IN A TRAP
Elizabeth rode straight out to the east, crossing the town as rapidly as
possible, going full gallop where the streets were empty. On the edge of
the town she crossed another trail running back the way that they had
come; but without swerving she turned out toward the world, and soon
passed into a thick growth of trees, around a hill.
Not three minutes elapsed after she had passed the crossing of the trails
before the four men rode across from the other direction, and, pausing,
called to one another, looking this way and that:
"What d'ye think, Bill? Shall we risk the right hand 'r the left?"
"Take the left hand fer luck," answered Bill. "Let's go over to the ranch
and ask. Ef she's been hereabouts, she's likely there. The old woman'll
know. Come on, boys!"
And who shall say that the angel of the Lord did not stand within the
crossing of the ways and turn aside the evil men?
Elizabeth did not stop her fierce ride until about noon. The frenzy of her
fear of pursuit had come upon her with renewed force. Now that she was
alone and desolate she dared not look behind her. She had been strong
enough as she smiled her farewell; but, when the train had dwindled into a
mere speck in the distance, her eyes were dropping tears thick and fast
upon the horse's mane. So in the first heaviness of her loneliness she
rode as if pursued by enemies close at hand.
But the horse must rest if she did not, for he was her only dependence
now. So she sat her down in the shade of a tree, and tried to eat some
dinner. The tears came again as she opened the pack which the man's strong
hands had bound together for her. How little she had thought at
breakfast-time that she would eat the next meal alone!
It was all well enough to tell him he must go, and say she was nothing to
him; but it was different now to face the world without a single friend
when one had learned to know how good a friend could be. Almost it would
have been better if he had never found her, never saved her from the
serpent, never ridden beside her and talked of wonderful new things to
her; for now that he was gone the emptiness and loneliness were so much
harder to bear; and now she was filled with a longing for things that
could not be hers.
It was well he had gone so soon, well she had no longer to grow into the
charm of his society; for he belonged to the lady, and was not hers. Thus
she ate her dinner with the indifference of sorrow.
Then she took out the envelope, and counted over the money. Forty dollars
he had given her. She knew he had kept but five for himself. How wonderful
that he should have done all that for her! It seemed a very great wealth
in her possession. Well, she would use it as sparingly as possible, and
thus be able the sooner to return it all to him. Some she must use, she
supposed, to buy food; but she would do with as little as she could. She
might sometimes shoot a bird, or catch a fish; or there might be berries
fit for food by the way. Nights she must stop by the way at a respectable
house. That she had promised. He had told her of awful things that might
happen to her if she lay down in the wilderness alone. Her lodging would
sometimes cost her something. Yet often they would take her in for
nothing. She would be careful of the money.
She studied the name on the envelope. George Trescott Benedict, 2----
Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Penn. The letters were large and angular, not
easy to read; but she puzzled them out. It did not look like his writing.
She had watched him as he wrote the old woman's address in his little red
book. He wrote small, round letters, slanting backwards, plain as print,
pleasant writing to read. Now the old woman's address would never be of
any use, and her wish that Elizabeth should travel alone was fulfilled.
There was a faint perfume from the envelope like Weldwood flowers. She
breathed it in, and wondered at it. Was it perfume from something he
carried in his pocket, some flower his lady had once given him? But this
was not a pleasant thought. She put the envelope into her bosom after
studying it again carefully until she knew the words by heart.
Then she drew forth the papers of her mother's that she had brought from
home, and for the first time read them over.
The first was the marriage certificate. That she had seen before, and had
studied with awe; but the others had been kept in a box that was never
opened by the children. The mother kept them sacredly, always with the
certificate on the top.
The largest paper she could not understand. It was something about a
mine. There were a great many "herebys" and "whereases" and "agreements"
in it. She put it back into the wrapper as of little account, probably
something belonging to her father, which her mother had treasured for old
time's sake.
Then came a paper which related to the claim where their little log home
had stood, and upon the extreme edge of which the graves were. That, too,
she laid reverently within its wrapper.
Next came a bit of pasteboard whereon was inscribed, "Mrs. Merrill Wilton
Bailey, Rittenhouse Square, Tuesdays." That she knew was her grandmother's
name, though she had never seen the card before--her father's mother. She
looked at the card in wonder. It was almost like a distant view of the
lady in question. What kind of a place might Rittenhouse Square be, and
where was it? There was no telling. It might be near that wonderful Desert
of Sahara that the man had talked about. She laid it down with a sigh.
There was only one paper left, and that was a letter written in pale
pencil lines. It said:
"_My dear Bessie:_ Your pa died last week. He was killed falling
from a scaffold. He was buried on Monday with five carriages and
everything nice. We all got new black dresses, and have enough
for a stone. If it don't cost too much, we'll have an angle on
the top. I always thought an angle pointing to heaven was nice.
We wish you was here. We miss you very much. I hope your husband
is good to you. Why don't you write to us? You haven't wrote
since your little girl was born. I s'pose you call her Bessie
like you. If anything ever happens to you, you can send her to
me. I'd kind of like her to fill your place. Your sister has
got a baby girl too. She calls her Lizzie. We couldn't somehow
have it natural to call her 'Lizabeth, and Nan wanted her called
for me. I was always Lizzie, you know. Now you must write soon.
"Your loving mother,
ELIZABETH BRADY."
There was no date nor address to the letter, but an address had been
pencilled on the outside in her mother's cramped school-girl hand. It was
dim but still readable, "Mrs. Elizabeth Brady, 18---- Flora Street,
Philadelphia."
Elizabeth studied the last word, then drew out the envelope again, and
looked at that. Yes, the two names were the same. How wonderful! Perhaps
she would sometime, sometime, see him again, though of course he belonged
to the lady. But perhaps, if she went to school and learned very fast, she
might sometime meet him at church--he went to church, she was sure--and
then he might smile, and not be ashamed of his friend who had saved his
life. Saved his life! Nonsense! She had not done much. He would not feel
any such ridiculous indebtedness to her when he got back to home and
friends and safety. He had saved her much more than she had saved him.
She put the papers all back in safety, and after having prepared her few
belongings for taking up the journey, she knelt down. She would say the
prayer before she went on. It might be that would keep the terrible
pursuers away.
She said it once, and then with eyes still closed she waited a moment.
Might she say it for him, who was gone away from her? Perhaps it would
help him, and keep him from falling from that terrible machine he was
riding on. Hitherto in her mind prayers had been only for the dead, but
now they seemed also to belong to all who were in danger or trouble. She
said the prayer over once more, slowly, then paused a moment, and added:
"Our Father, hide him from trouble. Hide George Trescott Benedict. And
hide me, please, too."
Then she mounted her horse, and went on her way.
It was a long and weary way. It reached over mountains and through
valleys, across winding, turbulent streams and broad rivers that had few
bridges. The rivers twice led her further south than she meant to go, in
her ignorance. She had always felt that Philadelphia was straight ahead
east, as straight as one could go to the heart of the sun.
Night after night she lay down in strange homes, some poorer and more
forlorn than others; and day after day she took up her lonely travel
again.
Gradually, as the days lengthened, and mountains piled themselves behind
her, and rivers stretched like barriers between, she grew less and less to
dread her pursuers, and more and more to look forward to the future. It
seemed so long a way! Would it never end?
Once she asked a man whether he knew where Philadelphia was. She had been
travelling then for weeks, and thought she must be almost there. But he
said "Philadelphia? O, Philadelphia is in the East. That's a long way off.
I saw a man once who came from there."
She set her firm little chin then, and travelled on. Her clothes were much
worn, and her skin was brown as a berry. The horse plodded on with a
dejected air. He would have liked to stop at a number of places they
passed, and remain for life, what there was left of it; but he obediently
walked on over any kind of an old road that came in his way, and solaced
himself with whatever kind of a bite the roadside afforded. He was
becoming a much-travelled horse. He knew a threshing-machine by sight now,
and considered it no more than a prairie bob-cat.
At one stopping-place a good woman advised Elizabeth to rest on Sundays.
She told her God didn't like people to do the same on His day as on other
days, and it would bring her bad luck if she kept up her incessant riding.
It was bad for the horse too. So, the night being Saturday, Elizabeth
remained with the woman over the Sabbath, and heard read aloud the
fourteenth chapter of John. It was a wonderful revelation to her. She did
not altogether understand it. In fact, the Bible was an unknown book. She
had never known that it was different from other books. She had heard it
spoken of by her mother, but only as a book. She did not know it was a
book of books.
She carried the beautiful thoughts with her on the way, and pondered them.
She wished she might have the book. She remembered the name of it, Bible,
the Book of God. Then God had written a book! Some day she would try to
find it and read it.
"Let not your heart be troubled"; so much of the message drifted into her
lonesome, ignorant soul, and settled down to stay. She said it over nights
when she found a shelter in some unpleasant place or days when the road
was rough or a storm came up and she was compelled to seek shelter by the
roadside under a haystack or in a friendly but deserted shack. She thought
of it the day there was no shelter and she was drenched to the skin. She
wondered afterward when the sun came out and dried her nicely whether God
had really been speaking the words to her troubled heart, "Let not your
heart be troubled."
Every night and every morning she said "Our Father" twice, once for
herself and once for the friend who had gone out into the world, it seemed
about a hundred years ago.
But one day she came across a railroad track. It made her heart beat
wildly. It seemed now that she must be almost there. Railroads were things
belonging to the East and civilization. But the way was lonely still for
days, and then she crossed more railroads, becoming more and more
frequent, and came into the line of towns that stretched along beside the
snake-like tracks.
She fell into the habit of staying overnight in a town, and then riding on
to the next in the morning; but now her clothes were becoming so dirty and
ragged that she felt ashamed to go to nice-looking places lest they should
turn her out; so she sought shelter in barns and small, mean houses. But
the people in these houses were distressingly dirty, and she found no
place to wash.
She had lost track of the weeks or the months when she reached her first
great city, the only one she had come near in her uncharted wanderings.
Into the outskirts of Chicago she rode undaunted, her head erect, with the
carriage of a queen. She had passed Indians and cowboys in her journeying;
why should she mind Chicago? Miles and miles of houses and people. There
seemed to be no end to it. Nothing but houses everywhere and
hurried-looking people, many of them working hard. Surely this must be
Philadelphia.
A large, beautiful building attracted her attention. There were handsome
grounds about it, and girls playing some game with a ball and curious
webbed implements across a net of cords. Elizabeth drew her horse to the
side of the road, and watched a few minutes. One girl was skilful, and hit
the ball back every time. Elizabeth almost exclaimed out loud once when a
particularly fine ball was played. She rode reluctantly on when the game
was finished, and saw over the arched gateway the words, "Janeway School
for Girls."
Ah! This was Philadelphia at last, and here was her school. She would go
in at once before she went to her grandmother's. It might be better.
She dismounted, and tied the horse to an iron ring in a post by the
sidewalk. Then she went slowly, shyly up the steps into the charmed
circles of learning. She knew she was shabby, but her long journey would
explain that. Would they be kind to her, and let her study?
She stood some time before the door, with a group of laughing girls not
far away whispering about her. She smiled at them; but they did not return
the salutation, and their actions made her more shy. At last she stepped
into the open door, and a maid in cap and apron came forward. "You must
not come in here, miss," she said imperiously. "This is a school."
"Yes," said Elizabeth gravely, smiling. "I want to see the teacher."
"She's busy. You can't see her," snapped the maid.
"Then I will wait till she is ready. I've come a great many miles, and I
must see her."
The maid retreated at this, and an elegant woman in trailing black silk
and gold-rimmed glasses approached threateningly. This was a new kind of
beggar, of course, and must be dealt with at once.
"What do you want?" she asked frigidly.
"I've come to school," said Elizabeth confidingly. "I know I don't look
very nice, but I've had to come all the way from Montana on horseback. If
you could let me go where I can have some water and a thread and needle, I
can make myself look better."
The woman eyed the girl incredulously.
"You have come to school!" she said; and her voice was large, and
frightened Elizabeth. "You have come all the way from Montana! Impossible!
You must be crazy."
"No, ma'am, I'm not crazy," said Elizabeth. "I just want to go to school."
The woman perceived that this might be an interesting case for
benevolently inclined people. It was nothing but an annoyance to herself.
"My dear girl,"--her tone was bland and disagreeable now,--"are you aware
that it takes money to come to school?"
"Does it?" said Elizabeth. "No, I didn't know it, but I have some money. I
could give you ten dollars right now; and, if that is not enough, I might
work some way, and earn more."
The woman laughed disagreeably.
"It is impossible," she said. "The yearly tuition here is five hundred
dollars. Besides, we do not take girls of your class. This is a finishing
school for young ladies. You will have to inquire further," and the woman
swept away to laugh with her colleagues over the queer character, the new
kind of tramp, she had just been called to interview. The maid came pertly
forward, and said that Elizabeth could not longer stand where she was.
Bewilderment and bitter disappointment in her face, Elizabeth went slowly
down to her horse, the great tears welling up into her eyes. As she rode
away, she kept turning back to the school grounds wistfully. She did not
notice the passers-by, nor know that they were commenting upon her
appearance. She made a striking picture in her rough garments, with her
wealth of hair, her tanned skin, and tear-filled eyes. An artist noticed
it, and watched her down the street, half thinking he would follow and
secure her as a model for his next picture.
A woman, gaudily bedecked in soiled finery, her face giving evidence of
the frequent use of rouge and powder, watched her, and followed,
pondering. At last she called, "My dear, my dear, wait a minute." She had
to speak several times before Elizabeth saw that she was talking to her.
Then the horse was halted by the sidewalk.
"My dear," said the woman, "you look tired and disappointed. Don't you
want to come home with me for a little while, and rest?"
"Thank you," said Elizabeth, "but I am afraid I must go on. I only stop on
Sundays."
"But just come home with me for a little while," coaxed the wheedling
tones. "You look so tired, and I've some girls of my own. I know you would
enjoy resting and talking with them."
The kindness in her tones touched the weary girl. Her pride had been stung
to the quick by the haughty woman in the school. This woman would soothe
her with kindness.
"Do you live far from here?" asked Elizabeth.
"Only two or three blocks," said the woman. "You ride along by the
sidewalk, and we can talk. Where are you going? You look as if you had
come a long distance."
"Yes," said the girl wearily, "from Montana. I am going to school. Is this
Philadelphia?"
"This is Chicago," said the woman. "There are finer schools here than in
Philadelphia. If you like to come and stay at my house awhile, I will see
about getting you into a school."
"Is it hard work to get people into schools?" asked the girl wonderingly.
"I thought they would want people to teach."
"No, it's very hard," said the lying woman; "but I think I know a school
where I can get you in. Where are your folks? Are they in Montana?"
"They are all dead," said Elizabeth, "and I have come away to school."
"Poor child!" said the woman glibly. "Come right home with me, and I'll
take care of you. I know a nice way you can earn your living, and then you
can study if you like. But you're quite big to go to school. It seems to
me you could have a good time without that. You are a very pretty girl; do
you know it? You only need pretty clothes to make you a beauty. If you
come with me, I will let you earn some beautiful new clothes."
"You are very kind," said the girl gravely. "I do need new clothes; and,
if I could earn them, that would be all the better." She did not quite
like the woman; yet of course that was foolish.
After a few more turns they stopped in front of a tall brick building with
a number of windows. It seemed to be a good deal like other buildings; in
fact, as she looked up the street, Elizabeth thought there were miles of
them just alike. She tied her horse in front of the door, and went in with
the woman. The woman told her to sit down a minute until she called the
lady of the house, who would tell her more about the school. There were a
number of pretty girls in the room, and they made very free to speak to
her. They twitted her about her clothes, and in a way reminded Elizabeth
of the girls in the school she had just interviewed.
Suddenly she spoke up to the group. An idea had occurred to her. This was
the school, and the woman had not liked to say so until she spoke to the
teacher about her.
"Is this a school?" she asked shyly.
Her question was met with a shout of derisive laughter.
"School!" cried the boldest, prettiest one. "School for scandal! School
for morals!"
There was one, a thin, pale girl with dark circles under her eyes, a sad
droop to her mouth, and bright scarlet spots in her cheeks. She came over
to Elizabeth, and whispered something to her. Elizabeth started forward,
unspeakable horror in her face.
She fled to the door where she had come in, but found it fastened. Then
she turned as if she had been brought to bay by a pack of lions.