_Chance Provides_
For a moment after he had closed the door they stood side by side, she
pressing close to him. She shivered the length of her slight frame.
The hesitancy which had come to him with the first impress of the
lightless silence about them vanished.
"Come," he said, taking her hand, "we must find a light and build a
fire."
He groped his way back to the window and closed it, drawing the
curtain tight down over it. Then he struck a match and held it above
his head.
At the flash of light the girl dropped his hand and shrank back in
sudden trepidation. So long as he remained in the shadows he had been
to her only a power without any more definite personality than that of
sex. Now that she was thrown into closer contact with him, by the mere
curtailing of the distances around and above her, she was conscious of
the need of further knowledge of the man. The very power which had
defended her, unless in the control of a still higher power, might
turn against her. The match flickered feebly in the damp air,
revealing scantily a small room which looked like a laundry. It was
enough, however, to disclose a shelf upon which rested a bit of
candle. He lighted this.
She watched him closely, and as the wick sputtered into life she
grasped eagerly at every detail it revealed. She stood alert as a
fencer before an unknown antagonist. Then he turned and, with this
steadier light above his head, stepped towards her.
She saw eyes of light blue meeting her own of brown quite fearlessly.
His lean face and the shock of sandy hair above it made an instant
appeal to her. She knew he was a man she could trust within doors as
fully as she had trusted him without. His frame was spare but
suggestive of the long muscles of the New Englander which do not show
but which work on and on with seemingly indestructible energy. He
looked to her to be strong and tender.
She realized that he in his turn was studying her, and held up her
head and faced him sturdily. In spite of her drenched condition she
did not look so very bedraggled, thanks to the simple linen suit she
had worn. Her jet black hair, loose and damp, framed an oval face
which lacked color without appearing unhealthy. The skin was dark--the
gypsy dark of one who has lived much out of doors. Both the nose and
the chin was of fine and rather delicate modeling without losing
anything of vigor. It was a responsive face, hinting of large emotions
rather easily excited but as yet latent, for the girlishness was still
in it.
Wilson found his mouth losing its tenseness as he looked into those
brown eyes; found the strain of the situation weakening. The room
appeared less chill, the vista beyond the doorway less formidable.
Here was a good comrade for a long road--a girl to meet life with some
spirit as it came along.
She looked up at him with a smile as she heard the drip of their
clothes upon the floor.
"We ought to be hung up to dry," she laughed.
Lowering the candle, he stepped forward.
"We'll be dry soon," he answered confidently. "What am I to call you,
comrade?"
"My name is Jo Manning," she answered with a bit of confusion.
"And I am David Wilson," he said simply. "Now that we've been
introduced we'll hunt for a place to get dry and warm."
He shivered.
"I am sure the house is empty. It _feels_ empty. But even if it isn't,
whoever is here will have to warm us or--fight!"
He held out his hand again and she took it as he led the way along the
hall towards the front of the house. He moved cautiously, creeping
along on tiptoe, the light held high above his head, pausing every now
and then to listen. They reached the stairs leading to the upper
hallway and mounted these. He pushed open the door, stopping to listen
at every rusty creak, and stepped out upon the heavy carpet. The light
roused shadows which flitted silently about the corners as in batlike
fear. The air smelled heavy, and even the moist rustling of the girl's
garments sounded muffled. Wilson glanced at the wall, and at sight of
the draped pictures pressed the girl's hand.
"Our first bit of luck," he whispered. "They _have_ gone for the
summer!"
They moved less cautiously now, but not until they reached the dining
room and saw the covered chairs and drawn curtains did they feel fully
assured. He thrust aside the portieres and noted that the blinds were
closed and the windows boarded. They could move quite safely now.
The mere sense of being under cover--of no longer feeling the beat of
the rain upon them--was in itself a soul-satisfying relief. But there
was still the dank cold of their soggy clothes against the body. They
must have heat; and he moved on to the living rooms above. He pushed
open a door and found himself in a large room of heavy oak, not draped
like the others. He might have hesitated had it not been for the sight
of a large fireplace directly facing him. When he saw that it was
piled high with wood and coal ready to be lighted, he would have
braved an army to reach it. Crossing the room, he thrust his candle
into the kindling. The flames, as though surprised at being summoned,
hesitated a second and then leaped hungrily to their meal. Wilson
thrust his cold hands almost into the fire itself as he crouched over
it.
"Come here," he called over his shoulder. "Get some of this quickly."
She huddled close to him and together they let their cold bodies drink
in the warm air. It tingled at their fingers, smarted into their
faces, and stung their chests.
"Nearer! Nearer!" he urged her. "Let it burn into you."
Their garments sent out clouds of steam and sweated pools to the tiles
at their feet; but still they bathed in the heat insatiably. He piled
on wood until the flames crackled out of sight in the chimney and
flared into the room. He took her by the shoulders and turned her
round and round before it as one roasts a goose. He took her two hands
and rubbed them briskly till they smarted; she laughed deliciously the
while, and the color on her cheeks deepened. But in spite of all this
they couldn't get very far below the surface. He noticed the dripping
fringe of her skirts and her water-logged shoes.
"This will never do," he said. "You've got to get dry--clear to your
bones. Somehow a woman doesn't look right--wet. She gets so very
wet--like a kitten. I'm going foraging now. You keep turning round and
round."
"Till I'm brown on the outside?"
"Till I come back and see if you're done."
She followed him with her eyes as he went out, and in less than five
minutes she heard him calling for her. She hurried to the next room
and found him bending over a tumbled heap of fluffy things which he
had gingerly picked from the bureau drawers.
"Help yourself," he commanded, with a wave of his hand.
"But--I oughtn't to take these things!"
"My girl," he answered in an even voice that seemed to steady her,
"when it's either these or pneumonia--it's these. I'll leave you the
candle."
"But you----"
"I'll find something."
He went out. She stood bewildered in the midst of the dimly revealed
luxury about her. The candle threw feeble rays into the dark corners
of the big room, over the four-posted oak bed covered with its
daintily monogrammed spread, over the heavy hangings at the windows,
and the bright pictures on the walls. She caught a glimpse of closets,
of a graceful dressing table, and finally saw her reflection in the
long mirror which reached to the floor.
She held the candle over her head and stared at herself. She cut but a
sorry figure in her own eyes in the midst of such spotless richness as
now surrounded her. She shivered a little as her own damp clothes
pressed clammily against her skin. Then with a flush she turned again
to the garments rifled from their perfumed hiding places. They looked
very white and crisp. She hesitated but a second.
"She'll forgive," she whispered, and threw off her dripping waist. The
clothes, almost without exception, fitted her remarkably well. She
found herself dressing leisurely, enjoying to the fullest the feel of
the rich goods. She shook her hair free, dried it as best she could,
and took some pains to put it up nicely. It was long and glossy
black, but not inclined to curl. It coiled about her head in silken
strands of dark richness.
She demurred at first at the silk dress which he had tossed upon the
bed, but she could find no other. It was of a golden yellow, dainty
and foreign in its design. It fitted snugly to her slim figure as
though it had been made for her. She stood off at a little distance
and studied herself in the mirror. She was a girl who had an instinct
for dress which had never been satisfied; a girl who could give, as
well as take, an air from her garments. She admired herself quite as
frankly as though it had been some other person who, with head
uptilted and teeth flashing in a contented smile, challenged her from
the clear surface of the mirror, looking as though she had just
stepped through the wall into the room. The cold, the wet, and for a
moment even the hunger vanished, so that as she glanced back at her
comfortable reflection it seemed as if it were all just a dream of
cold and wet and hunger. With silk soothing her skin, with the crisp
purity of spotless linen rustling about her, with the faultless gown
falling in rich splendor about her feet, she felt so much a part of
these new surroundings that it was as though she melted into
them--blended her own personality with the unstinted luxury about
her.
But her foot scuffled against a wet stocking lying as limp as water
grass, which recalled her to herself and the man who had led the way
to this. A wave of pity swept over her as she wondered if he had found
dry things for himself. She must hurry back and see that he was
comfortable. She felt a certain pride that the beaded slippers she had
found in the closet fitted her a bit loosely. With the candle held far
out from her in one hand and the other lifting her dress from the
floor, she rustled along the hall to the study, pausing there to speak
his name.
"All ready?" he shouted.
He strode from a door to the left, but stopped in the middle of the
room to study her as she stood framed in the doorway--a picture for
Whistler. With pretty art and a woman's instinctive desire to please,
she had placed the candle on a chair and assumed something of a pose.
The mellow candle-light deepened the raven black of her hair, softened
the tint of her gown until it appeared of almost transparent fineness.
It melted the folds of the heavy crimson draperies by her side into
one with the dark behind her. She had shyly dropped her eyes, but in
the excitement of the moment she quickly raised them again. They
sparkled with merriment at sight of his lean frame draped in a
lounging robe of Oriental ornateness. It was of silk and embellished
with gold-spun figures.
"It was either this," he apologized, "or a dress suit. If I had seen
you first, I should have chosen the latter. I ought to dress for
dinner, I suppose, even if there isn't any."
"You look as though you ought to make a dinner come out of those
sleeves, just as the magicians make rabbits and gold-fish."
"And you," he returned, "look as though you ought to be able to get a
dinner by merely summoning the butler."
He offered her his arm with exaggerated gallantry and escorted her to
a chair by the fire. She seated herself and, thrusting out her toes
towards the flames, gave herself up for a moment to the drowsy warmth.
He shoved a large leather chair into place to the left and, facing
her, enjoyed to himself the sensation of playing host to her hostess
in this beautiful house. She looked up at him.
"I suppose you wonder what brought me out there?"
"In a general way--yes," he answered frankly. "But I don't wish
you to feel under any obligation to tell me. I see you as you sit
there,--that is enough."
"There is so little else," she replied. She hesitated, then added,
"That is, that anyone seems to understand."
"You really had no place to which you could go for the night?"
"No. I am an utter stranger here. I came up this morning from
Newburyport--that's about forty miles. I lost my purse and my ticket,
so you see I was quite helpless. I was afraid to ask anyone for help,
and then--I hoped every minute that I might find my father."
"But I thought you knew no one here?"
"I don't. If Dad is here, it is quite by chance."
She looked again into his blue eyes and then back to the fire.
"It is wonderful how you came to me," she said.
"I saw you twice before."
"Once," she said, "was just beyond the Gardens."
"You noticed me?"
"Yes."
She leaned forward.
"Yes," she repeated, "I noticed you because of all the faces I had
looked into since morning yours was the first I felt I could trust."
"Thank you."
"And now," she continued, "I feel as though you might even understand
better than the others what my errand here to Boston was." She paused
again, adding, "I should hate to have you think me silly."
She studied his face eagerly. His eyes showed interest; his mouth
assured her of sympathy.
"Go on," he bade her.
To him she was like someone he had known before--like one of those
vague women he used to see between the stars. Within even these last
few minutes he had gotten over the strangeness of her being here. He
did not think of this building as a house, of this room as part of a
home; it was just a cave opening from the roadside into which they had
fled to escape the rain.
It seemed difficult for her to begin. Now that she had determined to
tell him she was anxious for him to see clearly.
"I ought to go back," she faltered; "back a long way into my life, and
I'm afraid that won't be interesting to you."
"You can't go very far back," he laughed. Then he added seriously, "I
am really interested. Please to tell it in your own way."
"Well, to begin with, Dad was a sea captain and he married the very
best woman in the world. But she died when I was very young. It was
after this that Dad took me on his long voyages with him,--to South
America, to India, and Africa. I don't remember much about it, except
as a series of pictures. I know I had the best of times for somehow I
can remember better how I felt than what I saw. I used to play on the
deck in the sun and listen to the sailors who told me strange stories.
Then when we reached a port Dad used to take me by the hand and lead
me through queer, crooked little streets and show me the shops and buy
whole armfuls of things for me. I remember it all just as you remember
brightly colored pictures of cities--pointed spires in the sunlight,
streets full of bright colors, and dozens of odd men and women whose
faces come at night and are forgotten in the morning. Dad was big and
handsome and very proud of me. He used to like to show me off and take
me with him everywhere. Those years were very wonderful and
beautiful.
"Then one day he brought me back to shore again, and for a while we
lived together in a large white house within sight of the ocean. We
used to take long walks and sometimes went to town, but he didn't seem
very happy. One day he brought home with him a strange woman and told
me that she was to be housekeeper, and that I must obey her and grow
up to be a fine woman. Then he went away. That was fifteen years ago.
Then came the report he was dead; that was ten years ago. After a
while I didn't mind so much, for I used to lie on my back and recall
all the places we had been together. When these pictures began to fade
a little, I learned another way,--a way taught me by a sailor. I took
a round crystal I found in the parlor and I looked into it hard,--oh,
very, very hard. Then it happened. First all I saw was a blur of
colors, but in a little while these separated and I saw as clearly as
at first all the streets and places I had ever visited, and sometimes
others too. Oh, it was such a comfort! Was that wrong?"
"No," he answered slowly, "I can't see anything wrong in that."
"She--the housekeeper--called it wicked--devilish. She took away the
crystal. But after a while I found I could see with other things--even
with just a glass of clear water. All you have to do is to hold your
eyes very still and stare and stare. Do you understand?"
He nodded.
"I've heard of that."
She dropped her voice, evidently struggling with growing excitement,
colored with something of fear.
"Don't you see how close this kept me to Dad? I've been living with
him almost as though I were really with him. We've taken over again
the old walks and many news ones. This seemed to go on just the same
after we received word that he had died--stricken with a fever in
South America somewhere."
She paused, taking a quick breath.
"All that is not so strange," she ran on; "but yesterday--yesterday in
the crystal I saw him--here in Boston."
"What!"
"As clearly as I see you. He was walking down a street near the
Gardens."
"It might have been someone who resembled him."
"No, it was Dad. He was thinner and looked strange, but I knew him as
though it were only yesterday that he had gone away."
"But if he is dead----"
"He isn't dead," she answered with conviction.
"On the strength of that vision you came here to look for him?"
"Yes."
"When you believe, you believe hard, don't you?"
"I believe the crystal," she answered soberly.
"Yet you didn't find your father?"
"No," she admitted.
"You are still sure he is here?"
"I am still sure he is living. I may have made a mistake in the place,
but I know he is alive and well somewhere. I shall look again in the
crystal to-morrow."
"Yes, to-morrow," answered Wilson, vaguely.
He rose to his feet.
"But there is still the hunger of to-day."
She seemed disappointed in the lightness with which apparently he took
her search.
"You don't believe?"
"I believe you. And I believe that you believe. But I have seen little
of such things myself. In the meanwhile it would be good to eat--if
only a few crackers. Are you afraid to stay here alone while I explore
a bit?"
She shook her head.
He was gone some ten minutes, and when he came back his loose robe
bulged suspiciously in many places.
"Madame," he exclaimed, "I beg you to observe me closely. I snap my
fingers twice,--so! Then I motion,--so! Behold!"
He deftly extricated from one of the large sleeves a can of soup, and
held it triumphantly aloft.
"Once more,--so!"
He produced a package of crackers; next a can of coffee, next some
sugar. And she, watching him with face alight, applauded vigorously
and with more genuine emotion than usually greets the acts of a
prestidigitator.
"But, oh!" she exclaimed, with her hands clasped beneath her chin,
"don't you dare to make them disappear again!"
"Madame," answered Wilson, with a bow, "that shall be your privilege."
He hurried below once more, and this time returned with a chafing-dish,
two bowls, and a couple of iron spoons which he had found in the
kitchen. In ten minutes the girl had prepared a lunch which to them was
the culmination of their happiness. Warmed, clothed, and fed, there
seemed nothing left for them.
When they had finished and had made everything tidy in the room, and
he had gone to the cellar and replenished the coal-hod, he told her
something of his own life. For a little while she listened, but soon
the room became blurred to her and she sank farther and farther among
the heavy shadows and the old paintings on the wall. The rain beat
against the muffled windows drowsily. The fire warmed her brow like
some hypnotic hand. Then his voice ceased and she drew her feet
beneath her and slept in the chair, looking like a soft Persian
kitten.