, the man came to take
the ashes, and he only charged fifty cents. He was coming every week
now, and they were to pay by the month. And Mrs. Herron called up and
wanted some more towels initialled for Lila’s hope chest. She wanted
the script letters, and they were worth more to embroider. The little
girl next door had been taken to the hospital to have her tonsils taken
out, and the milk man had left an extra pint of milk by mistake, so
there was plenty to drink with the buckwheats. “And there! I meant to
shut that window,” the mother added as she hurried over to the corner
of the kitchen. “Do you know I thought I saw a man’s face looking in a
while ago, just before I began to get worried about you.”
“Well, I’ve often told you, mother, I think you should shut that blind
before dark, especially when you’re alone.”
Bessie’s color was better now. She was sitting up and eating cakes with
a relish. The droop was going out of her slender figure.
“Oh, yes, and a very rude boy brought some packages here this afternoon
which he insisted belonged to Miss Elizabeth Chapparelle. You didn’t
buy anything today, did you?”
“Not a thing, mother dear. I didn’t have but fifty cents in my purse
when I started. You know it’s almost pay day,” she rippled out with a
voice like falling water, as if it were a joke between them.
“Well, I told him they weren’t yours, of course, and I packed him off
with his packages. But just when you ought to have been coming back,
didn’t he arrive again with his parcels, and insist upon leaving
them. He said he would lose his job if he took them back, that Madame
told him not to bring them back, they were paid for, and they were
a present. The lazy little scamp didn’t want to go back tonight, I
suppose, and he actually went away and left them with me right while I
was telling him he shouldn’t; just sailed away in his delivery car and
left me standing with the things at my feet. I was all upset about it.
They may be valuable things, and somebody fuming now about them. Maybe
we ought to call up the Madame and find out where they really belong,
and telephone the owners they can come and get them. Very likely
somebody wanted them at once to wear tonight, or pack up or something.
I tried Grevet’s, but they didn’t answer. They said the shop was
closed--”
“Grevet’s!” Bessie lifted eyes wide with alarm, and her face grew white
again. “You don’t mean they came from Grevet’s?”
“Why, yes,” said her mother, puzzled. “You don’t mean you know anything
about them?”
“Where are they, mother? I must see them first. If it’s what I think
it is, there’s a mistake, and I ought to hunt up the right people at
once--”
She rose from the chair and swayed slightly, catching at the table to
steady herself.
“Bessie, _you are sick_!” cried her mother. “Something has happened.
What is it? You must tell me at once, and you must lie right down on
the couch.”
She caught the girl in her arms and drew her toward the old-fashioned
couch in the corner of the kitchen.
“What is it, Bessie? Tell me quick! What has happened? You can’t hide
it from me any longer!”
“Don’t get worried, mother,” said Bessie, allowing her mother to draw
her down on the couch, “it wasn’t much. Just a little accident. I
wasn’t hurt, not much more than scared, I fancy. They took me to the
hospital and looked me over thoroughly, and they insisted on keeping me
there until a nurse could come home with me. That’s why I was so late.
You see--”
“But why didn’t you telephone me?”
“Well, I started to, but the nurse wouldn’t let me. She wanted to do
it herself, and I was afraid she would frighten you, so I concluded it
was better to wait a little and come myself.”
“But what was the accident? You are hurt. I _know_ you are _hurt_!”
“No truly, mother dear, I’m all right now, only a little shaken up. I
was riding in an automobile with Murray Van Rensselaer, and a big truck
came around a corner and ran into us and upset us!”
The mother’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with anxiety.
“You were riding with _Murray Van Rensselaer_? But _where_ is Murray
_now_? Was he hurt, too? Did they take him to the hospital?”
“Why no, I think not, that is--I don’t know. The nurse thought he was
all right. They said he was very impatient to know how I was, but when
I came down they couldn’t find him--”
“Oh!” said the mother indignantly, “he probably had some social
engagement. One of his mother’s dinners. I could see the cars arriving
tonight, and the flowers, and things from the caterer’s--!”
“Don’t, mother!” The girl sprang away from her, “don’t! He _may_ have
been hurt. He didn’t seem like that. Perhaps he went away to a doctor
himself.”
“Well, I hope he did. For the sake of our old regard for him when he
was a boy, I sincerely hope he had some good reason for deserting you
after he had gotten you smashed up in an accident. How on earth did you
come to be riding with him? I thought you would never condescend to do
that after the way he has treated you all these years.”
“Mother, I must see those packages, please! I’ll tell you the whole
story as soon as I’ve got that fixed up, but I must understand what has
happened.”
“You lie down, and I’ll bring them,” commanded her mother gently, and
went away to get the boxes.
Bessie stared at them gravely.
“I’ll have to open them, I guess,” she said at length. “There ought to
be some card inside that will perhaps give the address.”
“He said there was a card inside,” said the mother as she began to
untie the knots carefully.
They turned the soft wrappings of tissue back and discovered the lovely
gowns inside, sumptuous in their texture, exquisite in their simplicity.
“Oh, Bessie, if your father had lived you could have had things like
that!” wailed the mother heart, as she caught the first glimpse of
shimmering silk and deep velvet.
“I’m just as happy without them, mother,” said Bessie serenely,
slipping the card from the little white envelope.
There was nothing written on the card beside his engraved name. It told
her nothing. She would have to search out Madame Grevet and find the
true owner.
“I think she lives somewhere in the city. I’m almost sure some one
pointed out her house to me one day. Let’s have a try at the telephone
book.”
She was almost nervously anxious to get those gifts for Murray’s dear
friend out of the house. She did not want even to tell her story to
her anxious mother until the matter was all set right.
But Madame Grevet was not to be found. She must have a private phone.
An appeal to the janitor of the shop brought no further help. He did
not know her number, and anyhow, if she had one she would be out. She
was always out when she was at home, he said.
Bessie, exhausted, finally gave it up.
“We’ll just have to let Murray know, mother, and I hate that. Won’t you
call up?”
“No, I _will not_!” said Mrs. Chapparelle, crisply. “Let them wait for
their things till the shop comes after them again. It’s not your fault
that they insisted on bringing them here. We’re not responsible. If
Murray hadn’t run away from you I might feel differently, but as it is,
I think it is not necessary for either you or me to run after them.
People who have dresses like that can exist for another night without
one more.”
“But mother, he was very anxious to have them delivered tonight. I
heard him tell the saleswoman.”
“That makes no difference, child, you are going to bed. I’ll tie those
boxes up and take good care of them, and tomorrow I’ll telephone
Grevet’s to come after their property, but you are not to worry another
minute about them. Now, let me help you upstairs, and I’ll give you an
arnica rub, and you may tell me very briefly how you came to be riding
in Murray Van Rensselaer’s automobile. Then we’re going to thank the
heavenly Father, and go to sleep. Now, come darling.”