The days and nights just past had been strenuous ones to this always industrious woman. There had been first the rapid journey involving another failure in appointment, for this woman who prided herself on never failing; an equally rapid return to the East, reaching her next engagement just in time; then two hours by rail to her evening appointment; and here she was taking breath in a lovely room with a whole day of rest before she had to start again!
She was in no haste to move. Her thoughtful hostess had urged her not to hasten down in the morning. "We do not breakfast until nine, and not always then if the head of the house is absent; as he is now I am sorry to say. I have always wanted him to meet you. Dear Mrs. Dunlap, I may as well confess that I am awfully proud of my husband!" The sentence had closed with an apologetic laugh.
What a transparent little lady her hostess was! She ought to be very happy, with a husband of whom she was "awfully" proud, a beautiful home crowded with all the luxuries that wealth could produce, and probably not a care in the world!
Mary Dunlap could not resist a little sigh of pity for herself; she was a lonely woman. Her husband and home and child all gone from her. She, too, had been "proud" of her husband with abundant reason; and her beautiful girl. But her girl was safe. The terrors of this awful world could not touch her.
She thought of "Daisy," and shuddered for the narrowness of her escape. Had she escaped? Would that wretch try to find her again? Perhaps she had not done her whole duty. She ought to have warned the mother. What were mothers about, to be so careless? But for that disabled engine, the child would have gone straight on her dangerous way!
Very slowly at last she went about the business of dressing, enjoying luxuries of the toilet not found ordinarily in hotels or boarding houses, and reveling in costly trifles lavishly furnished. Even in the halls she came upon treasures of art to study over, and as she lingered before them, she told herself with a half wistful smile that she must have a care lest she become envious of Mrs. Oliver.
Then she fell to moralizing. Was it probable that her hostess had her heart's desire in all things? It looked so.
There were two daughters, she had heard, who were their mother's joy and pride also. Certainly the outward appearance of the home left nothing to wish for. In such an atmosphere it was hardly possible to avoid thinking of sharply contrasted lives. Not her own, though the contrast there was marked enough. Still, she lived a busy and, she believed, a useful life, and was happy in her work. But she knew women—many of them—to whom the word "happy" could not be applied; women with warped, stunted, yes—wrecked lives!
Instantly with that word, her thoughts flew again to "Daisy," the acquaintance of a day, who had been so close to wreckage and who had made a permanent place for herself in this mother-heart. That awful man! Would she ever meet him again? If so, what would happen! What if she should meet him under circumstances that would compel her acknowledgement of him as an acquaintance? For instance, what if he should, after all, become Daisy's husband! She recoiled from the thought as she might have done from a blow; yet one could not be sure; the child had given herself unreservedly to him, unworthy of her as he seemed. Perhaps her love would redeem his life! Ought she not to hope so? Yet her very soul revolted from it!
Next, she was in the lower hall looking over the morning mail, gathering from it letters and telegrams for herself; and her hostess was coming forward to meet her, in the most charming of house gowns, with a face as bright as the morning. She was voluble in her hope that the night had been restful, and that her guest could give them the entire day.
"It is so delightful that Mr. Oliver is at home to enjoy you; I had no hope of such a thing. He came home unexpectedly on a later train than yours. He had started on a very long business trip, expecting to be gone for several months. Then, one of those unaccountable business changes came up—I never pretend to understand business—and he came back. The children and I held a jubilee over his arrival. You can't think what a trial it is to have him away so much! Fully half his time is spent in the West, or the South, or somewhere!"
At that moment the dining-room door opened, and the voluble voice flowed on. "Oh, Ralph, are you down already? Mrs. Dunlap, let me present my husband, Mr. Oliver."
And Mary Dunlap was face to face with the man she knew as "R. H. Keller"!
How they got through with that awful breakfast hour Mrs. Dunlap was never afterwards quite certain. She knew she had a sudden frightened feeling that she must not wreck that poor woman's home not yet, at least. She must take time and think what to do. She must keep up some form of appearances; she must seem to receive the man as her host; she must not say anything about the Kennard House or the interrupted journey, or the disabled engine. What could she say? She knew that she did not address him, directly, and that his wife did more than her full share of the talking, for which she mentally blessed her.
Once the wife said: "Why, Ralph, what on earth is the matter? You are as white as a ghost! Don't you feel well? I don't think you ought to start again to-night; I don't really."
He put her off with a pleasantry of some sort; asked if the girls had gone to school already, and gave careful attention to serving the guest.
Somehow the ordeal was lived through.
As they arose from the table Mrs. Oliver issued her directions.
"Now, Ralph, I want you to take Mrs. Dunlap to the library and entertain her for the next half hour. I have a tiresome committee meeting of the utmost importance that demands my personal attention; but I am going to dismiss it in half an hour, and then we'll make plans for the day. It is delightful to be able to have you both for all day!"
There was no attempt on the part of either to reply. Silently the host threw open the door of his well-equipped library, which under other circumstances Mrs. Dunlap would have found pleasure in exploring, and silently motioned her to a seat. While she sank among the cushions of a luxurious chair, he carefully closed the door; then, crossing to the doors leading to the music room, he closed them also. He seated himself but a few feet from her and spoke in the tone he had used when he asked her why she had presumed to interfere with him.
"Well. I am at your mercy! What do you propose to do?" That was what he said.
She looked steadily at him, but was speechless.
After waiting a moment he added: "I did not interfere with what you saw fit to do, by word or glance, although you must know that I could have done so had I seen fit. Why you have been silent thus far and have chosen to accept my wife's hospitality, I am at a loss to understand; unless it is in the interests of a still greater sensation. Is it your intention to tell me how you mean to proceed in the blasting of my home, or do you still prefer to work in the dark?"
The man was actually arraigning her! Or was this merely a game of bluff? What kind of woman did he take her to be! The indignant blood surged in her veins; she got out of the comfortable chair and took an uncompromising straight-backed one directly opposite his.
"Are you so accustomed to 'working in the dark' that you fancy others are doing it also?" she said, fixing him with her clear gaze. "Did you suppose that I had the slightest idea of meeting you when I came to this house and accepted its hospitality?"
His face changed suddenly and he bent forward as if to lessen the distance between them, speaking eagerly.
"Have I been mistaken in you? Mrs. Dunlap, on your honor as a woman, did you not find out my name somewhere and follow me, to this house with my discomfiture in view?"
"I certainly did not!" she answered indignantly. "Do you think I would have slept under your roof knowingly? I have not yet awakened from the daze of horror into which the sight of you threw me."
"Then I beg your pardon," he said with evident relief. "I have wronged you. Now I will literally and gratefully, if you will permit the word, throw myself on your mercy. You see what my home is, and my family I have children. You have been given some idea of what they think of me, and what I am in the main; an attentive husband and father, doing his utmost for the comfort of his home. You happen to have seen me under damning conditions, and without understanding the—the temptations. And now you have it in your power to ruin this home and blast the future of young and trusting lives; as well as break a woman's heart! Or, you have it in your power to save us all! You are a merciful woman, a philanthropist, my wife tells me, I believe you will save us. You see I am not asking justice, but pleading for mercy."
He had not moved her by a hair's breadth unless it were to increase her indignation. Her voice was steady and cold.
"Did you not have it in your power to ruin two homes, one of them widowed and fatherless, and did you spare them? You dare to talk to me of 'mercy' and 'philanthropy' when you were not willing to shelter even your own fireside!"
He dropped his eyes from her face and worked nervously with the paper cutter he held.
"You do not understand," he said. "It will be difficult to make you understand! You are one who makes no allowance for a man's temptations."
She flashed a look of scorn at him, but he did not look at her, and went on more quickly.
"I don't know what devil possessed me to do as I did that night. I did not plan it, deliberately. I did not plan any of it, it just happened. A fellow, whom we called 'the parson' in college, because he always took those parts in the plays, had just written me about a mock wedding at which he had officiated, and he was within easy reach. The truth is the girl tempted me!"
He caught the flash in her eyes just then, and heard and understood her words:
"Oh, of course; 'The woman beguiled me'!"
He pulled himself together. "I simply mean that she was—was—very bewildering, and I—" He was finding it hard to explain. He wished that the woman would look at the floor; or at something, instead of at him!
"I am going to be entirely frank with you," he said at last, with a sudden assumption of friendliness. "My wife is—we are—not congenial, not well mated; our marriage was a sort of mockery, from the first, one of convenience, one may say, on my part. I thought I ought to marry her because she cared for me, and because well, for family reasons. I never really loved with my whole soul any woman until I met Daisy; after I knew her, what seemed really wrong to me, was to continue the travesty of home life when I knew that home, to me, meant her. I intended, I fully intended, as soon as the necessary preliminaries could be managed to set myself free, in order to possess her.
"But I did not plan to injure her reputation in any way, nor indeed anyone's reputation. Divorces are common enough I am sure. The idea of running away with Daisy for a few weeks came upon me, as I said, suddenly. I was going West, very far West, and she was returning home, when I met her on the train. It was impossible for me not to see how easily we could enjoy a delightful season together, at some pleasant resort where neither of us was known—merely as good friends you understand. The marriage ceremony was to be a temporary convenience to quiet her nervousness, to be explained afterwards as a good joke. On my honor I meant nothing else."
He came to a sudden pause, for Mary Dunlap had risen, her face white with righteous indignation.
"I must interrupt you," she said. "I fail to see why you should disgrace yourself and me by exposing such details, or attempting to gloss over your sin. If you think to win sympathy thereby, you must have a strange idea of women! You to defile that sacred word 'love' in such connection! Why even a wild beast knows that love means protection, means sacrifice of self for the sake of the object loved! But you loved this child only enough to practice upon her the most cruel deception a man can offer to a woman, to blight her future, and bring despair to her family, for the sake of gratifying for a few weeks, your passion for her society!
"It is folly to suppose that you did not know what you were doing! You are neither a fool, nor a lunatic. Why do you want to grovel before me by exposing that whole vile plot? It seems amazing that you can have so soon forgotten what you said to me that night at the hotel; and how awfully your words and your position contradict those statements! Before I saw you in this house this morning, as the husband of another woman, I supposed you were a half-way decent villain, who had tried to run away with and marry the girl he fancied he loved."
He too had risen. He trembled visibly and he was white to his lips, but he tried to speak with dignity.
"I have made a mistake," he said. "I see I cannot make you understand. But I am ready to grovel still, and beg your mercy. I have not ruined her; she is free from me forever; and I am asking you to have pity on my wife and children. And since no harm can come to anyone by your silence, to spare my family. I am ready to give you my word of honor that I will never see the girl again, never attempt to communicate with her in any way."
Mrs. Dunlap's immediate response to this, brought a scarlet flush over his face and set the blood humming in his ears: "Your word of honor!"
But he was in real terror now; he had neither cowed nor deceived this woman. No sentimental twaddle about uncongenial marriages and soul-love, had done other than deepen her disgust.
He was also realizing something of the power that such a woman would have, once she exerted it, against him; and she was his wife's friend! Yet he had an instinct that he could trust her. He must beg.
"I deserve that," he said, after a breathless moment. "Well then, I will swear by all that you hold sacred never to see or try to hear from that girl again. Will you keep my secret?"
For a full minute, which must have seemed an hour to the waiting man, there was silence in that room. Then Mary Dunlap spoke.
"With conditions, yes; but you must do more than that. There are other girls in the world. I do not ask you to give me your pledged word because—" There was a single expressive gesture of her hand that consigned any "pledged" word of his to the lowest level of contempt, and she left it to complete the sentence.
"But you have chosen to speak of me as a philanthropist. Perhaps you are aware that my life is given to the protection of young innocent girls who are in danger because of such men as you; and you may possibly understand what mighty forces I can call to my aid anywhere in the civilized world, if occasion requires. In view of this, for the sake of your wife and daughters, so long as you keep your life steadily within the law that governs respectable men, and hold yourself from insulting, by your attentions, not only the girl you tried to ruin, but every other girl and woman on God's earth, I will agree to keep silence to all but the one whose affections you have stolen, and her mother! These two shall know all that I do; the girl, that she may learn to turn from the thought of you with loathing, and the mother that she may guard her child with jealous care from men like you.
"Then, I must remind you that the same forces for righteousness that stand ready to help me, are as able to keep me informed as to how steadily you adhere to the terms I have made. On these grounds do you wish mercy from me?"
The man was looking steadily at her now. Man of the world as he was, hypocrite as the life he lived had trained him to be, accustomed to sneering at women, to flirting with women, to boasting within himself that he could lead them captive at his will, he looked at this woman whose hair was silvering, and felt that she could, and would, keep her word! For a long minute, he gazed at her, as one compelled to consider her, then bowed silently, and dropped his gaze to the floor.
There were quick steps in the hall, an eager hand on the door-knob, and Mrs. Oliver fluttered in.
"It was a long half hour, wasn't it?" she began. "Those women would talk! I thought I should never get away from them. Goodness! What is the matter with you two? You look as though you were posing for high tragedy. You haven't quarreled, have you?"
Mary Dunlap arose to the occasion.
"My dear Mrs. Oliver, I have decided that I shall have to change my plans, and start for Albany by the noon train to-day. There is a matter I have concluded must have my immediate attention."
Mrs. Oliver was voluble with regrets. Such a disappointment! She had been planning for this one day for so long! And Mr. Oliver was unexpectedly here to enjoy it with them! So sorry especially to have her miss seeing their new Y. W. building that had been planned "in exact accordance with your own ideas, dear Mrs. Dunlap, and it is simply perfect. Do, Ralph, tell her how sorry you are not to be able to show her through it."
Thus urged, Mr. Oliver succeeded in finding voice to say: "Mrs. Dunlap understands, I am sure, better than I could tell her, how ready I am to do her bidding."
Mrs. Dunlap got away by the noon train and took the night-express for the West, canceling all her engagements for the week; she had more important work to look after. Not telegrams, nor long distance telephones, nor even carefully written letters could serve her now. She must go in person to try to explain, as best she might, to that dear girl who was waiting at home to hear from one to whom she had given her trust, to prove him to her mother as "good and noble!"
As she sped westward that afternoon the good woman prayed that she might be able to help save that sweet, periled life.
MRS. SHELDON and her daughter Daisy were occupying easy chairs in their pleasant living-room, surrounded by all possible evidences of home comforts, and luxuries. But even a passing glance at the two faces would have suggested unrest. The mother's face looked worn, and her eyes were anxious; while the daughter's eyes were tense with excitement.
"Daisy dear," began Mrs. Sheldon, and was interrupted:
"Please, Mother, won't you call me 'Marguerite'?"
A look of pain flushed the mother's face but she spoke quietly.
"Why, daughter, you know I nearly always say 'Daisy.'"
"I know you do; but I—I don't like it to-night; I—Mother, I just can't bear the sound of it! That's the only explanation I can give."
Unshed tears were in the mother's eyes. "I will try to remember," she said, her voice low and tremulous. "But you are my 'Daisy' you know; all I have left in this world; and your father loved that name."
Daisy with a sudden movement flung herself on the arm of the great easy chair and hid her face in her mother's neck; when she tried to talk her voice choked with sobs.
"Oh, Mother, do please try to understand; you know what Father was to me, and you surely know that I love you with all my soul. If I hadn't, I—"
But the convulsive sobs came again, and she once more hid her face, while the mother's arms clasped her tenderly. A few minutes passed, then the girl sat erect and tried again.
"Mother dear, forgive me." As she spoke, she slipped to the footstool beside her mother's chair. "I didn't mean to worry you. I don't often go to pieces in this way, do I? But—you can't understand what I am going through! It seems so strange not to hear a word after almost five days! I thought I should certainly get a telegram, at least! Mamma, I didn't mean that about my name; at least not in the way it must have sounded. I shall get over that feeling, of course; but you see he did not know me by any other name; and when you used it, for a second it almost seemed as though I could hear his voice, and oh, Mother, I couldn't bear it! I spoke right out, before I thought.
"Mother, it seems as though you must understand what I mean! Don't you know you told me about how you loved Father so very much even right at the first? That is the way I feel about Rufus. Mother, I love him with all my soul, and I always shall! I never before knew what love meant, that kind of love, I mean and I can't tell you how it almost kills me to think that you don't believe in him!
"But you know you have hardly seen him. You have just let yourself be prejudiced by those horrid women who gossiped about him; just because he, was polite and helpful to those little flappers who were traveling alone; he showed them the same attention that any gentleman would. But I don't blame you, Mother dear; I suppose it is natural for mothers to feel so; when you never have had a chance to find out for yourself what a wonderful man he is. Besides, think how I helped it along!
"Why, mother, when I think of the way I let that awful Mrs. Dunlap, a perfect stranger, manage me so that I almost insulted him, it makes me feel as though I were going insane! Oh, I hope I shall never see or hear of her again! How could I let her make me treat him so! I don't see how he can ever forgive me! O, Mother! How can I live any longer! I wish I could die to-night!"
It was just then that the sound of the door bell pealed through the quiet house. The sound had instant effect on the nerves of the half insane girl. She sprang up quickly, evidently making a supreme effort at self-control, and spoke in a more natural tone.
"I'm afraid that's Nelson! I entirely forgot that he was to come to-night if he got back in time, to tell me how the vote went; as if I cared how they voted!"
With this last word, her voice had returned to bitter sarcasm; but after a moment she continued more quietly.
"Will you see him, Mother, and tell him tell him anything you like? I simply cannot talk with him to-night; nor with anybody else. Oh, Mother, kiss me and let me run away!"
By this time the poor mother had no words to offer about anything. She put her arms around her daughter, kissed her tenderly and opened the door for her to escape by way of the back hall, just as the maid appeared at the sitting-room doorway, card tray in hand.
"For Miss Daisy, ma'am. Has she gone upstairs? Shall I take it up to her room?"
"No," said the weary, faithful mother. "Daisy does not feel able to see callers to-night; I'll attend to it."
She held out her hand for the card and read on it:
"Mrs. J. C. Dunlap, Albany."
"Dunlap!" Over that name the face of the mother flushed, then paled.
That was the name of the woman who had watched over her darling with such wise and patient care, and brought her safely home! Could it possibly be the same woman who was waiting in the parlor! If so, how could she talk with her just now? She felt completely exhausted. Still, Daisy certainly must not be called. She reminded herself that the name Dunlap was common enough, even though she did not happen to recall it among her acquaintances. It really was not at all probable that a woman who lived hundreds of miles away should suddenly appear late in the evening to make a call!
At last she crossed the hall and opened the living-room door. One glance sufficed; the woman who arose at her entrance was the same one who had kissed Daisy goodbye with unmistakable tenderness only a few days before!
"I'm afraid I have startled you," said Mary Dunlap moving forward; for Daisy's mother had paused suddenly the moment she caught sight of her caller, and her pale face was expressive of pain. "Of course you did not expect to see me so soon again, but I—it became my duty to return West sooner than I had planned. I hope I may see your daughter for a few minutes? There is a—I have heard of—something connected with our journey together, that she, perhaps, ought to be told."
It was a very hesitating sentence; the speaker's tone and manner suggested embarrassing uncertainty as to just what she should do next. Something helped the mother to self-control and decision. Whatever that woman thought she ought to tell Daisy ought to be told! She believed in her! She might be mistaken in judgment, of course; unduly alarmed about a small matter; all people were liable to mistakes, occasionally. But she was sincere! Of that, Mrs. Sheldon felt absolutely sure; and what she had to say might help to clear away some anxieties. She held out her hand and spoke cordially.
"I am glad to see you again, Mrs. Dunlap, but I am afraid that my daughter will not be able to do so, this evening; she has had a somewhat trying day and is feeling to-night as though she could not talk with anybody. She seems nervously unstrung with her recent experiences. She has retired, I think, but perhaps you will trust me with a message?"
Mrs. Dunlap reached a quick decision. "Perhaps I had better tell you all about it," she said, speaking as an intimate friend might have done. "I have taken a room at the Delport House, and shall not leave until sometime to-morrow afternoon I think. If Daisy is feeling better, I could see her in the morning. I hope you will pardon my interest in your daughter and my familiar use of her name. She and I grew quite intimate during that one day you know."
The mother's quick thought was, "What would she think if she knew that I had just been told to say 'Marguerite!'"
Mary Dunlap, noting the troubled glance of the mother hurried on:
"I had a precious little girl of my own, once, about your daughter's age, Mrs. Sheldon. She was my only child. That night when your daughter stayed with me in my room was the first time I had ever been able to say with my whole heart, 'Thank God my Margaret is forever safe in the Everlasting arms!'
"That is my apology for intruding on you again. And now, perhaps it would be wiser for me to have my talk with you, leaving you to repeat as much or as little as you see fit, to your daughter."
Mrs. Sheldon answered quickly, excitedly: "Oh, I wish you would!" she said, "I have so longed to see you and ask you a lot of questions. Won't you sit down? And please, tell me first, about that night at the hotel. I know so very little about it, and I want to understand exactly what happened. Daisy is very vague in her story, and is so excitable that I dare not question her in her present state. All that I now know positively is that because of crowded conditions at the hotel, you kindly permitted her to share your room for the night."
"Is it possible that you have not been told the whole story!" exclaimed Mary Dunlap in amazement. It seemed incredible that such a girl as the one she had protected had kept her mother in ignorance of the whole of that night's happenings.
"Oh, tell me quickly!" said the mother, with instant premonition, dropping down on the edge of the couch where the caller had seated herself. "Tell me all, please. I have been utterly at a loss to understand Daisy's unstrung state of mind."
Mary Dunlap wondered wildly where she should begin and then plunged into her subject.
"First, may I ask, please, about this Mr. Keller whom I met that night with your daughter? Of course I knew nothing of him whatever. Is he a personal acquaintance of yours? A—friend?"
There was an instant flash of indignation in the mother's eyes.
"Certainly not!" she replied with almost haughtiness in her voice. "I have met him but once and I have never liked anything that I have heard about him. He is a sort of a traveling agent I believe for some New York firm, and business seems to call him to this particular town more frequently than I could wish. My daughter thinks that I am prejudiced against him because of certain stories we have heard about him, which she thinks have no foundation except in malicious gossip. But frankly, he is a source of much anxiety to me.
"For the past few months he has been quite attentive to Daisy, that is, as attentive as circumstances would allow, and I—do not trust him. I do not know why. But I don't! I am utterly at a loss to account for the influence he seems to have acquired over her in the few brief meetings they have had. She thinks me hard and cruel because I well, I can scarcely bear the sound of his name! And yet I have to confess that I have no good reason to offer for such a feeling. It appears that he really asked her to marry him. The idea is so obnoxious to me that I can scarcely bear to utter the words!"
"And this trip they were taking together," ventured the troubled questioner; "you knew about it of course?"
"Trip!" exclaimed the mother indignantly. "They were not traveling together! Why, I sent her away on this visit to get her out of his vicinity because I heard that he was intending to remain in this town several weeks! They simply met on the train. Daisy thinks it was a coincidence I suppose from what she says, but of course, he followed her. I am positive of that. To put it plainly, he seems to be infatuated with her. And she, poor child, has admitted to me this very afternoon that she loves him with all her heart! Oh, it seems so terrible for me to be telling this to you, a stranger, burdening you with my anxiety."
Mrs. Sheldon wiped the tears away from her eyes, and struggled to keep more from falling. "But you have been so kind to me and to Daisy, and there has been no one to whom I could go for advice."
Mary Dunlap slipped an arm around the shoulders of the mother with strong reassurance.
"My dear!" she said in her warm comforting strong voice, "Just you cry if you want to, and don't worry about telling me. I'm used to helping mothers and girls. It is my job in life. And don't you worry. I'm going to help you, and I thank God I can. I'm glad too that you have told me this, for now I can speak frankly and tell you all I know. It is going to make things a lot easier to set right. And now, I've got to tell you the whole story."
THE voice was low and tender in which she began her story of the afternoon on the train. She made it plain that she had been so busy with her writing that she scarcely noticed who got on the train until toward evening when her work was done. She had been barely conscious of the two who took the seat in front of her, had given them but a swift glance and decided that they were bride and groom; until her work was done and she had leisure to look around. And then almost at once she was fascinated by the lovely face of the girl in front of her.
Mary Dunlap was quick to note the pleased relaxing of the troubled face as she said this, and the instant sympathy as she gave her own first impression of the man who was sitting beside the girl.
But as the tale progressed showing how late the train was, with inevitable missed connections, the mother's eye kindled with gratitude.
"Oh!" she interrupted, "I'm so glad you were there! What would Daisy have done if you had not been. She is so unused to traveling alone!"
Mary Dunlap went on to tell of the apparent argument between the two in front of her, the discomfort on the face of the girl, and her own continued wonder that such a girl should apparently be married to a man so much older, and of such a type. The mother gave a little gasp of dismay as she realized that this fine Christian woman had actually thought her daughter was married to that man! But it was only the dismay she had felt before at the horrible thought of him, and the old resentment at the idea of his presuming to be intimate with her girl.
Not until the story progressed to the point where Mrs. Dunlap stood before the hotel desk writing her own name in the registry and noted the names on the line just above her own, "R. H. Keller and wife," did the mother grasp the full meaning of it all. Then she leaned forward with a quick little motion and caught at both the firm capable hands of her visitor, crying:
"Oh, Mrs. Dunlap! You don't mean it! You can't mean that he dared do a thing like that! The wretch! The—the—beast!"
Her eyes were full of tears again. She could not seem to be able to get words strong enough to express her horror and disgust.
"But of course my Daisy didn't know that!" she said lifting up her head with a gleam of hope, though there was a sob in the end of her voice.
"Not until I told her, some time afterwards," said Mary Dunlap.
"You told her! She knows! And yet she could tell me to-day that she loves him! Oh! What shall I do?"
"Wait, dear Mrs. Sheldon," said Mrs. Dunlap putting a detaining hand on the drooping shoulder. "Love is a strange thing. It throws illusions over the object that turn it into something entirely different. You must remember that. Don't blame Daisy too much. She explained to me at once after her first startled look, that of course he had done that to protect her reputation, since they had been delayed and all their plans upset. She said that they had expected to reach San Fergus at midnight, and that a minister friend of Mr. Keller's was to have met the train and performed the marriage ceremony. She said that Mr. Keller had telegraphed ahead for the bridal suite to be reserved for them in the San Fergus hotel."
"My Daisy told you that!"
It was years before Mrs. Dunlap forgot the tone, and the look on that mother's face when she said those words. It was as if some one had suddenly taken from her everything that was worth while in life, as if she felt that all the years of tender rearing, and care of precious love and companionship between her and her child were suddenly wiped out in one great awful act of disloyalty and broken faith with her mother. Oh, there would be a reaction by and by when the mother would excuse, and forgive, and bleed over her darling; but this first blow was like the very severing of the life bond between them, and it was terrible to witness.
Mary Dunlap felt that it was a pity that the girl had not had to suffer that look herself with full understanding of all that it meant to her wonderful little mother.
"My dear! I feel like a surgeon performing an operation, but you must know it all," said Mary Dunlap tenderly.
"Oh, yes, yes," breathed the mother sorrowfully. "If there is more, go on. It seems as if nothing mattered if Daisy, my Daisy, would go to such lengths. Actually running away to get married!"
"My dear friend, you must remember that she thinks she is very much in love, and that she feels that you have been deceived about her loved one. They were planning to send you a telegram immediately as soon as the ceremony was performed, and were counting confidently on your immediate change of feeling so soon as the inevitable step was taken. You must remember also that your daughter was greatly troubled even then, at the momentary deception.
"As the time drew near, and the delay became inevitable, she began to see the whole thing in more nearly its true light, and it caused her deep distress. So much so that when Mr. Keller left her for a few moments in the hotel parlor where we both were waiting for our rooms to be prepared, she utterly forgot my presence, and began walking up and down the room, and actually giving a little moan of distress. It was then that I dared to interfere and offer my sympathy and any help I could give."
"Oh, how can I ever thank you! How can I thank God enough for having sent you there!" moaned the stricken mother.
"I think He did plan that I should be there," said Mary Dunlap reverently. "I was scheduled to be far from there at that time, had important speaking engagements to fill, and could not understand why all my plans were frustrated, but it seems that the Father had need of a servant right there, and perhaps this was more important than any meeting I could have addressed. I began to feel so as soon as your Daisy turned to me so readily, so even eagerly, like the little flower-faced child that she is.
"I had no difficulty in getting her to tell me her trouble. She trusted me at once, and when I offered my room as a refuge for the night she accepted most eagerly. Even when I told her how she was booked in the registry, she did not turn from me, as I feared she might. Instead she seemed aghast for a moment; then her loyalty to her lover made her at once attempt to excuse him. However, that did not prevent her from begging me to take her to the room immediately, before he returned from his telegraphing. She seemed to actually fear his influence upon her and to know that her only safe course was to go while he was gone."
"Oh, my poor child!" moaned the mother.
"She made it very plain that Mr. Keller had overpersuaded her to this marriage, and that while she could not bear to refuse him, she yet longed to wait until your consent could be obtained. Of course I advised her strongly that this was the only possible right course, and she seemed to agree with me."
"Yes, Daisy is very conscientious that is she was, before this came. But she seems to be infatuated with that man! She has at this moment more faith in him than in anyone else, I believe."
"Well, she was glad to get to my room then, at least," said the other woman. "She even wanted the door locked, and when I started to go down and tell Mr. Keller that she was safe and comfortable for the night with a woman, she begged me to lock the door and take the key with me!"
"And yet she can say she loves him, when she cannot trust him! And at such a time! Oh, my little girl!"
"Dear friend, the human heart is a curious thing, and the devil has many illusions wherewith to deceive, you know."
"And did you actually go down and talk to that man? What a wonderful heaven-sent friend you proved to be!"
"I did. I'm afraid I rather enjoyed the commission. You must remember I had been watching him in the train for several hours, and while he was most courteous and assiduous in caring for her, and did nothing that I could really put my finger on with which to find fault, I had acquired the same feeling toward him that you seem to have. I just could not see how that little flower of a girl could have married him. And of course when I talked with your daughter, finding out they were not married after having seen how he registered, my feelings were anything but lenient toward him."
"I should think so! But oh, my little girl! What would her father have said if he could have known she was to pass through a thing like this!"
"Courage, dear sister. I am sure God means something lovely to come out of all this."
"How could that possibly be!" moaned the mother, "Oh, if she could have been spared any contact with a creature like that! It is so terrible to see her pass through such an experience. My little Daisy!"
"Yes, but Mrs. Sheldon, think, if she did not have you in this trying time!"
Suddenly there occurred an interruption. The two women became aware that the maid had answered a ring at the door, and had let in someone who was standing in the doorway of the room where they were sitting.
Mrs. Sheldon got up quickly, with a hasty dab at her wet eyelashes and went toward him.
Mary Dunlap looked up to see a tall young man standing in the doorway with his hat in his hand, a grave questioning look upon his face. He had keen gray eyes, a crop of nicely groomed reddish curls, and he looked strong and young and dependable.
"Oh, Nelson!" exclaimed Mrs. Sheldon, a kind of dazed relief in her voice, "You came to see Daisy about that committee meeting, didn't you? Why—she—she wasn't feeling very well to-night, Nelson. She has retired. She had a headache. She asked me to excuse her."
The grave eyes took on a look of anxiety.
"Daisy not well?" he said as if that were an unheard of thing.
"I should have telephoned you not to come," apologized Mrs. Sheldon, "but this friend of hers—this friend of mine—arrived just then, from out of town, and it slipped my mind. Let me introduce you to Mrs. Dunlap, Nelson. Mrs. Dunlap, Mr. Whitney."
"A friend of Daisy's?" said the young man his grave eyes lighting pleasantly, and he stepped forward and grasped Mrs. Dunlap's hand, giving her a swift searching glance.
"I certainly am!" said Mary Dunlap with a hearty handclasp.
He lingered only a minute or two to leave a message for the daughter about what had happened at the committee meeting, but he gave another keen parting glance accompanied by a warming smile as he left, that made the stranger feel that he approved of her, and that he understood that she was in no wise the cause of the tears that he had seen on Daisy's mother's face.
After he was gone, Mrs. Sheldon came back to her caller.
"Why couldn't it have been that young man?" asked Mary Dunlap with a sigh!
"Oh, if it only could have been!" sighed the mother. "He is the dearest boy! My husband trusted him so. He has been Daisy's schoolmate and companion for years, and yet she could think she has fallen in love with that other creature!"
"There, there, dear friend. I tell you the human heart is a mystery. And a girl at Daisy's age gets queer ideas sometimes. She will come out of it and be fine and beautiful. You see!"
"Oh! I don't know!" sighed the mother. "She is so strange! Not even willing to see Nelson. She thought it was Nelson when you came, and rushed away telling me she would not see him nor anyone else to-night! I could not tell him that of course. He has been so kind and so devoted. And I can see that he is terribly worried about this Keller. He looks as if he would like to fight every time Daisy mentions his name. But tell me, what did the fellow do when you told him Daisy was going to remain with you for the night?"
"Do? He was fairly insolent. He was furious. He told me to mind my own business. He strode around that parlor like a madman, till I told him Daisy had appealed to me for protection, and had told me she was not yet married to him; but that I had seen how he registered in the hotel. Then he calmed down a little and began to try to smooth things over. He tried to explain that he had done that merely to protect the girl, and that he intended to make everything right for her. He even came to the point, before we were done, of saying that perhaps he had been wrong in doing it, but he had followed an impulse when he wrote. Oh, you know how a man like that could lie himself out of anything! He even said that of course if Daisy preferred to be with me, it was all right, but he really must see her before she slept and arrange about his telegrams. Of course I saw through that. He knew his influence over her!
"So I told him she had asked not to be disturbed, and that she did not wish to see him again until she was at home with her mother and her mother knew all. Then he began to rave at me of course but I let him understand that I should not hesitate to call for assistance if he made further trouble, and I fancy he did not care for publicity, so he withdrew with what grace he could."
"And then?"
"Well, strange to say we had no further trouble with him. I had looked up trains and found there was a very early one. Perhaps he was asleep, although I was taking no chances. I decided to stay by till I placed her safely in her mother's care."
"You have been wonderful!" said the mother. "I can never thank you. And I'm glad too, that you came and told me all to-night. It has been very hard to hear, but it was right that I should know. Only, my dear new strong friend, I don't know what I am going to do. I am terrified at what may yet develop. I am sure that man will not be easily shaken off. He is probably only waiting till Daisy gets all strained up with anxiety, as she is now, when he knows she will be wax in his hands. I cannot believe he will give up so easily. He will know that you cannot linger around to protect always, and unfortunately, he is not afraid of me."
"My dear, wait until you have heard the rest of the story."
"Oh, is there more?" The mother's face showed a new terror.
She sat up tense and anxious clasping her frail hands in one another till the knuckles showed white.
"No, dear Mrs. Sheldon, don't be frightened," went on Mary Dunlap. "I will try to be as brief as possible, but I am sure you should know everything."
"Oh, yes!" implored the white lipped mother.
Mary Dunlap's heart ached for her as she went on with the story:
"After I left Daisy with you that morning I went directly to New York where I was to be entertained by a Mrs. Oliver whom I had met a number of times in connection with my public work. She had often invited me to be her guest and talk over various matters with her, but I had never been able to arrange a definite date before. I arrived at midnight, and was taken almost at once to my room, seeing none of the family that night except my hostess.
"But the next morning at breakfast I was introduced to her two lovely daughters, and a moment later to her husband who had arrived a few moments before on an early train from the West. Perhaps you can imagine my horror when I looked up to greet him, and found that the man to whom Mrs. Oliver was introducing me, calling him 'her husband Mr. Oliver,' was the Mr. Keller from whom your daughter had been rescued a few nights before!"
Mary Dunlap had told the end of her story rapidly, conscious that her listener was under a heavy strain, and now she looked up with relief that all was told.
But the poor mother had borne all she could. She suddenly drooped and would have fallen if the caller had not put strong arms about her and laid her gently on the couch.
"My dear!" she said as she stooped over the poor sufferer and patted her gently. "My dear! Don't feel so terribly about it. I am sure this part of the story should be a relief, for it certainly puts that man in a position where he dare not touch your daughter again!"
"But oh, to have my Daisy, my baby, mixed up with a man like that!" wailed the utterly crushed little mother, "It seems as though I never can lift my head again!"
"Oh, my dear! That is a very small part of the whole matter. The main thing is that no harm shall come to the child. No one here knows, of course, and he has promised!"
But a new voice broke in the room, clear and ringing and cold like a young Nemesis. "What are you doing to my mother? Have you come here to make more trouble for us? Who are you, anyway?"
THE girl stood in the doorway, her eyes flashing like blue flames, her delicate profile outlined against the rich portier, chin lifted, in scorn, the light catching the glint of the waves in her pretty hair and turning them into gold, the delicate blue of her silk kimono bringing out the pearly tint of her skin, a haughty little patrician, insolent in her loveliness.
Mary Dunlap looked at her in pity, and admiration, and a rising wonder. Was this the girl who had melted to tears in her arms but a few nights before, and implored her to protect her? How lovely she was even in her frenzy. She made a picture as she stood there in her rightful background. Poor, misguided infant! What a hard road she had set her feet to travel, and how soon she must come to humiliation.
But the mother was shocked into severity. "Marguerite!" she said, sitting bolt upright and looking at her daughter sternly, as she had not looked at nor spoken to her since she was a very little girl, "Marguerite! You forget yourself! You are beside yourself. Apologize at once to Mrs. Dunlap. You do not know what you are doing! Mrs. Dunlap is the best friend you have in this world. She has gone to great inconvenience and expense and trouble to save you from an awful calamity!"
The Marguerite of a few days ago would have been crushed to earth by such words from her beloved mother. Not so the girl of that night. She did not even wince. Instead she drew herself up to her full height and looked her mother steadily in the eyes, as if their ages had been reversed, and spoke with a certain air of authority that was almost startling.
"No, I am not beside myself, Mother! It is you who do not know what you are doing. You have allowed yourself to be blinded by an utter stranger. You have swallowed whole the lies she has handed out to you. Mother, I understand it all now. This woman is a rank imposter, employed by others to ruin the reputation of a prominent and successful business man, in order to extort money from him. Oh, I have heard a lot that she has been saying! Don't try to stop me. Isn't this kind of thing being done every day now? The daily papers are full of it. Why, even novels are just full of plots like that.
"Didn't that horrid woman whose latest book is being lauded in every column of reviews make one of her characters boast of being a daughter of Eve to some purpose because she had told some successful lies about one of her victims? I tell you, Mother, you don't know the world. Times have changed since you were a girl. You think every woman is good, simply because she is a woman and dresses respectably. That is why you are willing to believe all these terrible things about Rufus, and why you want me to believe them. Just because a woman has told you. Just ask her how much she is to be paid to bring about his ruin. Ask her that! Do you suppose she is to be paid whether she succeeds or not? It must be she isn't; that is why she is so persistent, sneaking in to tell tales to you when I'm not by, and get you on her side. She evidently is afraid she is going to lose her money!"
"Marguerite! Oh, my poor child!" exclaimed the mother in horror, beginning to cry. "Oh, Mrs. Dunlap, I beg you will forgive her. She doesn't know what she is saying."
"That is perfectly all right, Mrs. Sheldon, don't think of it for a moment. I understand."
But the girl's voice broke in scornfully:
"I certainly do know what I am saying. I understand it all perfectly. I can see the plot clearly now. I remember how this woman sat behind us in the cars, doubtless of purpose, listening to us. She was writing all the afternoon. I suppose she took down our private conversation. She probably carries on such business constantly, and chooses her victims among those who look as if they would care about their reputations and have plenty of money to hush up such tales. That is called blackmail, Mother, and I've read quite a lot about it in the papers. But they are not going to frighten us. Rufus and I will search this thing out to the foundations and make it impossible for this woman ever to get in her deadly work on any other good Christian man. It would be even worth sacrificing ourselves if we could do that. It is because people are afraid that they succumb to such things as this. We are not afraid! This woman listened to our plans and discussions, and knew just where to get us, that is all. If I hadn't been such a fool, I would have understood at the time, and I shouldn't have yielded to the spell she cast over me. She must be a hypnotist. She somehow succeeded in making everything look different from what it really is. But she can't do it again. I've got my eyes open!"
These are a few of the indignant sarcasms that the two long-suffering women had to listen to as the evening passed on. Mrs. Sheldon, mortified to the extreme of agony over the way her daughter was raving out against the wonderful woman who had saved her from a life of humiliation; alarmed beyond measure for the sanity of the one who was dearer to her than life, roused from her own weakness and tried every possible means to bring the girl to reason, all to no purpose.
At last Mary Dunlap who had stood by helpless, trying to think of something she might say which would bring the girl to her senses, leaned over toward the mother and said in a low tone:
"Suppose I just go away for the night now. She is excited and the sight of me only irritates her. If she could get some sleep she might be more reasonable in the morning. No, don't get up. I can find my own way to the door. You can telephone if you need me. I shall stay close to my room till I hear from you. And I will pray! Don't despair, dear sister! God is strong! Now—I will just slip away!"
The keen ears of the excited girl caught the last sentence.
"Yes, slip away by all means! I should have thought it might have occurred to you to do so before!" she flung after the stranger.
And then, as the door closed after Mary Dunlap, Marguerite Sheldon began to pace the floor, the very personification of indignant fury.
After she had exhausted herself with wild words, she suddenly flung herself down before her mother with her head in her mother's lap and began to sob:
"Oh, Mother, Mother, that dreadful woman has made me almost crazy!" she sobbed. "Some of the time I don't seem to know what I am saying. But I know this, and I mean it. I know that Rufus is true to me, and not only to me, but to God. He is very religious, Mother, he really is! You ought to hear him talk. And Mother, I know I love him, love him, with my whole soul! And I shall, forever and ever! No matter how many fiends from the underworld combine to try and make me false to him!"
At the word "love" her sobbing suddenly ceased and she sprang to her feet and began pacing up and down the room again; her voice rising to almost a shriek.
Of what use to attempt any further words with one who was surely not responsible for what she said or did? The mother slipped to her knees and began to pray.
A voice of power spoke to her soul, while she was still on her knees, seeking help. It almost seemed to her that she had heard the spoken words:
"'I will bring the blind by a way that they know not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known. I will make darkness light before them; and crooked things straight.'"
Oh, the wonderful words! Could there be a human being any blinder than her Daisy? And, how terribly she needed new "paths!"
It was because of this amazing voice that she was able to get through that night, and the early part of the next day and finally to persuade her daughter to receive Mrs. Dunlap in the evening, and hear from her lips what she had to tell.
This was in accordance with that lady's earnest request made over the telephone, she having decided that the mother was physically unable to endure further strain. But that Christian worker had certainly occasion to look back upon the hour spent with Daisy Sheldon as one of the hardest in her by no means easy life. Not that Daisy did not try, at least at first, to treat her in accordance with all the rules of propriety.
But as the story progressed, there was all the time in the narrator's mind the question, "How shall I convince this girl that I am speaking only truth!" She who was used to being trusted implicitly, and quoted as unquestioned authority on all points connected with the work to which she had given her life!
Yet this girl listened in outward calm to the story that had caused her mother's lapse into almost unconsciousness, with a half smile on her lips, that deepened into a sneer when she finally spoke:
"That is a very strange story, Mrs. Dunlap! Being as well acquainted with Mr. Keller as I am, I don't quite understand how I could be expected to credit it! I should really like to see a photograph of this mysterious person, to help me in conceiving how a woman of your discernment could have been so deceived! Although I should remember that your acquaintance with Mr. Keller covered a very brief space of time; while he is, of course, my closest friend."
Could this be the girl who had so very recently clung to her, weeping, and begging to be shielded from even the sight of the man who was her "closest friend!" How could Mrs. Dunlap help giving a second's thought to such a question? But she turned swiftly from it and tried again.
"Wait, please," she said patiently, "I must tell you the rest. I have had a longer acquaintance with the man than you have heard as yet. After breakfast Mrs. Oliver asked him to take me into the library and show me some prints while she attended to other duties, and when he had closed and locked the doors, he threw himself on my mercy and begged me not to wreck his household by telling his wife and children what I knew about him. He did not attempt to deny that he was of course the same Mr. Keller with whom I had held a long conversation two nights before.
"In fact, he frankly owned that you had been what he called a 'temptation' to him, but that the marriage ceremony which he professed at that time to be about to enter into, had been only a joke, of course, intended to relieve your anxieties for being away from your mother longer than you had planned. I would not like to tear your heart nor soil my lips by repeating the words that he used to describe your wonderful mother and her ignorant prejudice as he called it.
"He also told me that his friend who posed as a minister for the time being was an amateur play actor who had successfully impersonated a clergyman while they were in college, which gave him the idea of a mock marriage to quiet your protests.
"And now, I will show you a paper written and signed by this man, in which he pledges never to write or telegraph or telephone you, or visit you again. It is a paper that I went back to secure, after I had started on this western trip, and the man knows that his keeping this agreement both in letter and spirit is the price of my silence toward his wife and children. His wife is a charming and beautiful woman, and his two daughters are as sweet and charming as yourself. It seemed terrible to wreck that home, but I would not keep silence unless I felt sure you would be safe forever from him."
Marguerite Sheldon tilted her patrician chin haughtily, a little smile of scorn on her lovely lips.
"Mrs. Dunlap," she said, "you certainly are mistress of your profession. You have worked out your evil plot to the last detail, I see. You must have gone to great pains to counterfeit Mr. Keller's hand writing. Perhaps stolen some of his own letters from my handbag to copy while I slept. It is certainly cleverly done. And of course this remarkable interview is a part of the whole scheme. One wonders whether you were cunning enough to concoct it on the spur of the moment, or whether you had it all prepared in reserve, if you found I did not fall for your story at once? Of course I know the daily papers are full of such tales of blackmail and the like. Perhaps if my tastes lay in that direction and I had posted myself better on the ways of such people as you, I might have been saved even the first humiliation of giving way before you and yielding to your influence which I now thoroughly believe to have been hypnotic.
"Of course I might have saved your time by saying all this before I heard you, but my mother was so anxious that I should let you speak that I have listened to your remarkable tale with what patience I could summon. But now I think we have had enough of this farce. I wish to distinctly state just now that I believe in Mr. Keller's honor and integrity as entirely as I did before this insane plot was planned; and until I hear from his own lips that he did not intend to marry me that night, and that he is not Mr. Rufus Keller, and never was, I shall not believe one word of this story; and I shall remain as I am now, his promised wife until he comes to claim me."
Before this outburst the baffled woman sat silent, dumbfounded. Such beautiful faith in such a worthless man had never come her way. She was not troubled over the insults that had been flung at her. The situation had become too grave to be thinking of self. The question that fairly appalled her was, how was it possible to save this poor blind child from her own folly? Suddenly she resolved to try one more thing. It seemed the last resort.
"Miss Sheldon," she said, speaking earnestly and looking straight into the flashing eyes of the angry girl, "will you put this thing to the test? Will you accompany me on the midnight Express to New York where I will take you to call on Mr. Ralph Oliver in his private office, Number — Fifth Avenue, that he may tell you himself that he is the Mr. Keller whom you know so well? I happen to know that he is to be in his office to-morrow morning. Will you go?"
What would the girl reply to this challenge?
What she did was to rise in utter silence and move swiftly across the room to the door, which she opened, and closed after her with a distinct slam!
MARY DUNLAP, left alone in the big beautiful room with the echo of the scornful young words, and the echo of that slammed door hurting into her soul, suddenly rested her elbow on the arm of the chair in which she sat, and dropped her tired head upon her hand. With closed eyes she prayed, her soul crying out from the depth of her failure. She had done her best for this little sister and she had utterly failed. Now she called upon her Father for sustaining strength, for light, for guidance, for calmness in the midst of despair; for the headstrong blinded girl, and for the worn despairing mother.
Then out of her despair came peace, and suddenly a knowledge that the Father cared more than she did, even more than the stricken mother.
She became aware of the entrance of that mother, quietly, like a little sad wraith.
Lifting her head she tried to smile but failed.
"It was no use!" she said sadly, "She would not believe a word that I said."
"Oh, my dear strong friend!" breathed the little mother, "What should I do without you? I have been praying while you were down here. I cannot think my little girl is to be allowed to go to destruction, or lose her mind, or anything. She is a child of the covenant. Her father and I dedicated her to the Lord when she was born. He cannot desert us! You don't think He would let her go like this, do you? She is—a church-member—of course—and has always seemed—a Christian. Haven't I a right to claim His promises for my child?"
"You certainly have," said the strong hearty voice. "Come let us kneel down now and claim that promise, 'Where two of you shall agree as touching anything that they shall ask it shall be done for them of my Father.'"
So the two women knelt hand in hand beside the couch and poured out their hearts in prayer for the foolish girl, till it seemed that their yearning words must be already spread before the mercy seat, and perhaps the swift answer on its way; and new strength and courage came into the mother's heart.
Upstairs there were hurrying footsteps for a few minutes, and then silence, but if the two petitioners heard them it was only to be thankful that they were not the regular measured frantic tread that had been going back and forth all day. Perhaps she was resting at last.
They rose with a peace upon their faces.
"Now," said Mary Dunlap, "it is time you went to bed and to sleep. We have put the whole matter in the Father's hands and we cannot do anything else till He shows us. Suppose you run upstairs and see if she is all right, and then, if she is resting, I will go back to the hotel and let you get to bed, for I'm sure I won't be needed any more to-night."
"You have been so wonderful!" murmured Mrs. Sheldon. "What should I have done without you? Why not stay here to-night? Our guest room is always ready, and then we can talk things over in the morning."
"No," said Mary Dunlap decidedly. "It is better for me to be out of the house. The child resents my presence just now, and will come to herself twice as quickly if she is alone with her mother. Get a good night's rest, and perhaps she will see things differently in the morning. Sleep does a great deal toward bringing sane vision."
"Oh, I do hope she is asleep! She never even lay down last night, just walked the floor and talked in that wild frantic way and then cried! I never saw anybody cry like that, so despairingly, so resentfully! It frightened me! But really, I cannot let you go back to the hotel at this time of night. It must be very late indeed. I'm sure I heard the midnight train go down quite a few minutes ago. It isn't safe for a woman to be out alone so late."
"Nonsense!" laughed Mary Dunlap. "My dear, nobody would touch me. I've been out at all hours in all kinds of places, and shall often be if I live. It doesn't bother me a bit. Come, run up and see if the child is all right and then I'll go. You mustn't lose any more sleep. Can't I just stand here at the foot of the stairs and you wave to me if all is well? Is the night latch on the door? And does that light turn out from above? Then I'll shut the door after me, and you needn't come down again to-night. Good night, dear, brave, little mother. I'll call you up in the morning and see how the Father is answering our prayer."
Mrs. Sheldon pressed the other woman's hand, and then tiptoed upstairs softly. Her footfalls were muffled in the heavy texture of costly rugs, and Mary Dunlap waited below, looking up for her signal, yawning wearily and suddenly realizing that she felt very old and tired.
But the footsteps did not return at once as she had expected. It seemed a long time before she suddenly heard Mrs. Sheldon almost running across the floor above, rushing through the hall and down the stairs a fluttering paper in her hand. Her face was chalk white in the subdued light of the hall chandelier and her eyes burned dark with fright.
"She is gone!" she cried, her voice catching in a sob. "She is not there at all. She has gone to New York!"
She thrust a paper into Mrs. Dunlap's hand and dropped down upon the lowest step of the stair in a little crushed heap, her face in her hands.
Mrs. Dunlap was reading the letter that had been given her:
Dear Mother: (it read)There is only one thing left for me to do, and that is to go to number — Fifth Avenue New York and Prove that there is no Mr. Ralph Oliver. After I have done that, I shall go and find Rufus and we will be married at once! It is my duty to save Rufus from this terrible plot against his character. After that, we will take care of you. Don't worry. I will let you hear from me.Lovingly,DAISY.
Mary Dunlap read the letter over twice, while Mrs. Sheldon cried softly. Then the elder woman spoke:
"I know what you are thinking. You think the Lord has not heard your prayer. But you must not think that. I heard a great preacher from England once say that we must learn to 'trust Him where we could not trace Him,' and I think that if God has been preparing this thing while we were praying and claiming His promise, that in some way it is to answer our prayer. Come, let us trust Him, and tell him so."
Right there by the stairs Mary Dunlap prayed, talking to the Lord as if He stood where she could see Him, asking directions for what they should do next.
When the brief prayer was over the mother lifted her head and stood up.
"Daisy is not used to traveling alone! Especially out in the night this way, and to a great city!" She spoke in a tone of deep anguish.
"She is not alone!" said Mary Dunlap solemnly, "God is with her!"
Then after an instant she added:
"And there is no reason why we should not follow, is there? Wouldn't that be what the Lord would want? When is the next train?"
"Not until five o'clock in the morning," sighed the mother.
"Even so," said the steady traveler, "we shall not be so far behind her, and perhaps this was the only way to convince her, to let her see that it is all true. Sister, we've got to trust our Father! There just isn't anything else to do!"
Daisy's mother looked up with a weak little trembling smile and with lips that quivered as she spoke the words, said:
"All right!"
"You good little sport!" said Mary Dunlap, and stooped down and kissed her.
"Now," she said, "sit down a minute while we plan. I'll go back to the hotel and pack my grip. It takes just five minutes, I've done it in a hurry so many times. Then I'll get all the information needed about the train, and order a taxi to come for us, and I'll come back here. That ought not to take me more than three quarters of an hour. Let me see. It's now quarter of one. I'll be back here at half past. In the mean time, are you strong enough to get together what few things you'll need on the way while I'm gone? And can't you call your maid and give her directions about leaving the house for a few days? You can telegraph her afterward of course if you forget anything. Is she trustworthy?"
"She's been with us fifteen years," said Mrs. Sheldon. "She simply takes care of us."
"That's good then. Let's go. Work fast, and be done when I get back so we can get a few winks of sleep. Oh, yes, you've got to sleep or you would be sick and that wouldn't do. But you don't need to bother about breakfast. We'll get that on the train. Now, I'm off!"
Mary Dunlap was as good as her word, did all she had promised to do with a few minor details thrown in. She was efficiency itself when it came to any kind of a crisis. She was back three minutes ahead of her schedule and standing over the poor bewildered mother, whose eyes kept blurring with tears as she tried to go about and gather up the things she would need.
"Now," said Mary Dunlap looking down at the open suitcase, only half packed, "what have you got in here? Night dress and toilet things? A couple of other dresses, one for daytime and one for evening. Yes, you can't tell what we may run into on this jaunt! Always look out for any emergency, and two extra dresses will generally do it. Now, a warm kimono, slippers and another pair of shoes, a change of underwear that's about all. You'll want to take your pen perhaps and a few extra handkerchiefs. I've done this so much it is second nature. Sometimes I almost have to live on the cars."