A FINAL FLIGHT AND PURSUIT
"George," said Mrs. Vincent Benedict, "I want you to do something for me."
"Certainly, mother, anything I can."
"Well, it's only to go to dinner with me to-night. Our pastor's wife has
telephoned me that she wants us very much. She especially emphasized you.
She said she absolutely needed you. It was a case of charity, and she
would be so grateful to you if you would come. She has a young friend with
her who is very sad, and she wants to cheer her up. Now don't frown. I
won't bother you again this week. I know you hate dinners and girls. But
really, George, this is an unusual case. The girl is just home from
Europe, and buried her grandmother yesterday. She hasn't a soul in the
world belonging to her that can be with her, and the pastor's wife has
asked her over to dinner quietly. Of course she isn't going out. She must
be in mourning. And you know you're fond of the doctor."
"Yes, I'm fond of the doctor," said George, frowning discouragedly; "but
I'd rather take him alone, and not with a girl flung at me everlastingly.
I'm tired of it. I didn't think it of Christian people, though; I thought
she was above such things."
"Now, George," said his mother severely, "that's a real insult to the
girl, and to our friend too. She hasn't an idea of doing any such thing.
It seems this girl is quite unusual, very religious, and our friend
thought you would be just the one to cheer her. She apologized several
times for presuming to ask you to help her. You really will have to go."
"Well, who is this paragon, anyway? Any one I know? I s'pose I've got to
go."
"Why, she's a Miss Bailey," said the mother, relieved. "Mrs. Wilton
Merrill Bailey's granddaughter. Did you ever happen to meet her? I never
did."
"Never heard of her," growled George. "Wish I hadn't now."
"George!"
"Well, mother, go on. I'll be good. What does she do? Dance, and play
bridge, and sing?"
"I haven't heard anything that she does," said his mother, laughing.
"Well, of course she's a paragon; they all are, mother. I'll be ready in
half an hour. Let's go and get it done. We can come home early, can't we?"
Mrs. Benedict sighed. If only George would settle down on some suitable
girl of good family! But he was so queer and restless. She was afraid for
him. Ever since she had taken him away to Europe, when she was so ill, she
had been afraid for him. He seemed so moody and absent-minded then and
afterwards. Now this Miss Bailey was said to be as beautiful as she was
good. If only George would take a notion to her!
Elizabeth was sitting in a great arm-chair by the open fire when he
entered the room. He had not expected to find any one there. He heard
voices up-stairs, and supposed Miss Bailey was talking with her hostess.
His mother followed the servant to remove her wraps, and he entered the
drawing-room alone. She stirred, looked up, and saw him.
"Elizabeth!" he said, and came forward to grasp her hand. "I have found
you again. How came you here?"
But she had no opportunity to answer, for the ladies entered almost at
once, and there stood the two smiling at each other.
"Why, you have met before!" exclaimed the hostess. "How delighted I am! I
knew you two would enjoy meeting. Elizabeth, child, you never told me you
knew George."
George Benedict kept looking around for Miss Bailey to enter the room; but
to his relief she did not come, and, when they went out to the
dining-room, there was no place set for her. She must have preferred to
remain at home. He forgot her, and settled down to the joy of having
Elizabeth by his side. His mother, opposite, watched his face blossom into
the old-time joy as he handed this new girl the olives, and had eyes for
no one else.
It was to Elizabeth a blessed evening. They held sweet converse one with
another as children of the King. For a little time under the old influence
of the restful, helpful talk she forgot "the lady," and all the perplexing
questions that had vexed her soul. She knew only that she had entered into
an atmosphere of peace and love and joy.
It was not until the evening was over, and the guests were about to leave,
that Mrs. Benedict addressed Elizabeth as Miss Bailey. Up to that moment
it had not entered her son's mind that Miss Bailey was present at all. He
turned with a start, and looked into Elizabeth's eyes; and she smiled back
to him as if to acknowledge the name. Could she read his thoughts? he
wondered.
It was only a few steps across the Square, and Mrs. Benedict and her son
walked to Elizabeth's door with her. He had no opportunity to speak to
Elizabeth alone, but he said as he bade her good-night, "I shall see you
to-morrow, then, in the morning?"
The inflection was almost a question; but Elizabeth only said, "Good
night," and vanished into the house.
"Then you have met her before, George?" asked his mother wonderingly.
"Yes," he answered hurriedly, as if to stop her further question. "Yes, I
have met her before. She is very beautiful, mother."
And because the mother was afraid she might say too much she assented, and
held her peace. It was the first time in years that George had called a
girl beautiful.
Meantime Elizabeth had gone to her own room and locked the door. She
hardly knew what to think, her heart was so happy. Yet beneath it all was
the troubled thought of the lady, the haunting lady for whom they had
prayed together on the prairie. And as if to add to the thought she found
a bit of newspaper lying on the floor beside her dressing-table. Marie
must have dropped it as she came in to turn up the lights. It was nothing
but the corner torn from a newspaper, and should be consigned to the
waste-basket; yet her eye caught the words in large head-lines as she
picked it up idly, "Miss Geraldine Loring's Wedding to Be an Elaborate
Affair." There was nothing more readable. The paper was torn in a zigzag
line just beneath. Yet that was enough. It reminded her of her duty.
Down beside the bed she knelt, and prayed: "O my Father, hide me now; hide
me! I am in trouble; hide me!" Over and over she prayed till her heart
grew calm and she could think.
Then she sat down quietly, and put the matter before her.
This man whom she loved with her whole soul was to be married in a few
days. The world of society would be at the wedding. He was pledged to
another, and he was not hers. Yet he was her old friend, and was coming to
see her. If he came and looked into her face with those clear eyes of his,
he might read in hers that she loved him. How dreadful that would be!
Yes, she must search yet deeper. She had heard the glad ring in his voice
when he met her, and said, "Elizabeth!" She had seen his eyes. He was in
danger himself. She knew it; she might not hide it from herself. She must
help him to be true to the woman to whom he was pledged, whom now he would
have to marry.
She must go away from it all. She would run away, now at once. It seemed
that she was always running away from some one. She would go back to the
mountains where she had started. She was not afraid now of the man from
whom she had fled. Culture and education had done their work. Religion had
set her upon a rock. She could go back with the protection that her money
would put about her, with the companionship of some good, elderly woman,
and be safe from harm in that way; but she could not stay here and meet
George Benedict in the morning, nor face Geraldine Loring on her
wedding-day. It would be all the same the facing whether she were in the
wedding-party or not. Her days of mourning for her grandmother would of
course protect her from this public facing. It was the thought she could
not bear. She must get away from it all forever.
Her lawyers should arrange the business. They would purchase the house
that Grandmother Brady desired, and then give her her money to build a
church. She would go back, and teach among the lonely wastes of mountain
and prairie what Jesus Christ longed to be to the people made in His
image. She would go back and place above the graves of her father and
mother and brothers stones that should bear the words of life to all who
should pass by in that desolate region. And that should be her excuse to
the world for going, if she needed any excuse--she had gone to see about
placing a monument over her father's grave. But the monument should be a
church somewhere where it was most needed. She was resolved upon that.
That was a busy night. Marie was called upon to pack a few things for a
hurried journey. The telephone rang, and the sleepy night-operator
answered crossly. But Elizabeth found out all she wanted to know about the
early Chicago trains, and then lay down to rest.
Early the next morning George Benedict telephoned for some flowers from
the florist; and, when they arrived, he pleased himself by taking them to
Elizabeth's door.
He did not expect to find her up, but it would be a pleasure to have them
reach her by his own hand. They would be sent up to her room, and she
would know in her first waking thought that he remembered her. He smiled
as he touched the bell and stood waiting.
The old butler opened the door. He looked as if he had not fully finished
his night's sleep. He listened mechanically to the message, "For Miss
Bailey with Mr. Benedict's good-morning," and then his face took on a
deprecatory expression.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Benedict," he said, as if in the matter he were personally
to blame; "but she's just gone. Miss Elizabeth's mighty quick in her ways,
and last night after she come home she decided to go to Chicago on the
early train. She's just gone to the station not ten minutes ago. They was
late, and had to hurry. I'm expecting the footman back every minute."
"Gone?" said George Benedict, standing blankly on the door-step and
looking down the street as if that should bring her. "Gone? To Chicago,
did you say?"
"Yes, sir, she's gone to Chicago. That is, she's going further, but she
took the Chicago Limited. She's gone to see about a monument for Madam's
son John, Miss 'Lizabuth's father. She said she must go at once, and she
went."
"What time does that train leave?" asked the young man. It was a thread of
hope. He was stung into a superhuman effort as he had been on the prairie
when he had caught the flying vision of the girl and horse, and he had
shouted, and she would not stop for him.
"Nine-fifty, sir," said the butler. He wished this excited young man would
go after her. She needed some one. His heart had often stirred against
fate that this pearl among young mistresses should have no intimate friend
or lover now in her loneliness.
"Nine-fifty!" He looked at his watch. No chance! "Broad Street?" he asked
sharply.
"Yes, sir."
Would there be a chance if he had his automobile? Possibly, but hardly
unless the train was late. There would be a trifle more chance of catching
the train at West Philadelphia. O for his automobile! He turned to the
butler in despair.
"Telephone her!" he said. "Stop her if you possibly can on board the
train, and I will try to get there. I must see her. It is important." He
started down the steps, his mind in a whirl of trouble. How should he go?
The trolley would be the only available way, and yet the trolley would be
useless; it would take too long. Nevertheless, he sped down toward
Chestnut Street blindly, and now in his despair his new habit came to him.
"O my Father, help me! Help me! Save her for me!"
Up Walnut Street at a breakneck pace came a flaming red automobile,
sounding its taunting menace, "Honk-honk! Honk-honk!" but George Benedict
stopped not for automobiles. Straight into the jaws of death he rushed,
and was saved only by the timely grasp of a policeman, who rolled him over
on the ground. The machine came to a halt, and a familiar voice shouted:
"Conscience alive, George, is that you? What are you trying to do? Say,
but that was a close shave! Where you going in such a hurry, anyway?
Hustle in, and I'll take you there."
The young man sprang into the seat, and gasped: "West Philadelphia
station, Chicago Limited! Hurry! Train leaves Broad Street station at
nine-fifty. Get me there if you can, Billy. I'll be your friend forever."
By this time they were speeding fast. Neither of the two had time to
consider which station was the easier to make; and, as the machine was
headed toward West Philadelphia, on they went, regardless of laws or
vainly shouting policemen.
George Benedict sprang from the car before it had stopped, and nearly fell
again. His nerves were not steady from his other fall yet. He tore into
the station and out through the passageway past the beckoning hand of the
ticket-man who sat in the booth at the staircase, and strode up three
steps at a time. The guard shouted: "Hurry! You may get it; she's just
starting!" and a friendly hand reached out, and hauled him up on the
platform of the last car.
For an instant after he was safely in the car he was too dazed to think.
It seemed as if he must keep on blindly rushing through that train all the
way to Chicago, or she would get away from him. He sat down in an empty
seat for a minute to get his senses. He was actually on the train! It had
not gone without him!
Now the next question was, Was she on it herself, or had she in some way
slipped from his grasp even yet? The old butler might have caught her by
telephone. He doubted it. He knew her stubborn determination, and all at
once he began to suspect that she was with intention running away from
him, and perhaps had been doing so before! It was an astonishing thought
and a grave one, yet, if it were true, what had meant that welcoming smile
in her eyes that had been like dear sunshine to his heart?
But there was no time to consider such questions now. He had started on
this quest, and he must continue it until he found her. Then she should be
made to explain once and for all most fully. He would live through no more
torturing agonies of separation without a full understanding of the
matter. He got upon his shaking feet, and started to hunt for Elizabeth.
Then all at once he became aware that he was still carrying the box of
flowers. Battered and out of shape it was, but he was holding it as if it
held the very hope of life for him. He smiled grimly as he tottered
shakily down the aisle, grasping his floral offering with determination.
This was not exactly the morning call he had planned, nor the way he had
expected to present his flowers; but it seemed to be the best he could do.
Then, at last, in the very furthest car from the end, in the drawing-room
he found her, sitting gray and sorrowful, looking at the fast-flying
landscape.
"Elizabeth!" He stood in the open door and called to her; and she started
as from a deep sleep, her face blazing into glad sunshine at sight of him.
She put her hand to her heart, and smiled.
"I have brought you some flowers," he said grimly. "I am afraid there
isn't much left of them now; but, such as they are, they are here. I hope
you will accept them."
"Oh!" gasped Elizabeth, reaching out for the poor crushed roses as if they
had been a little child in danger. She drew them from the battered box and
to her arms with a delicious movement of caressing, as if she would make
up to them for all they had come through. He watched her, half pleased,
half savagely. Why should all that tenderness be wasted on mere fading
flowers?
At last he spoke, interrupting her brooding over his roses.
"You are running away from me!" he charged.
"Well, and what if I am?" She looked at him with a loving defiance in her
eyes.
"Don't you know I love you?" he asked, sitting down beside her and talking
low and almost fiercely. "Don't you know I've been torn away from you, or
you from me, twice before now, and that I cannot stand it any more? Say,
don't you know it? Answer, please," The demand was kind, but peremptory.
"I was afraid so," she murmured with drooping eyes, and cheeks from which
all color had fled.
"Well, why do you do it? Why did you run away? Don't you care for me? Tell
me that. If you can't ever love me, you are excusable; but I must know it
all now."
"Yes, I care as much as you," she faltered, "but----"
"But what?" sharply.
"But you are going to be married this week," she said in desperation,
raising her miserable eyes to his.
He looked at her in astonishment.
"Am I?" said he. "Well, that's news to me; but it's the best news I've
heard in a long time. When does the ceremony come off? I wish it was this
morning. Make it this morning, will you? Let's stop this blessed old train
and go back to the Doctor. He'll fix it so we can't ever run away from
each other again. Elizabeth, look at me!"
But Elizabeth hid her eyes now. They were full of tears.
"But the lady--" she gasped out, struggling with the sobs. She was so
weary, and the thought of what he had suggested was so precious.
"What lady? There is no lady but you, Elizabeth, and never has been.
Haven't you known that for a long time? I have. That was all a
hallucination of my foolish brain. I had to go out on the plains to get
rid of it, but I left it there forever. She was nothing to me after I saw
you."
"But--but people said--and it was in the paper, I saw it. You cannot
desert her now; it would be dishonorable."
"Thunder!" ejaculated the distracted young man. "In the paper! What lady?"
"Why, Miss Loring! Geraldine Loring. I saw that the preparations were all
made for her wedding, and I was told she was to marry you."
In sheer relief he began to laugh.
At last he stopped, as the old hurt look spread over her face.
"Excuse me, dear," he said gently, "There was a little acquaintance
between Miss Loring and myself. It only amounted to a flirtation on her
part, one of many. It was a great distress to my mother, and I went out
West, as you know, to get away from her. I knew she would only bring me
unhappiness, and she was not willing to give up some of her ways that were
impossible. I am glad and thankful that God saved me from her. I believe
she is going to marry a distant relative of mine by the name of Benedict,
but I thank the kind Father that I am not going to marry her. There is
only one woman in the whole wide world that I am willing to marry, or ever
will be; and she is sitting beside me now."
The train was going rapidly now. It would not be long before the conductor
would reach them. The man leaned over, and clasped the little gloved hand
that lay in the girl's lap; and Elizabeth felt the great joy that had
tantalized her for these three years in dreams and visions settle down
about her in beautiful reality. She was his now forever. She need never
run away again.
The conductor was not long in coming to them, and the matter-of-fact world
had to be faced once more. The young man produced his card, and said a few
words to the conductor, mentioning the name of his uncle, who, by the way,
happened to be a director of the road; and then he explained the
situation. It was very necessary that the young lady be recalled at once
to her home because of a change in the circumstances. He had caught the
train at West Philadelphia by automobile, coming as he was in his morning
clothes, without baggage and with little money. Would the conductor be so
kind as to put them off that they might return to the city by the shortest
possible route?
The conductor glared and scolded, and said people "didn't know their own
minds," and "wanted to move the earth." Then he eyed Elizabeth, and she
smiled. He let a grim glimmer of what might have been a sour smile years
ago peep out for an instant, and--he let them off.
They wandered delightedly about from one trolley to another until they
found an automobile garage, and soon were speeding back to Philadelphia.
They waited for no ceremony, these two who had met and loved by the way in
the wilderness. They went straight to Mrs. Benedict for her blessing, and
then to the minister to arrange for his services; and within the week a
quiet wedding-party entered the arched doors of the placid brown church
with the lofty spire, and Elizabeth Bailey and George Benedict were united
in the sacred bonds of matrimony.
There were present Mrs. Benedict and one or two intimate friends of the
family, besides Grandmother Brady, Aunt Nan, and Lizzie.
Lizzie brought a dozen bread-and-butter-plates from the ten-cent store.
They were adorned with cupids and roses and much gilt. But Lizzie was
disappointed. No display, no pomp and ceremony. Just a simple white dress
and white veil. Lizzie did not understand that the veil had been in the
Bailey family for generations, and that the dress was an heirloom also. It
was worn because Grandmother Bailey had given it to her, and told her she
wanted her to wear it on her wedding-day. Sweet and beautiful she looked
as she turned to walk down the aisle on her husband's arm, and she smiled
at Grandmother Brady in a way that filled the grandmother's heart with
pride and triumph. Elizabeth was not ashamed of the Bradys even among her
fine friends. But Lizzie grumbled all the way home at the plainness of the
ceremony, and the lack of bridesmaids and fuss and feathers.
The social column of the daily papers stated that young Mr. and Mrs.
George Benedict were spending their honeymoon in an extended tour of the
West, and Grandmother Brady so read it aloud at the breakfast table to the
admiring family. Only Lizzie looked discontented:
"She just wore a dark blue tricotine one-piece dress and a little plain
dark hat. She ain't got a bit of taste. Oh _Boy_! If I just had her pocket
book wouldn't I show the world? But anyhow I'm glad she went in a private
car. There was a _little_ class to her, though if t'had been mine I'd uv
preferred ridin' in the parlor coach an' havin' folks see me and my fine
husband. He's some looker, George Benedict is! Everybody turns to watch
'em as they go by, and they just sail along and never seem to notice. It's
all perfectly throwed away on 'em. Gosh! I'd hate to be such a nut!"
"Now, Lizzie, you know you hadn't oughtta talk like that!" reproved her
grandmother, "After her giving you all that money fer your own wedding. A
thousand dollars just to spend as you please on your cloes and a blow out,
and house linens. Jest because she don't care for gewgaws like you do, you
think she's a fool. But she's no fool. She's got a good head on her, and
she'll get more in the long run out of life than you will. She's been real
loving and kind to us all, and she didn't have any reason to neither. We
never did much fer her. And look at how nice and common she's been with us
all, not a bit high headed. I declare, Lizzie, I should think you'd be
ashamed!"
"Oh, well," said Lizzie shrugging her shoulders indifferently, "She's all
right in her way, only 'taint my way. And I'm thankful t'goodness that I
had the nerve to speak up when she offered to give me my trousseau. She
askt me would I druther hav her buy it for me, or have the money and pick
it out m'self, and I spoke up right quick and says, 'Oh, cousin Bessie, I
wouldn't _think_ of givin' ya all that trouble. I'd take the _money_ ef
it's all the same t'you,' and she jest smiled and said all right, she
expected I knew what I wanted better'n she did. So yes'teddy when I went
down to the station to see her off she handed me a bank book. And--Oh,
say, I fergot! She said there was a good-bye note inside. I ain't had time
to look at it since. I went right to the movies on the dead run to get
there 'fore the first show begun, and it's in my coat pocket. Wait 'till I
get it. I spose it's some of her old _religion_! She's always preaching at
me. It ain't that she says so much as that she's always _meanin'_ it
underneath, everything, that gets my goat! It's sorta like having a piece
of God round with you all the time watching you. You kinda hate to be
enjoyin' yerself fer fear she won't think yer doin' it accordin' to the
Bible."
Lizzie hurtled into the hall and brought back her coat, fumbling in the
pocket.
"Yes, here 'tis ma! Wanta see the figgers? You never had a whole thousand
dollars in the bank t'woncet yerself, did ya?"
Mrs. Brady put on her spectacles and reached for the book, while Lizzie's
mother got up and came behind her mother's chair to look over at the magic
figures. Lizzie stooped for the little white note that had fluttered to
her feet as she opened the book, but she had little interest to see what
it said. She was more intent upon the new bank book.
It was Grandmother Brady that discovered it:
"Why, Lizzie! It ain't _one_ thousand, it's _five_ thousand, the book
says! You don't 'spose she's made a mistake, do you?"
Lizzie seized the book and gazed, her jaw dropping open in amaze. "Let me
have it!" demanded Lizzie's mother, reaching for the book.
"Where's yer note, Lizzie, mebbe it'll explain," said the excited
Grandmother.
Lizzie recovered the note which again had fluttered to the floor in the
confusion and opening it began to read:
"_Dear Lizzie_," it read
"I've made it five thousand so you will have some over for
furnishing your home, and if you still think you want the little
bungalow out on the Pike you will find the deed at my lawyer's,
all made out in your name. It's my wedding gift to you, so you
can go to work and buy your furniture at once, and not wait till
Dan gets a raise. And here's wishing you a great deal of
happiness,
"Your loving cousin,
ELIZABETH."
"There!" said Grandmother Brady sitting back with satisfaction and holding
her hands composedly, "Whadd' I tell ya?"
"Mercy!" said Lizzie's mother, "Let me see that note! The idea of her
_giving_ all that money when she didn't have to!"
But Lizzie's face was a picture of joy. For once she lost her hard little
worldly screwed-up expression and was wreathed in smiles of genuine
eagerness:
"Oh _Boy_!" she exclaimed delightedly, dancing around the room, "Now we
can have a victrola, an' a player-piano, and Dan'll get a Ford, one o'
those limousine-kind! Won't I be some swell? What'll the girls at the
store think now?"
"H'm! You'd much better get a washing machine and a 'lectric iron!"
grumbled Grandmother Brady practically.
"Well, all I got to say about it is, she was an awful fool to trust _you_
with so much money," said Lizzie's mother discontentedly, albeit with a
pleased pride as she watched her giddy daughter fling on hat and coat to
go down and tell Dan.
"I sh'll work in the store fer the rest of the week, jest to 'commodate
'em," she announced putting her head back in the door as she went out,
"but not a day longer. I got a lot t'do. Say, won't I be some lady in the
five-an'-ten the rest o' the week? Oh _Boy! I'll tell the world!_"
Meantime in their own private car the bride and groom were whirled on
their way to the west, but they saw little of the scenery, being engaged
in the all-absorbing story of each other's lives since they had parted.
And one bright morning, they stepped down from the train at Malta and
gazed about them.
The sun was shining clear and wonderful, and the little brown station
stood drearily against the brightness of the day like a picture that has
long hung on the wall of one's memory and is suddenly brought out and the
dust wiped away.
They purchased a couple of horses, and with camp accoutrements following
began their real wedding trip, over the road they had come together when
they first met. Elizabeth had to show her husband where she had hidden
while the men went by, and he drew her close in his arms and thanked God
that she had escaped so miraculously.
It seemed so wonderful to be in the same places again, for nothing out
here in the wilderness seemed much to have changed, and yet they two were
so changed that the people they met did not seem to recognize them as ever
having been that way before.
They dined sumptuously in the same coulee, and recalled little things they
had said and done, and Elizabeth now worldly wise, laughed at her own
former ignorance as her husband reminded her of some questions she had
asked him on that memorable journey. And ever through the beautiful
journey he was telling her how wonderful she seemed to him, both then and
now.
Not however, till they reached the old ranchhouse, where the woman had
tried to persuade her to stay, did they stop for long.
Elizabeth had a tender feeling in her heart for that motherly woman who
had sought to protect her, and felt a longing to let her know how safely
she had been kept through the long journey and how good the Lord had been
to her through the years. Also they both desired to reward these kind
people for their hospitality in the time of need. So, in the early evening
they rode up just as they did before to the little old log house. But no
friendly door flung open wide as they came near, and at first they thought
the cabin deserted, till a candle flare suddenly shone forth in the
bedroom, and then Benedict dismounted and knocked.
After some waiting the old man came to the door holding a candle high
above his head. His face was haggard and worn, and the whole place looked
dishevelled. His eyes had a weary look as he peered into the night and it
was evident that he had no thought of ever having seen them before:
"I can't do much fer ya, strangers," he said, his voice sounding tired and
discouraged. "If it's a woman ye have with ye, ye better ride on to the
next ranch. My woman is sick. Very sick. There's nobody here with her but
me, and I have all I can tend to. The house ain't kept very tidy. It's six
weeks since she took to bed."
Elizabeth had sprung lightly to the ground and was now at the threshold:
"Oh, is she sick? I'm so sorry? Couldn't I do something for her? She was
good to me once several years ago!"
The old man peered at her blinkingly, noting her slender beauty, the
exquisite eager face, the dress that showed her of another world--and
shook his head:
"I guess you made a mistake, lady. I don't remember ever seeing you
before--"
"But I remember you," she said eagerly stepping into the room, "Won't you
please let me go to her?"
"Why, shore, lady, go right in ef you want to. She's layin' there in the
bed. She ain't likely to get out of it again' I'm feared. The doctor says
nothin' but a 'noperation will ever get her up, and we can't pay fer
'noperations. It's a long ways to the hospital in Chicago where he wants
her sent, and M'ria and I, we ain't allowin' to part. It can't be many
years--"
But Elizabeth was not waiting to hear. She had slipped into the old
bedroom that she remembered now so well and was kneeling beside the bed
talking to the white faced woman on the thin pillow:
"Don't you remember me," she asked, "I'm the girl you tried to get to stay
with you once. The girl that came here with a man she had met in the
wilderness. You told me things that I didn't know, and you were kind and
wanted me to stay here with you? Don't you remember me? I'm Elizabeth!"
The woman reached out a bony hand and touched the fair young face that she
could see but dimly in the flare of the candle that the old man now
brought into the room:
"Why, yes, I remember," the woman said, her voice sounded alive yet in
spite of her illness, "Yes, I remember you. You were a dear little girl,
and I was so worried about you. I would have kept you for my own--but you
wouldn't stay. And he was a nice looking young man, but I was afraid for
you--You can't always tell about them--You _mostly_ can't--!"
"But he was all right Mother!" Elizabeth's voice rang joyously through the
cabin, "He took care of me and got me safely started toward my people, and
now he's my husband. I want you to see him. George come here!"
The old woman half raised herself from the pillow and looked toward the
young man in the doorway:
"You don't say! He's your _husband_! Well, now isn't that grand! Well, I
certainly am glad! I was that worried--!"
They sat around the bed talking, Elizabeth telling briefly of her own
experiences and her wedding trip which they were taking back over the old
trail, and the old man and woman speaking of their trouble, the woman's
breakdown and how the doctor at Malta said there was a chance she could
get well if she went to a great doctor in Chicago, but how they had no
money unless they sold the ranch and that nobody wanted to buy it.
"Oh, but we have money," laughed Elizabeth joyously, "and it is our turn
now to help you. You helped us when we were in trouble. How soon can you
start? I'm going to play you are my own father and mother. We can send
them both, can't we George?"
It was a long time before they settled themselves to sleep that night
because there was so much planning to be done, and then Elizabeth and her
husband had to get out their stores and cook a good supper for the two old
people who had been living mostly on corn meal mush, for several weeks.
And after the others were all asleep the old woman lay praying and
thanking God for the two angels who had dropped down to help them in their
distress.
The next morning George Benedict with one of the men who looked after
their camping outfit went to Malta and got in touch with the Chicago
doctor and hospital, and before he came back to the ranch that night
everything was arranged for the immediate start of the two old people He
had even planned for an automobile and the Malta doctor to be in
attendance in a couple of days to get the invalid to the station.
Meantime Elizabeth had been going over the old woman's wardrobe which was
scanty and coarse, and selecting garments from her own baggage that would
do for the journey.
The old woman looked glorified as she touched the delicate white garments
with their embroidery and ribbons:
"Oh, dear child! Why, I couldn't wear a thing like that on my old worn-out
body. Those look like angels' clothes." She put a work-worn finger on the
delicate tracery of embroidery and smoothed a pink satin ribbon bow.
But Elizabeth overruled her. It was nothing but a plain little garment
she had bought for the trip. If the friend thought it was pretty she was
glad, but nothing was too pretty for the woman who had taken her in in her
distress and tried to help her and keep her safe.
The invalid was thin with her illness, and it was found that she could
easily wear the girl's simple dress of dark blue with a white collar, and
little dark hat, and Elizabeth donned a khaki skirt and brown cap and
sweater herself and gladly arrayed her old friend in her own bridal
travelling gown for her journey. She had not brought a lot of things for
her journey because she did not want to be bothered, but she could easily
get more when she got to a large city, and what was money for but to cloth
the naked and feed the hungry? She rejoiced in her ability to help this
woman of the wilderness.
On the third day, garbed in Elizabeth's clothes, her husband fitted out
for the east in some of George Benedict's extra things, they started. They
carried a bag containing some necessary changes, and some wonderful toilet
accessories with silver monograms, enough to puzzle the most snobbish
nurse, also there was a luscious silk kimona of Elizabeth's in the bag.
The two old people were settled in the Benedict private car, and in due
time hitched on to the Chicago express and hurried on their way. Before
the younger pair went back to their pilgrimage they sent a series of
telegrams arranging for every detail of the journey for the old couple, so
that they would be met with cars and nurses and looked after most
carefully.
And the thanksgiving and praise of the old people seemed to follow them
like music as they rode happily on their way.
They paused at the little old school house where they had attended the
Christian Endeavor meeting, and Elizabeth looked half fearfully up the
road where her evil pursuers had ridden by, and rode closer to her
husband's side. So they passed on the way as nearly as Elizabeth could
remember every step back as she had come, telling her husband all the
details of the journey.
That night they camped in the little shelter where Benedict had come upon
the girl that first time they met, and under the clear stars that seemed
so near they knelt together and thanked God for His leading.
They went to the lonely cabin on the mountain, shut up and going to ruin
now, and Benedict gazing at the surroundings and then looking at the
delicate face of his lovely wife was reminded of a white flower he had
once seen growing out of the blackness down in a coal mine, pure and clean
without a smirch of soil.
They visited the seven graves in the wilderness, and standing reverently
beside the sand-blown mounds she told him much of her early life that she
had not told him before, and introduced him to her family, telling a bit
about each that would make him see the loveable side of them. And then
they planned for seven simple white stones to be set up, bearing words
from the book they both loved. Over the care worn mother was to be written
"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will give you
rest."
It was on that trip that they planned what came to pass in due time. The
little cabin was made over into a simple, pretty home, with vines planted
about the garden, and a garage with a sturdy little car; and not far away
a church nestled into the side of the hill, built out of the stones that
were native, with many sunny windows and a belfry in which bells rang out
to the whole region round.
At first it had seemed impractical to put a church out there away from the
town, but Elizabeth said that it was centrally located, and high up where
it could be seen from the settlements in the valleys, and was moreover on
a main trail that was much travelled. She longed to have some such spot in
the wilderness that could be a refuge for any who longed for better
things.
When they went back they sent out two consecrated missionaries to occupy
the new house and use the sturdy little car. They were to ring the bells,
preach the gospel and play the organ and piano in the little church.
Over the pulpit there was a beautiful window bearing a picture of Christ,
the Good Shepherd, and in clear letters above were the words: "And thou
shalt remember all the way which the Lord thy God led thee these forty
years in the wilderness, to humble thee, and to prove thee, to know what
was in thine heart, whether thou wouldst keep his commandments, or no."
And underneath the picture were the words:
"'In the time of trouble He shall hide me in His pavilion; in the secret
of his tabernacle shall he hide me.' In memory of His hidings,
"George and Elizabeth Benedict."
But in the beautiful home in Philadelphia, in an inner intimate room these
words are exquisitely graven on the wall, "Let not your heart be
troubled."