The Project Gutenberg eBook ofAn interrupted nightThis ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.Title: An interrupted nightAuthor: PansyEditor: Grace Livingston HillRelease date: January 10, 2025 [eBook #75076]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: J. B. Lippincott Company, 1929*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN INTERRUPTED NIGHT ***
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this ebook or online atwww.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.
Title: An interrupted nightAuthor: PansyEditor: Grace Livingston HillRelease date: January 10, 2025 [eBook #75076]Language: EnglishOriginal publication: United States: J. B. Lippincott Company, 1929
Title: An interrupted night
Author: PansyEditor: Grace Livingston Hill
Author: Pansy
Editor: Grace Livingston Hill
Release date: January 10, 2025 [eBook #75076]
Language: English
Original publication: United States: J. B. Lippincott Company, 1929
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AN INTERRUPTED NIGHT ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.
AN INTERRUPTED NIGHT (from inside flap of dust jacket)By ISABELLA M. ALDEN (PANSY)Author of "Ester Ried," "Wise and Otherwise," etc.In her preface Grace Livingston Hill, a niece of Pansy's, explains that this tale is based on actual facts told by the woman impersonated in the story by Mrs. Dunlap. Pansy, now eighty-seven years old and bed-ridden, found herself unable to complete the preparation of her story and entrusted the task of putting it into shape to Mrs. Hill, herself an author of great prominence. In spite of Pansy's advanced years she still shows the same sparkle and sincerity and understanding of youth that gave such interest and charm to "Ester Ried" and "Four Girls at Chautauqua." This story tells of how a young girl comes up against one of life's most terrible experiences and with the help of her new-found friend, Mrs. Dunlap, fights her way through a maze of trickery and deceit to a fuller understanding of life—and romance in all its beauty.
By
ISABELLA M. ALDEN("Pansy")
Author of"The Fortunate Calamity,""Esther Reid," "Wise and Otherwise,""Three People," "Four Girls at Chautauqua," etc.
With a Foreword byGRACE LIVINGSTON HILL
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J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANYPHILADELPHIA & LONDON1 9 2 9
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Copyright, 1929, by J. B. Lippincott CompanyPrinted in the United States of America
FOREWORD
AS LONG ago as I can remember there was always a radiant being who was next to my mother and father in my heart, and who seemed to me to be a sort of a combination of fairy godmother, heroine, and saint. I thought her the most beautiful, wise, and wonderful person in my world, outside of my home. I treasured her smiles, copied her ways, and listened breathlessly to all she had to say, sitting at her feet worshipfully whenever she was near; ready to run any errand for her, no matter how far.
I measured other people by her principles and opinions, and always felt that her word was final. I am afraid I even corrected my beloved parents sometimes when they failed to state some principle or opinion as she had done.
When she came on a visit the house seemed glorified because of her presence; while she remained, life was one long holiday; when she went away it seemed as if a blight had fallen.
Her eyes were dark and had interesting twinkles in them that children loved; her hair was long and dark and very heavy, dressed in two wide braids that were wound round and round her lovely head in smooth coils, fitting close like a cap, but when it was unbraided and brushed out, it fell far below her knees and was like a garment folding her about. How I adored that hair and longed to have hair just like it! How I even used in secret to tie an old brown veil about my head and let it fall down my back, and try to see how it would feel to have hair like that.
She had delicate features and a wonderful smile. Nobody else in the world looked just as lovely as did she. But once I found a picture of Longfellow's Evangeline in a photograph album, in exquisite classic profile, and thought it was her likeness. She was like that—if you have that old faded photograph somewhere in an old album with quaint clasps. She was wonderful!
And she was young, gracious, and very good to be with.
This radiant creature was known to me by the name of "Auntie Belle," though my mother and my grandmother, called her "Isabella!" Just like that! Even sharply sometimes when they disagreed with her—"Isabella!" I wondered that they dared. I sometimes resented it.
Later I found that other people had still other names for her. To the congregation of which her husband was pastor she was known as "Mrs. Alden." It seemed to me too grownup a name for her and made her appear more stately and sedate than she really was. I remember resenting it that these strange people should seem to have rights in her. She was mine. What were they?
But when a little later my world grew larger, and knowledge increased, I found that this precious aunt of mine did not belong entirely to us as I had supposed. She had another world in which she moved and had her being when she went from us from time to time; or when at certain hours in the day she shut herself within a room that was sacredly known as a "study," and wrote for a long time, while we all tried to keep still; and in this other world of hers she was known as "Pansy." It was a world that loved and honored her, a world that gave her homage and flowers, and wrote her letters by the hundreds each week.
It was not long, too, before I had learned to preen myself like a young peacock because I "belonged" to her, and I am afraid I felt a superior pity and contempt for the thousands of other children who read her paper called "The Pansy" which she edited, but who did not "belong" to her. They could only write letters to her, while I could often be with her every day, sometimes for weeks, and could talk with her all I pleased.
As I grew still older and learned to read I devoured her stories chapter by chapter. Even sometimes page by page as they came hot from the typewriter; occasionally stealing in for an instant when she left the study, to snatch the latest page and see what happened next; or to accost her as her morning's work was done, with: "Oh, have you finished another chapter?"
And often the whole family would crowd around, leaving their work when the word went around that the last chapter was finished and it was going to be read aloud. And now we listened, breathless, as she read, and made her characters live before us. They were real people to us, as real as if they lived and breathed before us.
She was at the height of her popularity just then, and the letters that poured in at every mail were overwhelming. Asking for her autograph and her photograph, begging for pieces of her best dress to sew into patchwork; begging for advice how to become a great author; begging for advice on every possible subject, from how to get the right kind of a husband, to how to stop biting one's nails.
And she answered them all!
It was a Herculean task. Sometimes she let us help her when she was very much rushed, but usually she kept her touch on every letter that went out—and they were thousands.
Then there was the editorship of "The Pansy," a young people's paper which was responsible for more thousands of letters from the children who had joined the Pansy Society, and who wrote to her about their faults and how to give them up, "For Jesus' Sake," which was their motto.
Sometimes I look back on her long and busy life and marvel what she has accomplished.
She was a marvelous housekeeper, knowing every dainty detail of her home to perfection; able to cook anything in the world just a little better than anybody else—except my mother and her—; able to set fine stitches in patches and darning that were works of art; able to make even dishwashing fun!
Sometimes when we were all together for a season, visiting, or during the winters we spent in Florida and lived together, it fell to her part and mine to do the dinner dishes together every night, and we raced, she washing, I wiping and putting away; making a record each night and trying to beat it the next. And such good, good times as we had together, my beloved aunt and I, as we worked with a will and left the kitchen immaculate for the next morning. Oh, she was a wonderful housekeeper!
Yes, and a marvelous pastor's wife! She took the whole parish into her life and gave herself to the work. She was not a modern minister's wife, who only goes to teas and receptions, and plays bridge and attends to the social end of life, never bothering about the church. She was the real old-fashioned kind, who made calls on all the parishioners with her husband, knew every member intimately, cared for the sick, gathered the young people into her home making both a social and religious center for them with herself as leader and adviser; grew intimate with each one personally and led them to Christ; became their confidante; and loved them all as if they had been her brothers and sisters. She taught the Primary class—and incidentally the mothers of the Primary class. She quietly and unobtrusively managed the Missionary Society and the Ladies' Aid, not always as its executive officer, often keeping quite in the background. She became the dear friend of every woman in the church without making any of them jealous. She was beloved, almost adored of them all.
She was a tender, vigilant, wonderful mother, such a mother as few are privileged to have, giving without stint of her time and her strength and her love and her companionship.
Even while she was quite young, when I was a small child she began to go out into the world, to speak in public, to read her stories, to lead Primary Sunday School Conferences, and, as I grew older and developed a delight in drawing, she sometimes took me along to do her blackboard work for her, at which privilege I swelled with pride. She was much in demand in those days, and I remember the awe with which I regarded her as one of the great ones of the earth, who was paid large sums to tell other people the best ways of teaching, and to read her fascinating stories. How I loved her and hung upon her every word and smile. How proud I was to belong to her! And am still.
All these things she did, and yet wrote books! Stories out of real life, that struck home and showed us to ourselves as God saw us; that sent us to our knees to talk with Him.
With marvelous skill she searched hearts, especially of the easy-going Christian, whether minister or layman, young and old, and brought them awake and alive to their inconsistencies. She wove her stories around their common, everyday life, till all her characters became alive and real to those who read. They still live within our memories like people we have known intimately and dwelt among. Ester Reid and Julia Reid, the Four Girls at Chautauqua, Mrs. Solomon Smith. I almost expect to meet some of them in Heaven.
Perhaps she wrote more and better because she was doing so eagerly in every direction. Her public, her church, her family, her home.
I wish I might paint you a picture of that home as I knew it; of my home, its counterpart; of the years the two families spent much time together as one family. The days were one long dream. Hard work? Yes, but good fellowship. Everybody working together with a common aim, and joy in the work and the fellowship!
And the evenings! Oh, those evenings, the crown of the days, the time to which we all looked forward as to a goal when our work was done! Those evenings are bright spots in my youth. Especially the evenings of the years we all spent together in Florida, when the sun went down sharply and the light went velvet black at evening, until the great tropical moon came out. Those long evenings when the soft dense darkness shut us in to a cheerful supper table, and, after we had hustled through the dishes, we all gathered in the big sitting-room around the open fire for family worship. Yes, we were as old-fashioned as that! We had family worship both morning and evening. And I am not of those modern ones who tell such things to scoff at them and say how sick they got of religion because of it, and lay to that their present indifference to God and the Bible. I look back to those times as the most precious, the most beautiful, the most powerful influence that came into my life. I thank God for a family that worshipped Him morning and evening and gave me an early knowledge and love for the Bible and the things of the Kingdom. Either my uncle or my father would conduct the little service, and often the one or the other of them would say to my dear aunt: "You read the chapter to-night, Belle," just because she was such a beautiful reader and we all loved to listen to her. At other times, we would recite verses, all around, a verse apiece, and then kneel in a circle for the prayer.
Oh, those prayers of the years that made my life inevitably acquainted with God, and the Lord Jesus, so that I never could be troubled by the doubts of to-day, because I know Him, "whom to know is life eternal." I cannot be thankful enough for those prayers, and that sacred time of worship every day that brought me into His very Presence.
And then the evening that followed!
We would all get our work, sewing or drawing, painting or knitting, or embroidery. My father, and my uncle would each take his particular chair in a shaded corner, and a book would be brought out. It was always a book that had been selected with great care, usually a story, now and again a great missionary book but more often a good novel. And this aunt would usually do the reading. Sometimes my aunt and my mother took turns reading. They both were remarkable readers, and knit close in spirit since early childhood. For two, sometimes three beautiful hours we reveled in the book. Reluctantly, when the word went forth that it was time to stop, we folded up our work and went to bed—sometimes pleading for just another chapter—now and then actually staying up breathless till all hours to finish some great climax. We always went off to rest with a bright eagerness for the morrow and the evening, and the story again—or a new one if we had finished one.
So we read the works of George Macdonald—we loved the Scotch, and our readers knew how to put the burr of the dialect upon their tongues—Ian Maclaren, Barrie—much of Dickens, some of Scott, Björnson, William Dean Howells, Jean Ingelow's few matchless novels, Frank Stockton, with his charming absurdities and a host of other writers whose stories seem to have become submerged and forgotten in this day of modern literature. But I look back to those stories as my meeting time with the great of the earth. How real the Bonnie Brier Bush and all its quaint true people were! How tender and strong was the Marquis of Lossie and Sir Gibbie! How I thrilled over the "Men of the Moss Hags," "Ben Hur," "The Virginian," "Jane Eyre." I mention them at random. It is my ambition to some day possess in a special set of shelves, every one of those wonderful stories that thrilled me so when I was young. Oh, don't try to tell me I would not care for them now! I do. They were real books, books that do not change because they told of human life as it is really lived in hearts. They may need to be furnished with a few electric lights and radios and airplanes and automobiles to make them up-to-date, but otherwise you will not find them out of tune with life as it is to-day, except that they are perhaps too clean and wholesome to be natural to-day.
There were frequent times when this beloved aunt, around whom we all seemed in those days to center, was called away to deliver an address, or to conduct a conference, or to furnish an evening's entertainment in some distant place; but when she returned from one of these trips we all gathered around to hear her tell her experiences, for we were always sure of stories. She saw everything, and she knew how to tell with glowing words about the days she had been away so that she lived them over again for us. It was almost better than if we had been along because she knew how to bring out the touch of pathos or beauty or fun, and her characters were all portraits. It listened like a book.
It was on one of these occasions that she told on her return from a trip, the story of this book. I remember it as if it were but yesterday, though the whole thing happened many years ago, for modern as this story is, the main part of it happened, really happened, to her personal knowledge, over thirty-five years ago.
It was told to her by a woman who was so well-known all over our country at that time that if I were to name her you could not help but remember how active she was in Woman's Suffrage and W. C. T. U. work, besides several other notable reforms and organizations. She was a brilliant public speaker, much in demand, and a great worker for young girls. She recounted this story to my aunt as a recent personal experience, and gave her permission to use it in a story (after a suitable interval of time of course, and without the original names.)
The story was written in brief form and appeared several years after its happening in a periodical as a short serial; but it is now appearing in book form for the first time. The dear author, after an interval of several years, during which on account of ill health and a feeling that her work was done, has taken up her pen once more. But at what odds! She is now eighty-seven years old and confined to her bed, the result of a fall and a broken hip. In the intervals of pain she has been elaborating and preparing this story for book form.
And now, because the manuscript was to have been in the hands of the publisher long ago, and because pain has held her in its grip for an unusually long period of weeks lately, leaving her unfit for work for the present, she has trusted me with the task of putting it into final shape. This story seems to me peculiarly fitting as a message for this present time.
I approach the work with a kind of awe upon me that I should be working on her story!
If, long ago in my childhood, it had been told me that I should ever be counted worthy to do this, I would not have believed it. Before her I shall always feel like the little worshipful child I used to be.
I recall a Christmas long ago when I was just beginning to write scraps of stories myself, with no thought of ever amounting to anything as a writer. Her gift to me that year was a thousand sheets of typewriter paper; and in a sweet little note that accompanied it she wished me success and bade me turn those thousand sheets of paper into as many dollars.
It was my first real encouragement. The first hint that anybody thought I ever could write, and I laughed aloud at the utter impossibility of its ever coming true. But I feel that my first inspiration for story-telling came from her, and from reading her books in which as a child I fairly steeped myself.
So I beg the leniency of her readers of to-day as I approach the task that is set before me. I know I shall have hers. My one hope is that I shall not in any way mar the message of this true and thrilling tale, that certainly is needed in this day and generation. I trust that she may soon be well enough to write once more, herself, another tale as good if not better.
Let me tell you a secret. I happen to know that this wonderful little brave aunt of mine is at work on the story of her younger years. She calls it "Yesterdays." I have had the pleasure of reading a few of the earlier chapters where she tells of her childhood and her young womanhood; the quaint things that happened to her; the dear home in which she lived; the great people of other days whom she knew intimately and with whom she grew up.
I pray she may be spared with strength to finish her story of her "Yesterdays," and many more beside.
GRACE LIVINGSTON HILL
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
AN INTERRUPTED NIGHT
THE train had limped along all the afternoon with engine trouble, and now at evening the passengers learned that they were two hours behind schedule and still losing time.
Mrs. Dunlap put away her writing materials and sat up with a sigh to look about her. It began to look as if she might be going to miss her connections unless relief from this state of things came soon.
She had just finished correcting the last galley of her new book which was to come out that fall; she had gone over the notes for her new addresses she was on her way to make at several appointed places; she had finished reading her magazine from cover to cover; she had even written a couple of letters to friends; and here she was with time on her hands! An almost unheard of thing for this busy woman. Not many hours of leisure came her way, and when one did, it filled her almost with dismay at the enforced waste of time.
Off in the west a thread of crimson still lingered on the horizon, but it soon faded into a line of pale amber and then disappeared. The lights of the train blared out and shut the travelers into the narrow confines of the car, and Mary Dunlap leaned back in her seat and fell to studying her fellow passengers.
The usual mother with many children who had been the usual noisy nuisance all the afternoon, had subsided into quiet for the time being; the mother and the littlest baby being asleep, the rest occupied with a picture book some thoughtful traveler had donated.
The personnel of the car had changed somewhat during the afternoon. Several people had got out at the stations along the way and others had come in. Among the latter were the two people who occupied the seat directly in front of Mary Dunlap, and before she realized it, she was thoroughly absorbed in studying them, her interest caught by the singularly pure and lovely outline of the young woman's face, in profile.
They were apparently a young married couple, though the man was not so young as the girl, who looked entirely too young to be married yet. As she studied them she could not help wondering over the girl's choice of a husband. They did not seem at all well mated. The girl was the far more attractive of the two.
Mary Dunlap decided that they were newly wed. The man had an air of proprietorship which she thought could only be explained by that relation. To the girl everything seemed to be strange and new, but she did not wear a happy face.
"Poor child!" thought the watcher. "She has just said goodbye to her mother, I suppose."
Then for a moment, memory carried her swiftly back to the day when she had been called upon to bid one dear girl the long goodbye.
Still, she reflected, on this girl's face there was unrest—real anxiety. There were even moments when she fancied that there was actual fear! What could be the explanation?
The husband had been most attentive, almost oppressively so. Could he be urging her to some course she did not approve?
"The man looks like a gentleman tyrant!" she told herself. "He will be certain to have his own way in the end. That poor child might as well yield first as last."
The call for dinner in the dining car took her away from their vicinity for a little while, and before she returned they had followed her to the diner. But later in the evening when they came back to their seats, she could not help seeing that they were having some kind of a heated argument, and that the girl was deeply distressed, almost on the verge of tears, the man alternately vexed and cajoling.
Mary Dunlap was a woman of wide interests and keen insight into character. She could not help siding with the young wife, and feeling that the man was in the wrong. He looked like a man who would have his own way at all costs.
In vain did she tell herself that she was probably all wrong. The girl might be a spoiled darling who was childishly insisting on some extravagance which the man, older and wiser, was trying to reason her out of. But try as she would, she could not make it seem that way. The man had a selfish sophistication about him that made her distrust him.
Both the young people were well dressed, with that regard to quiet elegance that showed they had plenty of money, and belonged to what is known as the higher social class. The trouble could not be about money.
Mary Dunlap turned her eyes away from them at last, resolved to wonder no more about these strangers who had caught her passing interest. It was none of her business anyway, what troubled these two. They would have to settle their own affairs. There was obviously no way in which she could help them; and perhaps even this kindly observation was a species of eavesdropping. She would think no more about them.
With her eyes on the dark landscape outside the window, she began to think about those two hours that the train had lost and to wonder what she could possibly do about it in case she missed her connection at the junction. Being a methodical woman, and a careful planner she was not used to missing her appointments, and it was most annoying to have the train crawl along this way, and then stop for unexplainable periods. Nevertheless, there was a certain resignation about her annoyance. She believed fully that design, not mere chance or Fate determines our ways, and reorders our plannings sometimes, in accordance with All-seeing wisdom; and she could not help wondering why her plans had been put in jeopardy.
For a long time she watched the lights of the little villages go flying by, for now the train seemed to have taken up a steady, dogged trot, and rolled along without stopping as if it had made up its mind to get home sometime.
But when she finally turned her gaze back to the car again she could see that the two in front of her had not settled their argument yet. They were not talking much now, but each face was eloquent of disagreement. The girl's eyes held unshed tears, and her look was openly anxious. Now and then she cast a pleading look at her companion, and said a little wistful word, ending in a sigh. The man was still stubbornly positive, his lips curving in a superior smile of amusement at the girl's reiterated objections. Again Mary Dunlap began to realize that her own interest in the affair was unwarrantably eager. She must stop thinking about these two people or they would pretty soon turn around suddenly and see her staring at them.
But just at that instant there occurred a happy interruption. The brakeman came eagerly through the train as one bearing welcome news, shouting the name of the Junction at last.
Mrs. Dunlap sat up briskly and looked at her watch. Ten minutes past midnight! Would the other train have waited?
Capably and quickly she straightened her hat, put on her gloves, buttoned her coat, gathered her hand bag, brief case, and suit case, and was ready at the door of the car when the train came to a halt.
But a glance at the track on the other side of the station showed that the train had not waited! The station looked deserted and dirty in the dim midnight, and her heart sank. Now, why had this had to happen?
Mrs. Dunlap paused for a moment in the doorway of the station as the disappointed crowds surged from the belated train. They had all more or less of a discouraged look and she sympathized with them. It was a new experience to her to be stranded unexpectedly at midnight in a strange place. Her delay would undoubtedly disappoint many people; but it certainly was not her fault. She had planned carefully as usual, and now must send telegrams in various directions to explain her non-appearance; her first disappointment as a platform speaker after years of service. She could not possibly reach her first appointment now in time and the whole schedule would be thrown out. Too bad, but she must make the best of it.
As she made her way to the telegraph office the man, who had for several hours occupied the seat in front of her, brushed past her. He too had probably missed connections and must telegraph. She wondered where he had left his young wife and wished she might have had a chance to show her some little kindness. She felt strangely drawn to the girl, who looked too young to be a wife and seemed so utterly troubled.
"I wonder if they are as much disappointed as I am over the upset of plans, and if they are disappointing as many people as I am?" she said to herself, and again a question came to her mind; "I wonder why it was allowed to happen? I certainly thought I was needed at that meeting to-morrow morning! They have been planning for it so long! It is so embarrassing to have to disappoint them this way!"
It very soon became necessary however to give undivided attention to the question of where she was to spend the remainder of the night. The Kennard House to which she had been recommended by the ticket agent proved to be crowded and the gentlemanly and sympathetic clerk could give her no encouragement.
He shook his head in response to her question: "The Albemarle? No, they are as badly off as we are. A car just drove away from here with people who had tried the Albemarle first. It is certainly an unfortunate night for that express train to be late! The city is overcrowded on account of the Convention. You are alone, madam? I hardly know what to suggest to you. We let our very last room go, about three minutes before you came in, to a couple who were your fellow passengers."
Was that a courteous hint that if she hadn't been so slow in her movements she might have had their room? Was the fortunate couple the two who had held her thoughts for hours? If so, she was glad she had been late; that sad-eyed little wife needed a quiet room for getting her nerves under control.
Then came another hotel official to exchange a few words in undertone with the one who was trying to serve her. A moment, then her sympathetic friend turned to her again.
"Madam, I have just heard that the man who engaged No. 38 for the night, has changed his mind, and is staying with friends in town. If you cared to wait in the reception room for a few minutes we could have it ready for you."
Grateful thanks were of course the only reply to make to this.
As she took up the pen to register Mrs. Dunlap remarked: "It seems almost foolish to register for the few hours there are left of the night." But she said it with a genial smile and the friendly air that made clerks and porters and all who served her, glad to offer a helping hand.
The name just preceding her own held her attention as probably the one that belonged to the couple who had so continually interested her that evening. "R. H. Keller and wife." They were booked for Room 537. That must be four floors above her own. She wished they had been nearer, then she might have opportunity to exchange courtesies with that frightened little bride; if she could only mother her a little, she would be glad.
The parlor in which she waited looked vast and gloomy in its midnight dimness and solitude. No not quite solitude, there were other occupants, a man and woman, probably waiting like herself for a room to be made ready. Her first impulse was to choose a corner as far removed from them as space would permit. Instead, she took possession of one of the couches quite near where they were standing for she suddenly recognized them as her traveling companions, and her interest in the girl flamed anew as she caught sight of her face.
What could be troubling that girl! The more she saw of the man's face the more she distrusted him. Perhaps she imagined it, but it seemed as though he had recognized her close proximity with a frown! Nevertheless, she determined not to retreat. What if there should be a chance just to speak a cheery word to the girl? She tucked herself among the cushions, drew her coat closely about her, and seemed to sleep, but she had never felt wider awake. Her nervousness was taking the form of a premonition.
The man had turned toward his wife. "We may as well be comfortable while we wait," he said. "It is beastly luck to have to wait at all. These second class towns never have proper hotel accommodations. Let us go over to that couch at the other end of the room where the pillows look less stinted."
The girl looked over at the distant couch then glanced back to the one where Mrs. Dunlap rested.
"Oh, no," she said, moving nearer to the fireplace. "I am chilly; I would rather stay here. Suppose you push a couple of those large rocking chairs up this way?"
"I can make you much more comfortable on the couch," he said, his tone indicating annoyance. "That fire will not keep you warm, there is nothing left of it but charred old stumps. Do let me snug you up among the cushions."
He essayed to pass an arm about her as he spoke, but she drew away from him with a wan smile as she said:
"I would rather stay here; it seems less lonely to be near a woman. Why did we trouble about rooms? I think I would just as soon stay where I am?"
"Standing?" he asked in a tone which to the woman on the couch sounded sullen.
"No," answered the girl with that pitiful attempt at a smile, "I would be willing to sit if you would bring up chairs. There cannot be much longer to wait, I should think. What time did you say we could get a train?"
When he told her, the response was almost a wail.
"Oh, Rufus! That was not what you said before? Why, that is not until another day!"
The woman on the couch held herself motionless by a strong effort of will. This was not the tone of a happy wife! She was certain now that something was wrong besides a few hours of delay. This was more like the outbreak of a woman half afraid of the man who was supposed to be caring for her.
"It is beastly luck," the man said again. "Something is always the matter on this confounded branch road! If you hadn't been staying in such an out of the way place, we should have been saved all this. Still, I don't understand why we should make it any more uncomfortable than it is. You ought to be resting quietly, instead—"
Her voice interrupted him, louder than it had been before. "I cannot rest: I cannot! I can only think of my mother's utter dismay and—and terror when she hears—"
"H-sh!" The man's sibilant whisper was sudden and fierce!
No wonder the girl started, and cried out in fright: "Oh, what is it!"
He bent over her and spoke lower.
"It is nothing at all, my dear, except that you are utterly tired out and your nerves are on edge. But you must be careful what you say. That confounded eavesdropper has planted herself as close to us as she could, and may get the idea from your words that I am a fiend of some kind. Thank goodness, though, she has gone to sleep, at last! I must say they are taking an unaccountable time to get that room ready."
"That room!" repeated the still frightened voice. "There are two rooms, of course?"
"Of course," he repeated hastily, "but I could wait for mine, you know."
"I don't like it," the girl said, quite as if she had not heard him, "I don't like anything about it! I wish—Oh, Rufus, can't we go on to-night? Or go somewhere and talk things over and make other plans. I don't want any room!"
He spoke kindly but with great firmness.
"That is impossible, dear, as you will realize when you think a moment. All the arrangements are made, and my friend is waiting and will be there for the next train. There is no other train until morning that will do us any good. Why can you not be the sensible girl you have been all the afternoon and let me do the extra planning that this detention has made necessary? I assure you I can take care of you." As he spoke, he tried to draw her nearer.
She made a despairing movement away from him and said:
"Oh, I cannot make you understand! I know how strange it seems to you, but if you could think for a moment of my side of it! Can't you realize how different it will all be to me when I have the right to be with you anywhere and always? As it is, I cannot help feeling strangely alone and—and almost disgraced! I do, Rufus, I cannot help it. Mother has always been so particular about me; and she would think this that we are doing was terrible! I know now that she would. Can't we go somewhere on the cars, and talk it all over? I don't feel so perfectly strange when we are moving. Hark! Was that one o'clock? And we were to have been there long before twelve! And you were to telegraph to mother early in the morning! Oh, this is dreadful!"
He bent toward her and spoke gently. "Daisy, listen, you are making yourself ill over troubles that do not exist. Everything is all right; we shall be in by noon, and my friend will meet the train. Meantime in the early morning I will wire your mother, as we planned; and—"
She interrupted him. "But we don't get in until noon! And what you were going to say won't be true!"
"Oh, nonsense! Why, my dear, if you were not so tired as to be beyond reasoning, I could convince you in a very few minutes of the folly of that! I shall only be anticipating the truth by a very few hours in order to relieve her anxiety."
"Rufus, I cannot help it. I cannot have our life together begin with falsehood! It is bad enough as it is. I cannot help being sorry that we did not wait until mother had a chance to know you better. She is not a hard or unreasonable woman."
"I see plainly that you do not trust me." He spoke with such bitterness and sharpness that the listener on the couch who could catch only portions of the girl's words, felt as though she would like to spring up that minute and defend her. But the voice rose clearer just then.
"Rufus! How can you say that to me? If I had not trusted you utterly, would I be here to-night? If you had a mother, you would understand how perfectly dreadful it is to—"
As she hesitated for words, a hotel official came towards them.
"Are you Mr. R. H. Keller, sir? If so, you are wanted at the office telephone."
"Confound the fellow!" muttered Keller. Then, in a gentler tone, "Don't let that frighten you, Daisy. It is a business call that I have been expecting; but it comes at an inopportune time, of course. I shall be back in a very few minutes."
Left to herself, the girl walked back and forth in front of the fire, seeming to catch her breath in convulsive little sobs. She was so near the couch that Mrs. Dunlap could have put out her hand and touched her. When that good woman saw a pair of small hands clenched and heard a low moan, she came suddenly to a sitting posture and in a moment more was speaking in a low tone.
"Will you forgive me, dear? I am the mother of a precious girl who was about your age when God called her home. And I miss her so! I cannot help seeing that you are in trouble. May I not play mother to you for a little while and try to comfort you?"
But the girl's face at that moment expressed such abject terror, that she made haste to add:
"There is nothing to be frightened over, dear; this is a quiet, entirely respectable house, and your husband will be back in a few moments." It was the probing word that this student of human nature had resolved should open her way, and it succeeded.
"He is not my husband!" the girl exclaimed. "Not yet," she added quickly. "We were to have been married as soon as the train reached our destination; but the train was delayed; we could not go on; and there were no rooms to be had without this awful waiting! I wish now that we had not—" She stopped abruptly, then began again.
"I know I must appear very silly indeed to a stranger. But I cannot seem to help it. And I cannot explain, either, why it should suddenly seem so perfectly dreadful to me, but it does! I am so used to traveling with my mother; I cannot get away from the thought of how perfectly awful it would seem to her if she knew that I—"
The tremulous voice stopped again; and at that moment Mrs. Dunlap felt that she could almost enjoy shooting the man who had deliberately planned such a state of things for this frightened child. She passed a protecting arm about the trembling form and spoke low and tenderly.
"My child, will you trust me and tell me all about it? You remind me of my own dear daughter; I am sure that you have a precious mother. Does she know that you expected to be married to-night?"
"No, oh, no! She doesn't dream of such a thing! We couldn't tell her because she—she is prejudiced against Mr. Keller; he has enemies, we think, who are trying to injure him because he is a more successful man than they are, and she—Why, she wasn't even willing to have me walk out with him, alone! But I thought—I mean I think that when we are married, and everything is settled forever, we shall be able to make her understand. It really isn't as though I were a child; I am of age."
At this, the child-woman drew herself up with such a pitiful attempt at womanhood that Mrs. Dunlap, under happier circumstances, felt sure she would have asked how many hours it was since the child had attained to that dignity!
The tremulous voice continued:
"Still, I could not live without my mother; and I do not need to, of course. As soon as she discovers how truly good and noble Mr. Keller is, and what a devoted son he is ready to be to her, it will be all right. Mother has always wanted a son."
A note of appeal had crept into her voice as though she longed to hear from even this stranger an assurance that all would be well. Mrs. Dunlap's mother-heart bled for her, and a throb of thankfulness for the absolute safety of her own daughter thrilled through her. With it came the determination to do what she could to help this girl, even at the cost of a possible mistake.
"My child," she said, "I feel that I must tell you something that I think you ought to know. You are registered at this hotel as 'R. H. Keller and wife!' And one room—not two—is being made ready for you."
FOR a moment Mrs. Dunlap regretted her words. The terror in the girl's eyes transformed her face; and the low cry she gave was almost like that of a wounded animal! But she rallied rapidly and said with eagerness: "Oh, you are mistaken! It is some other person whose name you have mistaken for his. He would not—why, Rufus could not do such a thing!"
"My dear child, I am not mistaken." The very quietness of the woman's voice and manner carried conviction. "The name is R. H. Keller and the man who is with you here to-night is the one who sat before me with you yesterday afternoon, and wrote his name as I have told you, just before I did on the register."
Suddenly the poor girl broke into bitter weeping. "What shall I do!" she wailed. "Oh, what shall I do! Oh, mother! If I had never gone away from you! I have killed her! I have killed my mother!"
"No, you haven't!" Mrs. Dunlap's voice had never been quieter, nor firmer. "You are going home to her this morning, as soon as the train goes. In a few hours she will have her arms about you. And when you are really being married, she will stand very near you, and be the first to kiss you, and call you her darling. You wouldn't disappoint her for anything! Come with me to my room and wait until train time. There ought to be one very early in the morning, and I will see you safely to it."
The girl seized the little hand bag she had dropped, and spoke hurriedly.
"Where is the room? Oh, quick! Take me to it, will you? That was what I wanted; a place to be alone and think. I don't know what I can do, but I must decide; and I must do it before Mr. Keller comes back, because—oh, will you let me go into your room and lock the door?"
They both turned hurriedly at the sound of footsteps.
It was a porter to say that No. 37 was ready; and never were fleeter steps than those that followed his lead.
"Oh, hurry!" the girl said breathlessly as they reached the room, and it was she who turned the key in the lock after the retreating porter. Then she dropped a limp heap into the nearest chair and cried.
Mrs. Dunlap left her quite to herself and thanked God for the tears.
"What shall I do if he comes and demands to be let in?" the girl asked suddenly, looking up at her deliverer. "He is so—so masterful; and he does not look at things as I do. He thinks that a few hours cannot make any difference. I know how he argued it out with himself that he could not leave me alone, and that he would shield my name by giving me his in advance, but I cannot do it, I cannot! And if he comes and insists upon talking to me, I don't know what will become of me. I don't seem to be able to make him understand."
"I know, dear; you will be a good girl and go back to your mother. Of course you cannot do what he wants. This is my room; he will hardly come to it without my permission. If you think it is necessary to explain your absence, I will go down to him, if you will let me, and explain what is necessary."
"Oh, if you will! I mean if you can! He is very determined; and he is used to having his own way; I cannot think that he will let me—"
She was trembling so violently that she could scarcely speak.
Mrs. Dunlap passed an arm about her and spoke as she might have done to a frightened child.
"Don't think about that part of it any more; I am not in the least afraid of him; and I will take care of you! Have you a kimono in this bag? Let me help you take off your dress, just as your mother would, and slip the kimono on for a little while. I have been looking at the time table. You can have almost three hours of quiet; then I will take you to the train. We can plan all the details afterwards."
"Oh, you are so kind!" murmured the girl.
"I am going downstairs now," the woman said when the girl had submitted to her ministrations, resisting the suggestion about the bed, but allowing herself to be propped among pillows in an easy chair. "I will come back in a little while; or would you rather have this room quite to yourself? I can be comfortable down on one of the couches, and I will come for you in ample time for the train."
"No! Oh, no!" the girl said, the look of fear coming into her eyes again. "Please don't leave me! And yet you must! Would you mind locking the door and taking the key with you? I cannot help a feeling that—"
"She is afraid of him!" was Mrs. Dunlap's mental comment as she sped down the hall with the key in her pocket.
On the whole she decided she was rather glad of an opportunity to tell that man what she thought of him.
She had little time to collect her thoughts, for the subject of them hurried in soon after she entered the parlor.
There was an ugly frown on his face. Evidently the interview from which he had just come had irritated him.
He strode to the corner where he had left his companion and stared about him perplexedly; then turned an angry questioning look upon Mrs. Dunlap.
"Are you looking for the lady who was here when you left the room?" She asked pleasantly, determined to be courteous if possible. "She has gone to my room to get some rest, and asked me to say to you that she is all right and quite comfortable for the night."
He strode toward her with a glare in his eyes that would have frightened a less courageous spirit, and spoke in an angry voice: "Who are you that you presume to interfere in the lady's affairs?" he said haughtily. "I have a room for her to rest in, and you will oblige me by telling her that I am waiting for her, and then by minding your own business."
Mrs. Dunlap had the advantage of this angry man; she was perfectly cool and calm.
"You are mistaken," she said. "I have the right to interfere, because the lady has claimed my protection and I am abundantly able and willing to give it."
"Protection from what!" he thundered.
"From Mr. Keller, I fancy. I supposed, of course, that the lady in question was your wife, as I had seen you together during the day, and noticed how you registered. Since she has informed me that she is not; and, furthermore, that she does not wish to see you again to-night, I have aided her in carrying out her wishes and must insist on her not being disturbed."
"Must you indeed! How do you expect to accomplish the task of keeping me away from the lady who is under my protection, and for whom I alone am responsible?"
There was menace in his tone and in the glare of his eyes. Mrs. Dunlap lifted her eyebrows with a gesture of contempt, but she spoke quietly.
"This is absurd, Mr. Keller. I have no wish to make matters more uncomfortable than is necessary; but of course you are aware that this is a respectable house. You are here in company with a young woman whom you registered as your wife; and you ordered a room for yourself and her; but she says that she is not your wife, and that she does not wish to see you again to-night. I do not need to remind you how promptly the proprietor of this house, as well as its guests, would come to her aid if necessary; nor that policemen and lockups are conveniences within call. If you compel me to resort to such measures, you will have yourself to thank."
There was something about Mary Dunlap when she chose to assert herself that commanded respect. Keller looked into the clear stern eyes of this woman and realized that he must not go too far. He glared at her, baffled for an instant, and when she still continued to look steadily at him, he wheeled and took a few steps away from her. Then, after a moment, with a sound that was evidently an attempt at a laugh but was more like a sneer, he turned and came toward her again, trying to speak lightly:
"You women are too much for me! I may as well take you into my confidence, as the lady has evidently seen fit to do. It is true that the formal ceremony which was to have made us man and wife in the eyes of a curious world has not yet taken place, but the mere formality is all that is lacking. If it were not for a wrecked engine and this infernal delay, Mrs. Grundy, whom you are personifying, would have been able to sleep peacefully. I registered as I had expected to do after I had reached the station where the clergyman was waiting for us, because I did not wish to leave the lady alone, in her wearied, and nervous state, but desired to minister to her comfort, as I would assuredly have been able to do, had we not been interfered with in this extraordinary manner. I did not consider it necessary to explain to the lady that I had anticipated the ceremony by a few hours, in writing her name as mine, and thus securing a quiet room for her to rest in.
"I may further say that business complications in which a good deal of money was involved, have made it necessary for me to move with caution in this entire matter, and for this reason I brought her away with me quietly, before the outward forms had been complied with; but she came without coercion of any sort as she will be ready to inform you, if you explain that you suspect me of being at least an accomplice in a case of kidnapping! She will tell you also that she is of age, and that nobody living has a right to object to her taking a journey at any hour of the day or night with her chosen husband.
"Now, having, I am sure, satisfied the utmost demands of your curiosity, if you will tell me where to find the lady, I will escort her to her private sitting-room; and you need not delay your own sleep any longer. If it will comfort you to know it, I assure you that three minutes' conversation with my lady, will be sufficient to allay any fears that you may have succeeded in working up."
This biting sarcasm, partially veiled at times by mock courtesy, was concluded with what was intended to be a bow of dismissal.
But Mrs. Dunlap was never more quietly determined in her course of action. Every word that the man had spoken increased her distrust of him.
"We need not argue," she said. "You have told me nothing that I did not know before. Let me remind you that the mere formality which is still lacking to give you the legal right to take care of this woman is one that decent people still carefully adhere to, and without it your action to-night has been contrary to law and respectability. For this reason, no matter what your motive is, or how many private sitting-rooms you have been able to secure in this overcrowded house, I can and will protect the young woman from occupying one of them. I suppose it is hardly necessary to add that if you make the slightest attempt to see her to-night, or to interfere with her wishes in any way, I shall not hesitate to take the hotel officials and the police into my confidence. If you force me to action, you will find that I am a woman who is very well-known."
During these words the man's face was a study. Fierce indignation, doubt, perplexity, intense disgust, each struggled for the ascendancy. But Mrs. Dunlap was about to leave the room. The necessity for propitiating her in some way forced itself upon him.
"Wait!" he said imperatively. "You do not understand. Is it possible to make you understand the conditions? Sit down and let me explain just what has happened, and what I am trying to do."
His manner became suddenly courteous, and he began to talk volubly, explaining, in more minute detail than the occasion seemed to call for, the devious ways by which he had reached this point; enlarging upon his deep affection for the lady of his choice, and his desire to free her from the narrow and cramped life in which he found her. Her mother was a commonplace, narrow-minded, exceedingly prejudiced person who entirely dominated her daughter's life; so that she was in danger of having no individuality, he said.
Among other proofs of the mother's folly, she had conceived a violent dislike to himself; and carried her tyranny to such an extent that the girl was not even allowed to receive a call from him, unless the mother was present! Matters were in this state, and he was at an utter loss how to further the daughter's interests, when his good angel, came to his rescue. The girl went to spend a month with a very intimate friend, who had married and removed to a town a hundred miles from her home. Then, quite unexpectedly to himself, business connected with his firm sent him to that very town. All the rest had followed, almost, he might say, because of the necessities of the case. He had discovered that the young lady's affections were as deeply involved as his own, and that she despaired, as deeply as he did himself, of ever winning her narrow-minded mother to take their view of things.
Mrs. Dunlap was called upon to assent to the statement that common people were apt to have violent prejudices for which they could not account, and were the hardest persons on earth to move. Still, he would admit that in carrying out the program that followed he had acted upon sudden impulse rather than premeditated plans.
When the time came for the lady to return home, Providence seemed to make a way for them to be happy. He need not explain that he had used no coercion in the matter; the lady realized only too certainly that her mother stood in the way of her happiness, and that if she had her way, the daughter would be entirely and forever separated from him. This, she felt that she could not endure, and they both believed that, when the irrevocable step was taken, the mother would have a return to common sense. So, in a moment, one might say, it was all arranged; indeed it almost arranged itself. He had a friend in the ministry at a town which was an important junction of the railroad, and to him, he sent a message planning all the necessary details; but for the horrible delay because of that disabled engine, everything would have been complete.
But the delay and confusion and the necessity for their stopping overnight at a strange hotel had bewildered and frightened the girl, unused as she was to being alone, or to thinking and planning for herself. It was the knowledge of that, which had led him to make the mistake of registering as he did; he could now see that it was a mistake. He knew there was but one room to be had, and his only thought had been to secure privacy for her and the right to minister to her comfort. At the moment there seemed no other way; but he would admit that it had a bad look to others, who did not understand the situation. For himself these outward conventions never seemed of paramount importance so long as one understood one's self. He had not meant to tell the girl about it, because she, as a matter of course having such a mother, was terribly trammeled by conventions of all sorts and could not be made to understand that what was true IN SPIRIT was the same as truth.
But, he had been foolish; he was ready to admit it. He was even grateful for her interference, when he came to think carefully, although he would confess that at first it seemed unpardonable. He had been a law to himself for so many years, that he knew he did not attach the same importance to convention that others did, but he must learn to do so now, for the girl's sake. Of course everything should be as she wished. He would not for the world go contrary to the lady's real desires, but it would be necessary for him to see her and rearrange their program. After he had learned just what she wanted him to do, he would spend the remainder of the night in long distance communications, because of course there were explanations that must be made. Having interested herself in his charge, would she be so kind as to tell her that he was waiting for her, and must confer with her at once in order to send his dispatches? He would detain her but a very short time, and then she could return to the room that had been so kindly placed at her disposal.
Throughout this elaborate explanation Mrs. Dunlap had sat silent; her eyes fixed upon the speaker, and her thoughts busy with this new specimen of human nature.
Not for a single moment did he deceive her into thinking that he was, in the main, a true man who, because of his love for a pretty girl and the sudden temptation of opportunity, had been led headlong into a foolish and dangerous experiment. Not for an instant did she waver in her determination to keep those two apart, if possible, until the girl's mother could make a third in their deliberations.
Yet she made no attempt to interrupt the flow of words, and grew interested in the skill with which he was explaining the unexplainable.
When he paused, with an evident air of having mastered a difficult situation, she said:
"You are very kind to give me details, although they do not of course alter the present situation. It is a relief to know that you consider your course wrong, but I cannot agree with your way of trying to right it. I have given my word to the lady that she shall not be disturbed to-night and that she shall take the home-bound train in the morning. After she is safe at home with her mother and has had time to rally from the shock that this has evidently been to her, you may be able to make such plans as neither of you will be ashamed to look back upon; but she is in no condition to be consulted to-night; and it may help you to realize, what I feel quite sure of, that she has had her lesson, and that any future plans you may care to make must take her mother into full consideration. You will pardon the suggestion that you must have had many more years than she, in which to learn wisdom; she is but eighteen I believe, while you—"
She paused significantly, but the man whom she judged to be not less than thirty-five at least, was speechless with amazement and dismay. He had staked much and expected to win.
She turned and left him before he could think of any excuse to detain her longer.
THE remainder of the night was as unique in its way as its earlier hours had been. On Mary Dunlap's return to her room she found the girl was more composed, and able to talk quietly.
"I have had time to think it all out," she said, when Mrs. Dunlap had told what she meant to tell. "Mr. Keller does not understand; his mother died when he was a child and he brought himself up, in a way. He has been a law to himself and to others for so long that he just goes ahead and does what seems best to him. I am sure he meant right. Even that strange part about registering," her face flushed as she spoke, "I can see it was done for my sake. I am so lacking in self-reliance and had been so nervous all day that he felt he could not trust me alone, and took that way of caring for me. But it is no wonder that I am nervous, for I have been doing wrong all day! I did not know it; I thought because I was of age I had a right to decide for myself but I realize that there is a higher law than just a legal one, and I am going home to mother! I am afraid she will feel that she can never trust me out of her sight again, and I do not deserve to be trusted.
"It is all very plain to me now, what I ought to do. I shall write to Mr. Keller and tell him that we must wait, and give my mother time to know him, and to learn what a truly noble man he is. Then we must try by all honorable means to win her consent to our marriage. I will not cannot be married till my mother feels right about it."
"I think that sounds like a very wise decision," said Mary Dunlap with relief in her voice. "That is what mothers were given for, to help in grave decisions. They seem to have a sort of God-given intuition about the great critical things of life. Remember that if you do not succeed in winning her over, such a mother, as a girl like you must have, surely must have wise reasons for objecting—"
"Oh, I'm sure we will succeed," interrupted the girl's voice anxiously. "My mother wants nothing in this world so much as my happiness. But if we cannot, after a reasonable time, convince her that he is worthy of her trust, why then we must just be married, without her consent. I have my own life to live—" she drew herself up proudly with a pitiful assumption of dignity—"I cannot afford to spoil my life and his for the sake of a cruel prejudice."
This last was so manifestly an echo from Mr. Keller's philosophy that the listener said not a word, in response, and the eager voice went on.
"But we must do it honestly; there shall be no slipping away as though we were ashamed! I cannot understand how I could have done such a thing! Doesn't it seem strange that I should know now just what to do, when this morning I did not at all! And so, dear friend—you will be my friend always, will you not? And mother will never know how to thank you enough for what you have done for me to-night! If you will put me on the train in the morning, as you said, I will go directly home; no matter how many broken engines hinder."
Mrs. Dunlap tried by all conceivable devices to induce her charge to get some sleep. She rang for a porter and made careful arrangements for the early train; planning the minutest details with a view to convincing the girl that she might be trusted. But there was no sleep to be had for either of them. Her charge was docile enough; she lay down obediently and closed her eyes; but she started at every sound, and imagined sounds that were not; frequently, after a few minutes of silence, she would break into eager explanations of some of Mr. Keller's movements, with a view to placing him in the best possible light.
"What is his business?" Mrs. Dunlap asked; deciding, after fruitless effort that to humor the child's restlessness was perhaps the better way.
"He is—I—don't know—!"
The sentence began eagerly, then a pause, and the half bewildered conclusion.
"He has to travel a great deal," she added; "belongs to a firm, you know; but I find that I do not know what the firm is; it seems strange that I never thought to ask him!"
"Is his home in the West?"
"Yes—no, he is there winters; summers he is East somewhere. I don't remember which city he calls 'home'; he is in New York a great deal. He really hasn't much home I presume; an unmarried man, whose parents are dead; it must be very dreary."
"Poor innocent child!" was Mrs. Dunlap's mental comment. "She really knows no more about the man than I do; I'm afraid not so much! For all that she could prove, he might be an adventurer of the sort that is careful not to have a settled home."
But all that she put into words was an earnest admonition to the girl to try to rest. For herself, she did not mean to sleep; every nerve was on the alert for a possible invasion. Who could be sure of what that defeated plotter might attempt?
But the night passed without further incident and early morning found the two at the telegraph office, from which presently two messages sped on their way. One read:
"Delayed by disabled engine. Coming on No. 2. All safe. Daisy."
It had taken nearly half an hour to compose this message satisfactorily. The other read:
"Must fail you for Wednesday. Will give you Thursday instead, if desired. Wire me at Winfield. Mary Dunlap."
Mrs. Dunlap had decided that the personal deposit of this young girl at her mother's door was more important than any other "woman's work" that she could do that day although she did not know that the man she had foiled was already seated in the smoker of the early train, waiting for her to disappear. She utterly distrusted him, and felt instinctively that he would watch his opportunity.
It was to the girl's great astonishment that, having established her charge in comfort, Mrs. Dunlap prepared to seat herself in the opposite chair.
"Oh, are you really going this way?" said the unsuspecting child. "What made me think that you were going farther West? How far do you go? To Winfield? Why, that is just beyond my station! How lovely! You will stop and see mother and let her thank you herself, won't you?"
But Mrs. Dunlap had decided that she would not. If the man were only a fool, and not a confirmed villain, and the child's heart was bound up in him, it were better for all concerned that her prejudices, as well as her knowledge of that tragic night, should never reach the mother's ears.
When the journey was over and they drove to the girl's home, she waited only to clasp hands with the sweet-faced, low-voiced, grateful woman, into whose eager arms Daisy flung herself, and to decline the pressing invitation to the home that wanted to shower kindnesses upon her; then sped on to Winfield. Arrived in Winfield, Mary Dunlap's sole errand was to read a telegram she found awaiting her, send another, and take the first train back West.
On the fourth morning following, she opened her eyes in a beautiful room in one of the elegant homes of a New York city suburb. It was still early, and she lay quiet for a few minutes, feasting her beauty-loving eyes on the evidences of abundant means and highly cultured taste spread lavishly about her. She had been too weary the night before to take in any details, except a bed. Mrs. Dunlap was accustomed to the position of honored guest in all sorts of homes. She could accommodate herself to the furnishings of the plainest home with a grace that was one of her charms; but she confessed to her very intimate friends that when "the lines fell to her in pleasant places," it always stirred an extra note of thanksgiving in her heart. There was certainly nothing lacking here; nothing to offend the most fastidious taste, or for the most exacting to desire.