When Courtland got back to the university the afternoon examination had been in progress almost half an hour. With a brief explanation to the professor, he settled to his belated work regardless of Bill Ward's anxious glances from the back of the room and Pat's lifted eyebrows from the other side. He knew he had yet to meet those three beloved antagonists. He seemed to have progressed through eons of experience since he talked with them last night. The intricate questions of the examination on political science over which he was trying faithfully to work seemed paltry beside the great facts of life and death.
He had remained at the hospital until the girl came out of her long swoon and the doctor said she was better, but the thought of her white face was continually before him. When he closed his eyes for a moment to think how to phrase some answer in his paper he would see that still, beautiful face as it lay on his shoulder in the carriage. It had filled him with awe to think that he, a stranger, was her only friend in that great city, and she might be dying! Somehow he could not cast her off as a common stranger.
He had arranged that she should be placed in a small private room at a moderate cost, and paid for a week in advance. The cost was a mere trifle to Courtland. The new overcoat he had meant to buy this week would more than cover the cost. Besides, if he neededmore than his ample allowance his father was always quite ready to advance what he wanted. But the strange thing about all this was that, having paid to put the girl where she would be perfectly comfortable and be well taken care of, he could not cast her off and forget her. His responsibility seemed to be doubled with everything he did for her. Between the problems of deep state perplexities and intrigues was ever the perplexity about that girl and how she was going to live all alone with her tragedy—or tragedies—for it was apparent from the little hints she had dropped that the death of the small brother was only the climax of quite a series of sorrows that had come to her young life. And yet she, with all that sorrow compassing her about, could still believe in the Christ and call upon Him in her trouble! There was a kind of triumphant feeling in his heart when he reached that conclusion.
He lay on the couch in Tennelly's room that night after supper and tried to think it out, while the other three clattered away about their marks and held an indignation meeting over the way Pat was getting black-listed by all the professors just when he was trying so hard. He didn't know the fellows were keeping it up to get his mind away from the funeral. He was thinking about that girl.
The doctor had told him that she was very much run down. It looked as if the process had been going on for some time. Her heart action was not all it should be, and there were symptoms of lack of nutrition. What she needed was rest, utter rest. Sleep if possible most of the time for at least a week, with, careful feeding every two or three hours, and after that a quiet, cheerful place with plenty of fresh air and sunshine and more sleep; no anxiety, and nothing to call on the exhausted energies for action or hurry.
Now how was a state of things like that to be brought about for a person who had no home, no friends, no money, and no time to lie idle? Moreover, how could there be any cheerful spot in the wide world for a little girl who had passed through the fire as she had done?
Presently he went out to the drug-store and telephoned to the hospital. They said she had had only one more slight turn of unconsciousness, but had rallied from it quickly and was resting quietly now. They hoped she would have a good night.
Then he went back to his room and thought about her some more. He had an important English examination the next day, one in which he especially wanted to do well; yet try as he would to concentrate on Wells and Shaw, that girl and what was going to become of her would get in between him and his book.
It was after ten o'clock when he sauntered down the hall and stood in Stephen Marshall's room for a few minutes, as he was getting the habit of doing every night. The peace of it and the uplift that that room always gave him were soothing to his soul. If he had known a little more about the Christ to whose allegiance he had declared himself he might have knelt and asked for guidance; but as yet he had not so much as heard of a promise to the man who "abides," and "asks what he will." Nevertheless, when he entered that room his mind took on the attitude of prayer and he felt that somehow the Presence got close to him, so that questions that had perplexed him were made clear.
As he stood that night looking about the plain walls, his eyes fell upon that picture of Stephen Marshall's mother. A mother! Ah! if there were a mother somewhere to whom that girl could go! Some one who would understand her; be gentle and tender with her;love her, as he should think a real mother would do—what a difference that would make!
He began to think over all the women he knew—all the mothers. There were not so many of them. Some of the professors' wives who had sons and daughters of their own? Well, they might be all well enough for their own sons and daughters, but there wasn't one who seemed likely to want to behave in a very motherly way to a stranger like his waif of a girl. They were nice to the students, polite and kind to the extent of one tea or reception apiece a year, but that was about the limit.
Well, there was Tennelly's mother! Dignified, white-haired, beautiful, dominant in her home and clubs, charming to her guests; but—he could just fancy how she would raise her lorgnette and look "Bonnie" Brentwood over. There would be no room in that grand house for a girl like Bonnie. Bonnie! How the name suited her! He had a strange protective feeling about that girl, not as if she were like the other girls he knew; perhaps it was a sort of a "Christ-brother" feeling, as the minister had suggested. But to go on with the list of mothers—wasn't there one anywhere to whom he could appeal? Gila's mother? Pah! That painted, purple image of a mother! Her own daughter needed to find a real mother somewhere. She couldn't mother a stranger! Mothers! Why weren't there enough real ones to go around? If he had only had a mother, a real one, himself, who had lived, she would have been one to whom he could have told Bonnie's story, and she would have understood!
He looked into the pictured eyes on the wall and an idea came to him. It was like an answer to prayer. Stephen Marshall's mother! Why hadn't he thought of her before? She was that kind of a mother of course,or Stephen Marshall would not have been the man he was! If the Bonnie girl could only get to her for a little while! But would she take her? Would she understand? Or might she be too overcome with her own loss to have been able to rally to life again? He looked into the strong motherly face and was surenot.
He would write to her. He would put it to the test whether there was a mother in the world or not. He went back to his room, and wrote her a long letter, red-hot from the depths of his heart; a letter such as he might have written to his own mother if he had ever known her, but such as certainly he had never written to any woman before. He wrote:
Dear Mother of Stephen Marshall:I know you are a real mother because Stephen was what he was. And now I am going to let you prove it by coming to you with something that needs a mother's help.There is a little girl—I should think she must be about nineteen or twenty years old—lying in the hospital, worn out with hard work and sorrow. She has recently lost her father and mother, and had brought her little five-year-old brother to the city a couple of weeks ago. They were living in a very small room, boarding themselves, she working all day somewhere down-town. Two days ago, as she was coming home in the trolley, her little brother, crossing the street to meet her, was knocked down and killed by a passing automobile. We buried him to-day, and the girl fainted dead away on the way back from the cemetery and only recovered consciousness when we got her to the hospital. The doctor says she has exhausted her vitality and needs to sleep for a week and be fed up; and then she ought to go to some cheerful place where she can just rest for a while and have fresh air and sunshine and good, plain, nourishing food.Now she hasn't a friend in the city. I know from the few little things she has told me that there isn't any one in the world she will feel free to turn to. She isn't the kind of girlwho will accept charity. She's refined, reserved, independent, and all that, you know. There's another thing, too—she prays to your Stephen's Christ—that's why I dared write to you about it.You see, I'm an entire stranger to her. I just happened along when the kid was killed and had to stick around and help; that's how I came to know. Of course she hasn't any idea of all this, and I haven't any real business with it, but I can't see leaving her in a hole this way; and there's no one else to do anything.You wonder why I didn't find a mother nearer by, but I haven't any living of my own, except a stepmother, who wouldn't understand, and all the other mothers I know wouldn't qualify for the job any better. I've been looking at your picture and I think you would.What I thought of is this (if it doesn't strike you that way maybe you can think of some other way): I'm pretty well fixed for money, and I've got a lump that I've been intending to use for a new automobile; but my old car is plenty good enough for another year, and I'd like to pay that girl's board awhile till she gets rested and strong and sort of cheered up. I thought perhaps you'd see your way clear to write a letter and say you'd like her to visit you—you're lonesome or Something. I don't know how a real mother would fix that up, but I guess you do.Of course the girl mustn't know I have a thing to do with it except that I told you about her. She'd be up in the air in a minute. She wouldn't stand for me doing anything for her. She's that kind.I'm sending a check of two hundred dollars right now because I thought, in case you see a way to take up with my suggestion, you might send her money enough for the journey. I don't believe she's got any. We can fix it up about the board any way you say. Don't hesitate to tell me just how much it is worth. I don't need the money for anything. But whatever's done has got to be done mighty quick or she'll go back to work again, and she won't last three days if she does. She looks as if a breath would blow her away.I'm sending this special delivery to hurry things. Her address is Miss R.B. Brentwood, Good Samaritan Hospital. The kid called her "Bonnie." I don't know what her whole name is.So now you have the whole story, and it's up to you to decide. Maybe you think I've got a lot of crust to propose this, and maybe you won't see it this way, but I've had the nerve because Stephen Marshall's life and Stephen Marshall's death have made me believe in Stephen Marshall's Christ and Stephen Marshall's mother.
I know you are a real mother because Stephen was what he was. And now I am going to let you prove it by coming to you with something that needs a mother's help.
There is a little girl—I should think she must be about nineteen or twenty years old—lying in the hospital, worn out with hard work and sorrow. She has recently lost her father and mother, and had brought her little five-year-old brother to the city a couple of weeks ago. They were living in a very small room, boarding themselves, she working all day somewhere down-town. Two days ago, as she was coming home in the trolley, her little brother, crossing the street to meet her, was knocked down and killed by a passing automobile. We buried him to-day, and the girl fainted dead away on the way back from the cemetery and only recovered consciousness when we got her to the hospital. The doctor says she has exhausted her vitality and needs to sleep for a week and be fed up; and then she ought to go to some cheerful place where she can just rest for a while and have fresh air and sunshine and good, plain, nourishing food.
Now she hasn't a friend in the city. I know from the few little things she has told me that there isn't any one in the world she will feel free to turn to. She isn't the kind of girlwho will accept charity. She's refined, reserved, independent, and all that, you know. There's another thing, too—she prays to your Stephen's Christ—that's why I dared write to you about it.
You see, I'm an entire stranger to her. I just happened along when the kid was killed and had to stick around and help; that's how I came to know. Of course she hasn't any idea of all this, and I haven't any real business with it, but I can't see leaving her in a hole this way; and there's no one else to do anything.
You wonder why I didn't find a mother nearer by, but I haven't any living of my own, except a stepmother, who wouldn't understand, and all the other mothers I know wouldn't qualify for the job any better. I've been looking at your picture and I think you would.
What I thought of is this (if it doesn't strike you that way maybe you can think of some other way): I'm pretty well fixed for money, and I've got a lump that I've been intending to use for a new automobile; but my old car is plenty good enough for another year, and I'd like to pay that girl's board awhile till she gets rested and strong and sort of cheered up. I thought perhaps you'd see your way clear to write a letter and say you'd like her to visit you—you're lonesome or Something. I don't know how a real mother would fix that up, but I guess you do.
Of course the girl mustn't know I have a thing to do with it except that I told you about her. She'd be up in the air in a minute. She wouldn't stand for me doing anything for her. She's that kind.
I'm sending a check of two hundred dollars right now because I thought, in case you see a way to take up with my suggestion, you might send her money enough for the journey. I don't believe she's got any. We can fix it up about the board any way you say. Don't hesitate to tell me just how much it is worth. I don't need the money for anything. But whatever's done has got to be done mighty quick or she'll go back to work again, and she won't last three days if she does. She looks as if a breath would blow her away.I'm sending this special delivery to hurry things. Her address is Miss R.B. Brentwood, Good Samaritan Hospital. The kid called her "Bonnie." I don't know what her whole name is.
So now you have the whole story, and it's up to you to decide. Maybe you think I've got a lot of crust to propose this, and maybe you won't see it this way, but I've had the nerve because Stephen Marshall's life and Stephen Marshall's death have made me believe in Stephen Marshall's Christ and Stephen Marshall's mother.
I am, very respectfully,Paul Courtland.
He mailed the letter that night and then studied hard till three o'clock in the morning.
The next morning's mail brought him a dainty little note from Gila's mother, inviting him to a quiet family dinner with them on Friday evening. He frowned when he read it. He didn't care for the large, painted person, but perhaps there was more good in her than he knew. He would have to go and find out. It might even be that she would be a help in case Stephen Marshall's mother did not pan out.
Mother Marshall stood by the kitchen window, with her cheek against a boy's old soft felt hat, and she looked out into the gathering dusk for Father. The hat was so old and worn that its original shape and color were scarcely distinguishable, and there was one spot where Mother Marshall's tears had washed some of the grime away into deeper stains about it. It was only on days when Father was off to town on errands that she allowed herself the momentary weakness of tears.
So she had stood in former years looking out into the dusk for her son to come whistling home from school. So she had stood the day the awful news of his fiery death had come, while Father sat in his rush-bottomed chair and groaned. She had laid her cheek against that old felt hat and comforted herself with the thought of her boy, her splendid boy, who had lived his short life so intensely and wonderfully. When she felt that old scratchy felt against her cheek it somehow brought back the memory of his strong young shoulder, where she used to lay her head sometimes when she felt tired and he would fold her in his arms and brush her forehead with his lips and pat her shoulder. The neighbors sometimes wondered why she kept that old felt hat hanging there, just as when Stephen was alive among them, but Mother Marshall never said anything about it; she just kept it there, and it comforted herto feel it; one of those little homely, tangible things that our poor souls have to tether to sometimes when we lose the vision and get faint-hearted. Mother Marshall wasn't morbid one bit. She always looked on the bright side of everything; and she had had much joy in her son as he was growing up. She had seen him strong of body, strong of soul, keen of mind. He had won the scholarship of the whole Northwest to the big Eastern university. It had been hard to pack him up and have him go away so far, where she couldn't hope to see him soon, where she couldn't listen for his whistle coming home at night, where he couldn't even come back for Sunday and sit in the old pew in church with them. But those things had to come. It was the only way he could grow and fulfil his part of God's plan. And so she put away her tears till he was gone, and kept them for the old felt hat when Father was out about the farm. And then when the news came that Stephen had graduated so soon, gone up higher to God's eternal university to live and work among the great, even then her soul had been big enough to see the glory of it behind the sorrow, and say with trembling, conquering lips: "I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord!"
That was the kind of nerve that blessed little Mother Marshall was built with, and it was only in such times as these, when Father had gone to town and stayed a little later than usual, that the tears in her heart got the better of her and she laid her face against the old felt hat.
Down the road in the gloom moved a dark speck. It couldn't be Father, for he had gone in the machine—the nice, comfortable little car that Stephen had madethem get before he went away to college, because he said that Father needed to have things easier now. Father would be in the machine, and by this time the lights would be lit. Father was very careful always about lighting up when it grew dusk. He had a great horror of accidents to other people. Not that he was afraid for himself, no indeed. Father was aman! The kind of a man to be the father of a Stephen!
The speck grew larger. It made a chugging noise. It was one of those horrible motor-cycles. Mother Marshall hated them, though she had never revealed the fact. Stephen had wanted one, had said he intended to get one with the first money he earned after he came out of college, but she had hoped in her heart they would go out of fashion by that time and there would be something less fiendish-looking to take their place. They always looked to her as if they were headed straight for destruction, and the person on them seemed as if he were going to the devil and didn't care. She secretly hated the idea of Stephen ever sitting upon one of them, flying through space. But now he was gone beyond all such fears. He had wings, and there were no dangers where he was. All danger and fear was over for him. She had never wanted either of her men to know the inward quakings of her soul over each new risk as Stephen began to grow up. She wanted to be worthy to be the mother and wife of noblemen, and fears were not for such; so she hid them and struggled against them in secret.
The motor-cycle came on like a comet now, and turned thundering in at the big gate. A sudden alarm filled Mother Marshall's soul. Had something happened to Father? That was the only terrible thing left in life to happen now. An accident! And this boy had come to prepare her for the worst? She had thekitchen door wide open even before the boy had stopped his machine and set it on its mysterious feet.
"Sp'c'l d'liv'ry!" fizzed the boy, handing her a fat envelope, a book, and the stub of a pencil. "Si'n'eer!" indicating a line on the book.
She managed to write her name in cramped characters, but her hand was trembling so she could hardly form the letters. A wild idea that perhaps they had discovered somehow that Stephen had escaped death in some miraculous manner flitted through her brain and out again, controlled by her strong common sense. Such notions always came to people after death had taken their loved ones—frenzied hopes for miracles! Stephen had been dead for four months now. There could be no such possibility, of course.
Just to calm herself she went and opened the slide of the range and shoved the tea-kettle a little farther on so it would begin to boil, before she opened that fat letter. She lit the lamp, too, put it on the supper-table, and changed the position of the bread-plate, covering it nicely with a fringed napkin so the bread wouldn't get dry. Everything must be ready when Father got back. Then she went and sat down with her gold spectacles and tore open that envelope.
She was so absorbed in the letter that she failed for the first time since they got the car to hear its pleasant purr as it came down the road, and the big head-lights sent their rays out cheerfully without any one at the kitchen window to see. Father was getting worried that the kitchen door didn't fly open as he drew in beside the big flag-stone, when Mother suddenly came flying out with her face all smiles and eagerness. He hadn't seen her look that way since Stephen went away.
She had left a trail of letter all the way from her big chair to the door, and she held the envelope in her hand.She rushed out and buried her face in his rough coat-collar:
"Oh, Father! I've been so worried about you!" she declared, joyfully, but she didn't look worried a bit.
Father looked down at her tenderly and patted her plump shoulder. "Had a flat tire and had to stop, and get her pumped up," he explained, "and then the man found a place wanted patching. He took a little longer than I expected. I was afraid you would worry."
"Well, hurry in," she said, eagerly. "Supper's all ready and I've got a letter to read to you."
It went without saying that if Mother liked a thing in that home Father would, too. His sun rose and set in Mother, and they had lived together so long and harmoniously that the thoughts of one were the reflection of the other. It didn't matter which, you asked about a thing, you were sure to get the same opinion as if you had asked the other. It wasn't that one gave way to the other; it was just that they had the same habits of thought and decision, the same principles to go by. So when, after she had passed the hot johnny-cake, seen to it that Father had the biggest pork chop and the mealiest potato, and given him his cup of coffee creamed and sugared just right, Mother got out the letter with the university crest and began to read. She had no fears that Father would not agree with her about it. She read eagerly, sure of his sympathy in her pleasure; sure he would think it was nice of Stephen's friend to write to her and pick her out as a real mother, saying all those pleasant things about her; sure he would be proud that she, with all the women they had in the East, should have so brought up a boy that a stranger knew she was a real mother. She had no fear that Father would frown and declare they couldn't be bothered with a stranger around, that it would costa lot and Mother needed to rest. She knew he would be touched at once with the poor, lonely girl's position, and want to do anything in his power to help her. She knew he would be ready to fall right in with anything she should suggest. And, true to her conviction, Father's eyes lighted with tenderness as she read, watched her proudly and nodded in strong affirmation at the phrases touching her ability as mother.
"That's right, Mother, you'll qualify for a job as mother better 'n any woman I ever saw!" said Father, heartily, as he reached for another helping of butter.
His face kindled with interest as the letter went on with its proposition, but he shook his head when it came to the money part, interrupting her:
"I don't like that idea, Mother; we don't keep boarders, and we're plenty able to invite company for as long as we like. Besides, it don't seem just the right thing for that young feller to be paying her board. She wouldn't like it if she knew it. If she was our daughter we wouldn't want her to be put in that position, though it's very kind of him of course—"
"Of course!" said Mother, breathlessly. "He couldn't very well ask us, you know, without saying something like that, especially as he doesn't know us, except by hearsay, at all."
"Of course," agreed Father; "but then, equally of course we won't let it stand that way. You can send that young feller back his check, and tell him to get his new ottymobeel. He won't be young but once, and I reckon a young feller of that kind won't get any harm from his ottymobeels, no matter how many he has of 'em. You can see by his letter he ain't spoiled yet, and if he's got hold of Steve's idea of things he'll find plenty of use for his money, doing good where there ain't a young woman about that is bound to object to beingtook care of by a young man she don't know and don't belong to. However, I guess you can say that, Mother, without offending him. Tell him we'll take care of the money part. Tell him we're real glad to get a daughter. You're sure, Mother, it won't be hard for you to have a stranger around in Steve's place?"
"No, I like it," said Mother, with a smile, brushing away a bright tear that burst out unawares. "I like it 'hard,' as Steve used to say! Do you know, Father, what I've been thinking—what I thought right away when I read that letter? I thought, suppose that girl was the one Stephen would have loved and wanted to marry if he had lived. And suppose he had brought her home here, what a fuss we would have made about her, and all! And I'd just have loved to fix up the house and make it look pleasant for her and love her as if she were my own daughter."
Father's eyes were moist, too. "H'm! Yes!" he said, trying to clear his throat. "I guess she'd be com'ny for you, too, Mother, when I have to go to town, and she'd help around with the work some when she got better."
"I've been thinking," said Mother. "I've always thought I'd like to fix up the spare room. I read in my magazine how to fix up a young girl's room when she comes home from college, and I'd like to fix it like that if there's time. You paint the furniture white, and have two sets of curtains, pink and white, and little shelves for her books. Do you think we could do it?"
"Why, sure!" said Father. He was so pleased to see Mother interested like this that he was fairly trembling. She had been so still and quiet and wistful ever since the news came about Stephen. "Why, sure! Get some pretty wall-paper, too, while you're 'bout it. S'posen you and I take a run to town again in the morning and pick it out. Then you can pick your curtainsand paint, too, and get Jed Lewis to come in the afternoon and put on the first coat. How about calling him up on the 'phone right now and asking him about it? I'm real glad we've got that 'phone. It'll come in handy now."
Mother's eyes glistened. The 'phone was another thing Stephen insisted upon before he left home. They hadn't used it half a dozen times except when the telegrams came, but they hadn't the heart to have it disconnected, because Stephen had taken so much pride in having it put in. He said he didn't like his mother left alone in the house without a chance to call a neighbor or send for the doctor.
"Come to think of it, hadn't you better send a telegram to that chap to-night? You know we can 'phone it down to the town office. He'll maybe be worried how you're going to take that letter. Tell him he's struck the right party, all right, and you're on the job writing that little girl a letter to-night that'll make her welcome and no mistake. But tell him we'll finance this operation ourselves, and he can save the ottymobeel for the next case that comes along—words to that effect you know, Mother."
The supper things were shoved back and the telephone brought into requisition. They called up Jed Lewis first before he went to bed, and got his reluctant promise that he would be on hand at two o'clock the next afternoon. They had to tell him they were expecting company or he might not have been there for a week in spite of his promise.
It took nearly an hour to reduce the telegram to ten words, but at last they settled on:
Bonnie welcome. Am writing you both to-night. No money necessary.
Bonnie welcome. Am writing you both to-night. No money necessary.
(Signed)Stephen's Mother and Father.
The letters were happy achievements of brevity, for it was getting late, and Mother Marshall realized that they must be up early in the morning to get all that shopping done before two o'clock.
First the letter to Bonnie, written in a cramped, laborious hand:
Dear Little Girl:You don't know me, but I've heard about you from a sort of neighbor of yours. I'm just a lonely mother whose only son has gone home to heaven. I've heard all about your sorrow and loneliness, and I've taken a notion that maybe you would like to come and visit me for a little while and help cheer me up. Maybe we can comfort each other a little bit, and, anyhow, I want you to come.Father and I are fixing up your room for you, just as we would if you were our own daughter coming home from college. For you see we've quite made up our minds you will come, and Father wants you just as much as I do. We are sending you mileage, and a check to get any little things you may need for the journey, because, of course, we wouldn't want to put you to expense to come all this long way just to please two lonely old people. It's enough for you that you are willing to come, and we're so glad about it that it almost seems as if the birds must be singing and the spring flowers going to bloom for you, even though it is only the middle of winter.Don't wait to get any fixings. Just come as you are. We're plain folks.Father says be sure you get a good, comfortable berth in the sleeper, and have your trunk checked right through. If you've got any other things besides your trunk, have them sent right along by freight. It's better to have your things here where you can look after them than stored away off there.We're so happy about your coming we can't seem to wait till we hear what time you start, so please send a telegramas soon as you get this, saying when the doctor will let you come, and don't disappoint us for anything.
Dear Little Girl:
You don't know me, but I've heard about you from a sort of neighbor of yours. I'm just a lonely mother whose only son has gone home to heaven. I've heard all about your sorrow and loneliness, and I've taken a notion that maybe you would like to come and visit me for a little while and help cheer me up. Maybe we can comfort each other a little bit, and, anyhow, I want you to come.
Father and I are fixing up your room for you, just as we would if you were our own daughter coming home from college. For you see we've quite made up our minds you will come, and Father wants you just as much as I do. We are sending you mileage, and a check to get any little things you may need for the journey, because, of course, we wouldn't want to put you to expense to come all this long way just to please two lonely old people. It's enough for you that you are willing to come, and we're so glad about it that it almost seems as if the birds must be singing and the spring flowers going to bloom for you, even though it is only the middle of winter.
Don't wait to get any fixings. Just come as you are. We're plain folks.
Father says be sure you get a good, comfortable berth in the sleeper, and have your trunk checked right through. If you've got any other things besides your trunk, have them sent right along by freight. It's better to have your things here where you can look after them than stored away off there.
We're so happy about your coming we can't seem to wait till we hear what time you start, so please send a telegramas soon as you get this, saying when the doctor will let you come, and don't disappoint us for anything.
Lovingly, your friend,Rachel Marshall.
The letter to Courtland was more brief, but just as expressive:
Mr. Paul Courtland:Dear Friend.—You're a dear boy and I'm proud that my son had you for a friend.
Mr. Paul Courtland:
Dear Friend.—You're a dear boy and I'm proud that my son had you for a friend.
(When Courtland read that letter he winced at that sentence and saw himself once more standing in the hall in front of Stephen Marshall's room, holding the garments of those who persecuted him.)
I have written Bonnie Brentwood, telling her how much we want her, and I am going to town in the morning to get some things to fix up a pretty room for her. I thank you for thinking I was a good mother. Father and I are both quite proud about it. We are very lonely and are glad to have a daughter for as long as she will stay. But, anyway, if we hadn't wanted her, we could not have said no when you asked for Christ's sake. Father says we are returning the check because we want to do this for Bonnie ourselves; then there won't be anything to cover up. Father says if you have begun this way you will find plenty of ways to spend that money for Christ and let us look after this one little girl. We've sent her mileage and some money, and we're going to try to make her happy. And some day we would be very happy if you would come out and visit us. I should like to know you for my dear Stephen's sake. You are a dear boy, and I want to know you better. I am glad you have found our Christ. Father thinks so too. Thank you for thinking I would understand.
I have written Bonnie Brentwood, telling her how much we want her, and I am going to town in the morning to get some things to fix up a pretty room for her. I thank you for thinking I was a good mother. Father and I are both quite proud about it. We are very lonely and are glad to have a daughter for as long as she will stay. But, anyway, if we hadn't wanted her, we could not have said no when you asked for Christ's sake. Father says we are returning the check because we want to do this for Bonnie ourselves; then there won't be anything to cover up. Father says if you have begun this way you will find plenty of ways to spend that money for Christ and let us look after this one little girl. We've sent her mileage and some money, and we're going to try to make her happy. And some day we would be very happy if you would come out and visit us. I should like to know you for my dear Stephen's sake. You are a dear boy, and I want to know you better. I am glad you have found our Christ. Father thinks so too. Thank you for thinking I would understand.
Lovingly,Mother Marshall.
But after all that excitement Mother Marshall could not sleep. She lay quietly beside Father in the old four-poster and planned all about that room. She must get Sam Carpenter to put in some little shelves each side of the windows, and a wide locker between for a window-seat, and she would make some pillows like those in the magazine pictures. She pictured how the girl would look, a dozen times, and what she would say, and once her heart was seized with fear that she had not made her letter cordial enough. She went over the words of the young man's letter as well as she could remember them, and let her heart soar and be glad that Stephen had touched one life and left it better for his being in the university that little time.
Once she stirred restlessly, and Father put out his hand and touched her in alarm:
"What's the matter, Rachel? Aren't you sleeping?"
"Father, I believe we'll have to get a new rug for that room."
"Sure!" said Father, relaxing sleepily.
"Gray, with pink rosebuds, soft and thick," she whispered.
"Sure! pink, with gray rosebuds," murmured Father as he dropped off again.
They made very little of breakfast the next morning; they were both too excited about getting off early; and Mother Marshall forgot to caution Father about going at too high speed. If she suspected that he was running a little faster than usual she winked at it, for she was anxious to get to the stores as soon as possible. She had arisen early to read over the article in the magazine again, and she knew to a nicety just how much pink and white she would need for the curtains and cushions. She had it in the back of her mind that she meant to get little brass handles and keyholesfor the bureau also. She was like a child who was getting ready for a new doll.
It was not until they were on their way back home again, with packages all about their feet, and an eager light in their faces, that an idea suddenly came to both of them—an idea so chilling that the eagerness went out of their eyes for a moment, and the old, patient, sweet look of sorrow came back. It was Mother Marshall who put it into words:
"You don't suppose, Seth," she appealed—she always called him Seth in times of crisis—"you don't suppose that perhaps she mightn'twantto come, after all!"
"Well, I was thinking, Rachel," he said, tenderly, "we'd best not be getting too set on it. But, anyhow, we'd be ready for some one else. You know Stevie always wanted you to have things fixed nice and fancy. But you fix it up. I guess she's coming. I really do think she must be coming! We'll just pray about it and then we'll leave it there!"
And so with peace in their faces they arrived at home, just five minutes before the painter was due, and unloaded their packages. Father lifted out the big roll of soft, velvety carpeting, gray as a cloud, with moss roses scattered over it. He was proud to think he could buy things like this for Mother. Of course now they had no need to save and scrimp for Stephen the way they had done during the years; so it was well to make the rest of the way as bright for Mother as he could. And this "Bonnie" girl! If she would only come, what a bright, happy thing it would be in their desolated home!
But suppose she shouldn't come?
The telegram reached Courtland Friday evening, just as he was going to the Dare dinner, and filled him with an almost childish delight. Not for a long time had he had anything as nice as that happen; not even when he made Phi Beta Kappa in his junior year had he been so filled with exultation. It was like having a fairy-tale come true. To think there had really been a woman in the world who would respond in that cordial way to a call from the great unknown!
He presented himself in his most sparkling mood at the house where he was to dine. There was nothing at all blue about him. His eyes fairly danced with pleasure and his smile was rare. Gila looked and drooped her eyes demurely. She thought the sparkle was all for her, and her little wicked heart gave a throb of exultant joy.
Mrs. Dare was no longer a large, purple person. She was in full evening dress, explaining that she and her husband had an engagement at the opera after dinner. She resembled the fat dough people that the cook used to fashion for him in his youth. Her pudgy arms so reminded him of those shapeless cooky arms that he found himself fascinated by the thought as he watched her moving her bejeweled hands among the trinkets at her end of the glittering table. Her gown, what there was of it, was of black gauze emblazoned with dartling sequins of deep blue. An aigret in her hairtwinkled knowingly above her coarse, painted face. Courtland, as he studied her more closely, rejoiced that the telegram had arrived before he left the dormitory, for he never could have had the courage to come to this plump-shouldered lady seeking refuge for his refined little Bonnie girl.
The father of the family was a little wisp of a man with a nervous laugh and a high, thin voice. There were kind lines around his mouth and eyes, indulgent lines—not self-indulgent, either, and insomuch they were noble—but there was a weakness about the face that showed he was ruled by others to a large extent. He said, "Yes, my dear!" quite obediently when his wife ordered him affably around. There was a cunning look in his eye that might explain the general impression current that he knew how to turn a dollar to his own account.
It occurred to Courtland to wonder what would happen if he should suddenly ask Mr. Dare what he thought of Christ, or if he believed in the resurrection. He could quite imagine they would look aghast as if he had spoken of something impolite. One couldn't think of Mrs. Dare in a resurrection, she would seem so out of place, so sort of unclothed for the occasion, in those fat, doughy arms with her glittering jet shoulder-straps. He realized that all these thoughts that raced through his head were but fantasies occasioned no doubt by his own highly wrought nervous condition, but they kept crowding in and bringing the mirth to his eyes. How, for instance, would Mother Marshall and Mother Dare hit it off if they should happen together in the same heaven?
Gila was all in white, from the tip of her pearly shoulders down to the tip of her pearl-beaded slippers—white and demure. Her skin looked even morepearly than when she wore the brilliant red-velvet gown. It had a pure, dazzling whiteness, different from most skins. It perplexed him. It did not look like flesh, but more like some ethereal substance meant for angels. He drew a breath of satisfaction that there was not even a flush upon it to-night. No painting there at least! He was not master of the rare arts that skins are subject to in these days. He knew artificial whiteness only when it was glaring and floury. This pearly paleness was exquisite, delicious; and in contrast the great dark eyes, lifted pansy-like for an instant and then down-drooped beneath those wonderful, long curling lashes, were almost startling in their beauty. The hair was simply arranged with a plain narrow band of black velvet around the white temples, and the soft loops of cloudy darkness drawn out on her cheeks in her own fantastic way. There was an attempt at demureness in the gown; soft folds of pure transparent nothing seemed to shelter what they could not hide, and more such folds drooped over the lovely arms to the elbows. Surely, surely, this was loveliness undefiled. The words of Peer Gynt came floating back disconnectedly, more as a puzzled question in his mind than as they stand in the story:
"Is your psalm-book in your 'kerchief?Do you glance adown your apron?Do you hold your mother's skirt-fold?Speak!"
But he only looked at her admiringly, and talked on about the college games, making himself agreeable to every one, and winning more and more the lifted pansy-eyes.
When dinner was over they drifted informally intoa large white-and-gold reception-room, with inhospitable chairs and settees whose satin slipperiness offered no inducements to sit down. There were gold-lacquered tables and a curious concert-grand piano, also gold inlaid with mother-of-pearl cupids and flowers. Everything was most elaborate. Gila, in her soft transparencies, looked like a wraith amid it all. The young man chose to think she was too rare and fine for a place so ornate.
Presently the fat cooky arms of the mother were enfolded in a gorgeous blue-plush evening cloak beloaded with handsome black fur; and with many bows and kindly words the little husband toddled off beside her, reminding Courtland of a big cinnamon bear and a little black-and-tan dog he had once seen together in a show.
Gila stood bewitchingly childish in the great gold room, and shyly asked if he would like to go to the library, where it was cozier. The red light glowed across the hall, and he turned from it with a shudder of remembrance. The glow seemed to beat upon his nerves like something striking his eyeballs.
"I'd like to hear you play, if you will," he answered, wondering in his heart if, after all, a dolled-up instrument like that was really meant to be played upon.
Gila pouted. She did not want to play, but she would not seem to refuse the challenge. She went to the piano and rippled off a brilliant waltz or two, just to show him she could do it, played Humoresque, and a few little catchy melodies that were in the popular ear just then, and then, whirling on the gilded stool, she lifted her big eyes to him:
"I don't like it in here," she said, with a little shiver, as a child might do; "let's go into the library by the fire. It's pleasanter there to talk."
Courtland hesitated. "Look here," said he, frankly,"Wouldn't you just as soon sit somewhere else? I don't like that red light of yours. It gets on my nerves. I don't like to see you in it. It makes you look—well—something different from what I believe you really are. I like a plain, honest white light."
Gila gave him one swift, wondering glance and walked laughingly over to the library door. "Oh, is that all?" she said, and, touching a button, she switched off the big red table-lamp and switched on what seemed like a thousand little tapers concealed softly about the ceiling.
"There!" she cried, half mockingly. "You can have as much light as you like, and when you get tired of that we can cut them all off and sit in the firelight." She touched another button and let him see the room in the soft dim shadows and rich glow of the fire. Then she turned the full light on again and entered the room, dropping into one big leather chair at the side of the fireplace and indicating another big chair on the opposite side. She had no notion of sitting near him or of luring him to her side to-night. She had read him aright. Hers was the demure part to play, the reserved, shy maiden, the innocent, child-like, womanly woman. She would play it, but she would humble him! So she had vowed with her little white teeth set in her red lips as she stood before her dressing-table mirror that night when he had fled from her red room and her.
Well pleased, with a sigh of relief he dropped into the chair and sat watching her, talking idly, as one who is feeling his way to a pleasant intimacy of whose nature he is not quite sure. She was very sweet and sympathetic about the examinations, told how she hated them herself and thought they ought to be abolished; said he was a wonder, that her cousin had told her he was a regular shark, and yet he hadn't lethimself be spoiled by it, either. She flattered him gently with that deference a girl can pay to a man which makes her appear like an angel of light, and fixes him for any confidence in the world he has to give. She sat so quietly, with big eyes lifted now and then, talking earnestly and appreciatively of fine and noble things, that all his best thoughts about her were confirmed. He watched her, thinking what a lovely, lovable woman she was, what gentle sympathy and keen appreciation of really fine qualities she showed, child even though she seemed to be! He studied her, thinking what a friend she might be to that other poor girl in her loneliness and sorrow if she only would. He didn't know that he was yielding again to the lure that the red light had made the last time he was there. He didn't realize that, red light or white light, he was being led on. He only knew that it was a pleasure to talk to her, to be near her, to feel her sympathy; and that something had unlocked the innermost depths of his heart, the place he usually kept to himself, even away from the fellows. He had never quite opened it to a human being before. Tennelly had come nearer to getting a glimpse than any one. But now he was really going to open it, for he had at last found another human being who could understand and appreciate.
"May I shut off the bright light and sit in the firelight?" he asked, and Gila acquiesced sweetly. It was just what she had been leading up to, but she did not move from her reticent yet sympathetic position in the retired depths of the great chair, where she knew the shadows and the glow of the fire would play on her face and show her sweet, serious pose.
"I want to tell you about a girl I have met this week."
A chill fell upon Gila, but she did not show it, shenever even flickered those long lashes. Another girl! How dared he! The little white teeth set down sharply on the little red tongue out of sight, but the sweet, sympathetic mouth in the glow of the firelight remained placid.
"Yes?" The inflection, the lifted lashes, the whole attitude, was perfect. He plunged ahead.
"You are so very wonderful yourself that I am sure you will appreciate and understand her, and I think you are just the friend she needs."
Gila stiffened in her chair and turned her face nicely to the glow of the fire, so he could just see her lovely profile.
"She is all alone in the city—"
"Oh!" broke forth Gila in almost childish dismay. "Not even a chaperon?"
Courtland stopped, bewildered. Then he laughed indulgently. "She didn't have any use for a chaperon, child," he said, as if he were a great deal older than she. "She came here with her little brother to earn their living."
"Oh, shehada brother, then!" sighed Gila with evident relief.
It occurred to Courtland to be a bit pleased that Gila was so particular about the conventionalities. He had heard it rumored more than once that her own conduct overstepped the most lenient of rules. That must have been a mistake. It was a relief to know it from her own lips. But he explained, gently:
"The little brother was killed on Monday night," he said, gravely. "Just run down in cold blood by a passing automobile."
"How perfectly dreadful!" shuddered Gila, shrinking back into the depths of the chair. "But you know you mustn't believe a story like that! Poor peopleare always getting up such tales about rich people's automobiles. It isn't true at all. No chauffeur would do a thing like that! The children just run out and get in the way of the cars to tantalize the drivers. I've seen them myself. Why, our chauffeur has been arrested three or four times and charged with running over children and dogs, when it wasn't his fault at all; the people were just trying to get some money out of us! I don't suppose the little child was run over. It was probably his own fault."
"Yes, he was run over," said Courtland, gently. "I saw it myself! I was standing on the curbstone when the boy—he was a beautiful little fellow with long golden curls—rushed out to meet his sister, calling out to her, and the automobile came whirring by without a sign of a horn, and crushed him down just like a broken lily. He never lifted his head nor made a motion again, and the automobile never even slowed up to see—just shot ahead and was gone."
Gila was still for a minute. She had no words to meet a situation like this. "Oh, well," she said, "I suppose he is better off, and the girl is, too. How could she take care of a child in the city alone, and do any work? Besides, children are an awful torment, and very likely he would have turned out bad. Boys usually do. What did you want me to do for her? Get her a position as a maid?"
There was something almost flippant in her tone. Strange that Courtland did not recognize it. But the firelight, the white gown, the pure profile, the down-drooped lashes had done for him once more what the red light had done before—taken him out of his normal senses and made him see a Gila that was not really there: soft, sweet, tender, womanly. The words, though they did not satisfy him, merely meant thatshe had not yet understood what he wanted, and was striving hard to find out.
"No," he said, gently. "I want you to go and see her. She is sick and in the hospital. She needs a friend, a real girl friend, such as you could be if you would."
Gila answered in her slow, pretty drawl: "Why, I hate hospitals! I wouldn't even go to see mama when she had an operation on her neck last winter, because I hate the odors they have around. But I'll go if you want me to. Of course I won't promise how much good I'll do. Girls of that stamp don't want to be helped, you know. They think they know it all, and they are usually most insulting. But I'll see what I can do. I don't mind giving her something. I've three evening dresses that I perfectly hate, and one of them I've never had on but once. She might get a position to act somewhere or sing in a café if she had good clothes."
Courtland hastened earnestly to impress her with the fact that Miss Brentwood was a refined girl of good family, and that it would be an insult to offer her second-hand clothing; but when he gave it up and yielded to Gila's plea that he drop these horrid, gloomy subjects and talk about something cheerful, he had a feeling of failure. Perhaps he ought not to have told Gila, after all. She simply couldn't understand the other girl because she had never dreamed of such a situation.
If he could have seen his gentle Gila a couple of hours later, standing before her mirror again and setting those little sharp teeth into her red lip, the ugly frown between her angry eyes; if he could have heard her low-muttered words, and, worse still, guessed her thoughts about himself and that other girl—he certainly would have gone out and gnashed his teeth in despair.If he could have known what was to come of his request to Gila Dare he would have rung up the hospital and had Miss Brentwood moved to another one in hot haste, or, better still, have taken strenuous measures to prevent that visit. But instead of that he read Mother Marshall's telegram over again, and lay down to forget Gila Dare utterly, and think pleasant thoughts about the Marshalls.
Gila Dare, in her very most startling costume, lavishly plastered with costly fur, and high-laced, French-heeled boots, came tripping down her father's steps to the limousine. She carried a dangling little trick of a hand-bag and a muff big enough for a rug. Her two eyes looked forth from the rim of the low-squashed, bandage-like fur hat like the eyes of a small, sly mouse that was about to nibble somebody else's cheese.
By her side a logy youth, with small, blue fish-eyes fixed adoringly on her, sauntered protectingly. She wore a large bunch of pale-yellow orchids, evidently his gift, and was paying for them with her glances. One knew by the excited flush on the young man's face that he had rarely been paid so well. His eyes took on a glint of intelligence, one might almost say of hope, and he smiled egregiously, egotistically. His assurance grew with each step he took. As he opened the door of the luxurious car for her he wore an attitude of one who might possibly be a fiancé. Her little mouse-eyes—you wouldn't have dreamed they could ever be large and wistful, nor innocent, either—twinkled pleasurably. She was playing her usual game and playing it well. It was the game for which she was rapidly becoming notorious, young as she was.
"Oh, now,Chaw-!Ree-ally! Why, I never dreamed it was that bad! But you mustn't, you know! I never gave you permission!"
The chauffeur, sitting stolidly in his uniform, awaiting the word to move, wondered idly what she was up to now. He was used to seeing the game played all around him day after day, as if he were a stick or a stone, or one of the metal trappings of the car.
"Chawley" Hathaway looked unutterable things, and the little mouse-eyes looked back unutterable things, with that lingering, just-too-long-for-pardoning glance that a certain kind of men and women employ when they want to loiter near the danger-line and toy with vital things. An impressive hand-clasp, another long, languishing look, just a shade longer this time; then he closed the door, lifted his hat at the mouse-eyed goddess, and the limousine swept away. They had parted as if something momentous had occurred, and both knew in their hearts that neither had meant anything at all except to play with fire for an instant, like children sporting at lighting a border of forest that has a heart of true homes in its keeping.
Gila swept on in her chariot. The young man with whom she had played was well skilled in the game. He understood her perfectly, as she him. If he got burned sometimes it was "up to him." She meant to take good care of herself.
Around another corner she spied another acquaintance. A word to the automaton on the front seat and the limousine swept up to the curb where he was passing. Gila leaned out with the sweetest bow. She was the condescending lady now; no mouse-eyes in evidence this time; just a beautiful, commanding presence to be obeyed. She would have him ride with her, so he got in.
He was a tall, serious youth with credulous eyes, and she swept his soulful nature as one sweeps the keys of a familiar instrument, drawing forth time-worn melodies that, nevertheless, were new to him. And just because he thrilled under them, and looked in her eyes with startled earnestness, did she like to play upon his soul. It would have been a bore if he had understood, for he was a dull soul, and young—ages young for Gila, though his years numbered two more than hers. She liked to see his eyes kindle and his breath come quick. Some day he would tell her with impassioned words how much he loved her, and she would turn him neatly and comfortably down for a while, till he learned his place and promised not to be troublesome. Then he might join the procession again as long as he would behave. But at present she knew she could sway him as she would, and she touched the orchids at her belt with tender little caressing movements and melting looks. Even before she reached home she knew he would have a box of something rarer or more costly waiting for her, if the city afforded such.
She set him down at his club, quite well satisfied with her few minutes. She was glad it didn't last longer, for it would have grown tiresome; she had had just enough, carried him just far enough on the wave of emotion, to stimulate her own soul.
Sweeping away from the curb again, bowing graciously to two or three other acquaintances who were going in or out of the club building, she gave an order for the hospital and set her face sternly to the duty before her.
A little breeze of expectation preceded her entrance into the hospital, a stir among the attendants about the door. Passing nurses apprized her furs and orchids; young interns took account of her eyes—the mouse-eyes had returned, but they lured with something unspeakable and thrilling in them.
She waited with a nice little superb air that madeeverybody hurry to serve her, and presently she was shown up to the door of Bonnie Brentwood's room. Her chauffeur had followed, bearing a large pasteboard suit-box which he set down at the door and departed.
"Is this Miss Brentwood's room?" she asked of the nurse who opened the door grudgingly. Her patient had just awakened from a refreshing sleep and she had no notion that this lofty little person had really come to see the quiet, sad-eyed girl who had come there in such shabby little garments. The visitor had made a mistake, of course. The nurse grudgingly admitted that Miss Brentwood roomed there.
"Well, I've brought some things for her," said Gila, indicating the large box at her feet. "You can take it inside and open it."
The nurse opened the door a little wider, looked at the small, imperious personage in fur trappings, and then down at the box. She hesitated a moment in a kind of inward fury, then swung the door a little wider open and stepped back:
"You can set it inside if you wish, or wait till one of the men comes by," she said, coolly, and deliberately walked back in the room and busied herself with the medicine-glasses.
Gila stared at her haughtily a moment, but there wasn't much satisfaction in wasting her glares on that white-linen back, so she stooped and dragged in the box. She came and stood by the bed, staring down apprizingly at the sick girl.
Bonnie Brentwood turned her head wearily and looked up at her with a puzzled, half-annoyed expression. She had paid no heed to the little altercation at the door. Her apathy toward life was great. She was lying on the borderland, looking over and longing to go where all her dear ones had gone. It wearied her inexpressibly that they all would insist on doing things to call her back.
"Is your name Brentwood?" asked Gila, in the sharp, high key so alien to a hospital.
Bonnie recalled her spirit to this world and focused her gaze on the girl as if to try and recall where she had ever met her. Bonnie's abundant hair was spread out over the pillow, as the nurse had just prepared to brush it. It fell in long, rich waves of brightness and fascinating little rings of gold about her face. Gila stared at it jealously, as if it were something that had been stolen from her. Her own hair, cloudy and dreamy, and made much of with all that skill and care could do, was pitiful beside this wonderful gold mane with red and purple shadows in its depths, and ripples and curls at the ends. Wonderful hair!
The face of the girl on the pillow was perfect in form and feature. Regular, delicate, refined, and lovely! Gila knew it would be counted rarely beautiful, and she was furious! How had that upstart of a college boy dared to send her here to see a beauty! What had he meant by it?
By this time the girl on the bed had summoned her soul back to earth for the nonce, and answered in a cool, little tone of distance, as she might have spoken to her employer, perhaps; or, in other circumstances, to the stranger begging for work on her door-sill—Bonnie was a lady anywhere—"Yes, I am Miss Brentwood."
There was no noticeable emphasis on the "Miss," but Gila felt that the pauper had arisen and put herself on the same level with her, and she was furious.
"Well, I've brought you a few things!" declared Gila, in a most offensive tone. "Paul Courtland asked me to come and see what I could do for you." She swung hermoleskin trappings about and pointed to the box. "I don't believe in giving money, not often," she declared, with a tilt of her nasty little chin that suddenly seemed to curve out in a hateful, Satanic point, "but I don't mind giving a little lift in other ways to persons who are truly worthy, you know. I've brought you a few evening dresses that I'm done with. It may help you to get a position playing for the movies, perhaps; or if you don't know rag-time, perhaps you might act—they'll take almost anybody, I understand, if they have good clothes. Besides, I'm going to give you an introduction to a girls' employment club. They have a hall and hold dances once a week and you get acquainted. It only costs you ten cents a week and it will give you a place to spend your evenings. If you join that you'll need evening dresses for the dances. Of course I understand some of the girls just go in their street suits, but you stand a great deal better chance of having a good time if you are dressed attractively. And then they say men often go in there evenings to look for a stenographer, or an actor, or some kind of a worker, and they always pick out the prettiest. Dress goes a great way if you use it rightly. Now there's a frock in here—" Gila stooped and untied the cord on the box. "This frock cost a hundred and fifty dollars, and I never wore it but once!"
She held up a tattered blue net adorned with straggling, crushed, artificial rosebuds, its sole pretension to a waist being a couple of straps of silver tissue attached to a couple of rags of blue net. It looked for all the world like a draggled butterfly.
"It's torn in one or two places," pursued Gila's ready tongue, "but it's easily mended. I wore it to a dance and somebody stepped on the hem. I suppose you are good at mending. A girl in your positionought to know how to sew. My maid usually mends things like this with a thread of itself. You can pull one out along the hem, I should think. Then here is a pink satin. It needs cleaning. They don't charge more than two or three dollars—or perhaps you might use gasolene. I had slippers to match, but I couldn't find but one. I brought that along. I thought you might do something with it. They were horribly expensive—made to order, you know. Then this cerise chiffon, all covered with sequins, is really too showy for a girl in your station, but in case you get a chance to act you might need it, and anyhow I never cared for it. It isn't becoming to me. Here's an indigo charmeuse with silver trimmings. I got horribly tired of it, but you will look stunning in it. It might even help you catch a rich husband; who knows! There's half a dozen pairs of white evening gloves! I might have had them cleaned, but if you can use them I can get new ones. And there's a bundle of old silk stockings! They haven't any toes or heels much, but I suppose you can darn them. And of course you can't afford to buy expensive silk stockings!"
One by one Gila had pulled the things out of the box, rattling on about them as if she were selling corn-cure. She was a trifle excited, to be sure, now that she was fairly launched on her philanthropic expedition; also the fact that the two women in the room were absolutely silent and gave no hint of how they were going to take this tide of insults was somewhat disconcerting. However, Gila was not easily disconcerted. She was very angry, and her anger had been growing in force all night. The greatest insult that man could offer her had been heaped upon her by Courtland, and there was no punishment too great to be meted out to the unfortunate innocent who had been the occasion of it.Gila did not care what she said, and she had no fear of any consequences whatever. There had not, so far to her knowledge, lived the man who could not be called back and humbled to her purpose after she had punished him sufficiently for any offense he might knowingly or unknowingly have committed. That she really had begun to admire Courtland, and to desire him in some degree for her own, only added fuel to her fire. This girl whom he had dared to pity should be burned and tortured; she should be insulted and extinguished utterly, so that she would never dare to lift her head again within recognizable distance of Paul Courtland, or she would know the reason why. Paul Courtland washers—if she chose to have him; let no other girl dare to look at him!
The nurse stood, starched and stern, with growing indignation at the audacity of the stranger. Only the petrification of absolute astonishment, and wonder as to what would happen next, took her off her guard for the moment and prevented her from ousting the young lady from the premises instantly. There was also the magic name of the handsome young gentleman that had been used as password, and the very slight possibility that this might be some rich relative of the lovely young patient that she would not like to have put out. The nurse looked from Bonnie to the visitor in growing wrath and perplexity.
Bonnie lay wide-eyed and amazed, startled bewilderment and growing dignity in her face. Two soft, pink spots of color began to bloom out in her cheeks, and her eyes took on a twinkle of amusement. She was watching the visitor as if she were a passing Punch-and-Judy show come in to play for a moment for her entertainment. She lay and regarded her and her tawdry display of finery with a quiet, disinterested aloofness that was beginning to get on Gila's nerves.
"You can have my flowers, too, if you want them," said Gila, excitedly, seeing that her flood of insult had brought forth no answering word from either listener. "They're very handsome, rare ones—orchids, you know. Did you ever see any before? I don't mind leaving them with you because I have a great many flowers, and these were given me by a young man I don't care in the least about."
She unpinned the flowers and held them out to Bonnie, but the sick girl lay still and regarded her with that quiet, half-amused gravity and did not offer to take them.
"I presume you can find a waste-basket down in the office if you want to get rid of them," said Bonnie, suddenly, in a clear, refined voice. "I really shouldn't care for them. Isn't there a waste-basket somewhere about?" she asked, turning toward the nurse.
"Down in the hall by the front entrance," answered the nurse, grimly. She was ready to play up to whatever cue Bonnie gave her.
Gila stood haughtily holding her flowers and looking from one woman to the other, unable to believe that any other woman had the insufferable audacity to meet her on her own ground in this way. Were they actually guying her, or were they innocents who really thought she did not want the flowers, or who did not know enough to think orchids beautiful? Before she could decide Bonnie was speaking again, still in that quiet, superior tone of a lady that gave her the command of the situation:
"I am sorry," she said, quite politely, as if she must let her visitor down gently, "but I'm afraid you have made some mistake. I don't recall ever having metyou before. It must be some other Miss Brentwood for whom you are looking."
Gila stared, and her color suddenly began to rise even under the pearly tint of her flesh. Had she possibly made some blunder? This certainly was the voice of a lady. And the girl on the bed had the advantage of absolute self-control. Somehow that angered Gila more than anything else.
"Don't you know Paul Courtland?" she demanded, imperiously.
"I never heard the name before!"
Bonnie's voice was steady, and her eyes looked coolly into the other girl's. The nurse looked at Bonnie and marveled. She knew the name of Paul Courtland well; she telephoned to that name every day. How was it that the girl did not know it? She liked this girl and the man who had brought her here and been so anxious about her. But who on earth was this huzzy in fur?
Gila looked at Bonnie madly. Her stare said as plainly as words could have done: "You lie! Youdoknow him!" But Gila's lips said, scornfully, "Aren't you the poor girl whose kid brother got killed by an automobile in the street?"
Across Bonnie's stricken face there flashed a spasm of pain and her very lips grew white.
"I thought so!" sneered Gila, rushing on with her insult. "And yet you deny that you ever heard Paul Courtland's name! He picked up the kid and carried it in the house and ran errands for you, but you don't know him! That's gratitude for you! I told him the working-class were all like that. I have no doubt he has paid for this very room that you are lying in!"
"Stop!" cried Bonnie, sitting up, her eyes like two stars, her face white to the very lips. "You haveno right to come here and talk like that! I cannot understand who could have sent you! Certainly not the courteous stranger who picked up my little brother. I do not know his name, nor anything about him, but I can assure you that I shall not allow him nor any one else to pay my bills. Now will you take your things and leave my room? I am feeling very—tired!"
The voice suddenly trailed off into silence and Bonnie dropped back limply upon the pillow.
The nurse sprang like an angry bear who has seen somebody troubling her cubs. She touched vigorously a button in the wall as she passed and swooped down upon the tawdry finery, stuffing it unceremoniously into the box; then she turned upon the little fur-trimmed lady, placed a capable arm about her slim waist, and scooped her out of the room. Flinging the bulging box down at her feet, where it gaped widely, gushing forth in pink, blue, cerise, and silver, she shut the door and flew back to her charge.
Down the hall hurried the emergency doctor, formidable in his white-linen uniform. When Gila looked up from the confusion at her feet she encountered the gaze of a pair of grave and disapproving eyes behind a pair of fascinating tortoise-shell goggles. She was not accustomed to disapproval in masculine eyes and it infuriated her.
"What does all this mean?" His voice expressed a good many kinds of disapproval.
"It means that I have been insulted, sir, by one of your nurses!" declared Gila, in her most haughty tone, with a tilt of her chin and a flirt of her fur trappings. "I shall make it my business to see that she is removed at once from her position."
The doctor eyed her mildly, as though she were a small bat squeaking at a mighty hawk. "Indeed! Ifancy you will find that a rather difficult matter!" he answered, contemptuously. "She is one of our best nurses! James!" to a passing assistant, "escort this person and her—belongings"—looking doubtfully at the mess on the floor—"down to the street!"
Then he swiftly entered Bonnie's room, closing and fastening the door behind him.
The said James, with an ill-concealed grin, stooped to his task; and thus, in mortification, wrath, and ignominy, did Gila descend to her waiting limousine.
There were tears of anger on her cheeks as she sat back against her cushions; more tears fell, which, regardless of her pearly complexion, she wiped away with a cobweb of a handkerchief, while she sat and hated Courtland, and the whole tribe of college men, her cousin Bill Ward included, for getting her into a scrape like this. Defeat was a thing she could not brook. She had never, since she came out of short frocks, been so defeated in her life! But it should not be defeat! She would take her full revenge for all that had happened! Courtland should bite the dust! She would show him that he could not go around picking up stray beauties and sending her after them to pet them for him.
She did not watch for acquaintances during that ride home. She remained behind drawn curtains. Arrived at home, she stormed up to her room, giving orders to her maid not to disturb her, and sat down angrily to indite an epistle to Courtland that should bring him to his knees.
Meantime the doctor and nurse worked silently, skilfully over Bonnie until the weary eyes opened once more, and a long-drawn sigh showed that the girl had come back to the world.
By and by, when the doctor had gone out of the room and the nurse had finished giving her the beef-tea that had been ordered, Bonnie raised her eyes. "Would you mind finding out for me just what this room costs?" she asked, wearily.
The nurse had been fixing it all up in her mind what she should say when this question came. "Why, I'm under the impression you won't have to pay anything," she said, pleasantly. "You see, sometimes patients, when they go out, are kind of grateful and leave a sort of endowment of a bed for a while, or something like that, for cases just like yours, where strangers come in for a few days and need quiet—real quiet that they can't get in the ward, you know. I believe some one paid something for this room in some kind of a way like that. I guess the doctor thought you would get well quicker if you had it quiet, so he put you in here. You needn't worry a bit about it."
Bonnie smiled. "Would you mind making sure?" she asked. "I'd like to know just what I owe. I have a little money, you know."
The nurse nodded and slipped away to whisper the story to the grave doctor, who grew more indignant and contemptuous than he had been to Gila, and sent her promptly back with an answer.
"You don't have to pay a cent," she said, cheerfully, as she returned. "This bed is endowed temporarily, the doctor says, to be used at his discretion, and he wants to keep you here till some one comes who needs this room more than you do. At present there isn't any one, so you needn't worry. We are not going to let any more little feather-headed spitfires in to see you, either. The doctor balled the office out like everything for letting that girl up."
Bonnie tried to smile again, but only ended in a sigh. "Oh, it doesn't matter," she said, and then, after a minute, "You've been very good to me. Some time Ihope I can do something for you. Now I'm going to sleep."
The nurse went out to look after some of her duties. Half an hour later she came back to Bonnie's room and entered softly, not to waken her. She was worried lest she had left the window open too wide and the wind might be blowing on her, for it had turned a good deal colder since the sun went down.
She tiptoed to the bed and bent over in the dim light to see if her patient was all right. Then she drew back sharply.
The bed was empty!
She turned on the light and looked all around. There was no one else in the room! Bonnie was gone!