"Oh, yes, I am," he laughed. "I feel as if I could walk miles this morning. It won't be a hard trip. The boy will row me over, and I'll take a cab to the station and promise to take a nap in the train. Besides, it's something very important and I really can't wait. I'll tell you all about it when I get back. There isn't much time."
He began to gather up the wraps and pillows as any man would, forgetting that he was still a patient and not allowed to carry anything.
She took them gently from him, her chin quivering as she struggled to keep back the tears. He looked down and, seeing her expression, almost broke through a resolution he had made but saved himself just in time.
"Don't look that way," he said, and his eyes searched hers so lovingly that she almost broke down. "Don't, please! Trust me just a little while. I'll come back safe and sound. Why, I'll take you with me if you want me to. Then you'll see that I don't overdo."
But she laughed and shook her head.
"No, I can't go," she said decidedly. "But I wish you would wait till the doctor comes. I feel sure you are trying your strength too soon."
"No," he said decidedly. "I'm sure it will not hurt me; and I really must go. Look, there comes the fish boy! I must hurry! You needn't come back to the cottage; I'm all ready to go just as I am. Why don't you stay down here and rest awhile?"
But she hurried along by his side, determined to see that he was safely started, choking back her tears and smiling like a summer sun between the clouds.
"It really isn't a funeral, you know," he smiled at her. "I'm coming back tomorrow night or the next morning at the latest. I may be back tonight, but I think that is doubtful, for I'm afraid I can't get at the people I want to see right away. But I'll try."
"Oh, you are going to stay all night! But you won't take care of yourself!"
"Yes, I will. I promise you. Now don't look that way. I'm coming back very soon, and I'll have something to tell you when I come."
Those were his last words again when they stood beside the little fish boat that was to take him across to the mainland. He held her hand for just a moment and looked into her eyes with that wonderful deep look of trust and admiration that thrilled her to the depths of her soul. Then he pressed her fingers close in his, with a touch that was like a caress, and stepped in the boat.
She watched the little boat as long as she could see it across the bay, and when it was out of sight she turned and walked far away, alone, down the empty beach and let the blinding tears have their way, the choking sobs breaking forth from her sore heart. He was gone! She loved him, but she would not see him anymore. That was her conviction.
By and by she controlled her tears. There was Corinne and Mrs. Battin with sharp eyes to see. She must not show how she felt. She went down by the edge of the sea and dipped her handkerchief in the water, bathing her face, salt to the salt tears to wipe them away. Then she walked slowly back to the place where they had left their things and where a short hour before they had settled down for a pleasant morning. How suddenly it had come to an end! How sharp and quick had been the call! What had it been that stirred him so that he had found he had to go to the city at once?
She had dropped into the sand and thrown her head down on a cushion, utterly weary of mind and soul and body, but now she remembered the newspaper. Which page had he been reading? What was it that had called him back to his own world again?
She reached out a trembling hand and drew the page to her. The picture caught her eye. A beautiful girl! "Miss Dorothy Taber Stanford has announced her engagement to Mr. Arthur Hanson Briggs. Miss Stanford is the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Ortley Stanford, of Dardwood Manor, and will be remembered as having led the opening march of the Carnival of Flowers, held last spring in this city, with Mr. Clinton Benedict, who was lost in the recent disaster of the Baltic."
Gail read no farther. She dropped the paper and stared off to sea, her eyes growing wide with understanding. He had then gone at once when he had heard that this girl was engaged to another man. He had said he would return and have something good to tell her. Of course, it was easy to see what it all meant. He had likely been engaged, or as good as engaged, to this Dorothy Stanford, and the girl when she thought him dead had turned to another admirer. It did not speak well for the affection of the girl, but evidently the young man had been sure of her and known that if he could only get to her she would turn back to him, for witness his delight when he looked up from reading the note in the paper. He was not distressed. He evidently knew that he could set everything right. Perhaps her family had wanted this second match all the time and had pressed it upon her now that her former beau was supposed to be dead. There were a hundred ways to explain the thing, and her heart beat slowly in dull thuds as she thought it out, accepted it, said to herself, "I told you so! I warned you not to let yourself care!" Then she sat and faced an ocean that had suddenly grown gray and monotonous under a sky that had lost all of its sunshine.
He would come back and he would tell her that he was engaged to this beautiful girl. She looked at the pictured face in the paper. How could she bear it? He would want to introduce her perhaps and have the girl thank her for all she had done for him. Terrible! She would never bear it! No, he might come back, but he would never find her there! He would never tell her! She had guessed it for herself, and she would fly away where he could not look in her eyes and see how she loved him. For she could never hide it now. She could not smile in the old, dear, understanding way, for this girl in the big transparent-brimmed hat would ever be between them. She had been a fool, of course, but she would not stay to show it. She would hide herself somewhere and get work and work hard and forget it. For had she not known all along that she would have to forget? She must not spoil the perfectness of their friendship and of this season of intimate association that had seemed as holy and sacred as a friendship in heaven. She would go now, this afternoon, before he could possibly return. If he had had need of her still, she would have remained no matter what it cost her, but now that she knew there was another girl to look out for him, she was free to go and hide her bruised, foolish little heart in good, sensible hard work.
She would have a hard time convincing the kind friends in the cottage that this was necessary, for they had protested greatly about the going of Benedict, but it must be done. She got up hurriedly and gathered her cushions and went back to the house.
Corinne met her at the door.
"Now, yoh, honey chile, yoh bettah go lay down. Yoh look peeked, yoh sho do. Yoh ben nussin' dat ar big man chile too long, an' yoh need res', honey. Yoh jes' set down an' eat dis yer nice li'l' bowl o' soup C'rin' ben makin' foh yoh, and den yoh go lay down."
Gail tried to eat the soup, but every mouthful seemed to stick in her throat. Nevertheless Corinne and Mrs. Battin hovered over her until she swallowed it all, and she managed to keep a smiling face until she got away supposedly to rest. It was going to be terribly hard to tell them, for they really seemed to care for her, and Mrs. Battin at least would miss her, she was sure. Nevertheless, she could not stay, and this was the best time to go; for the man who was hired to look after them had returned two or three days before, so they were perfectly safe and would not be alone.
Gail went about for a few minutes among the things that belonged to the other girl who was gone from all the perplexities, cares, and joys of earth and was safe at Home forever. She straightened up everything, put a few little necessaries together in a small bundle, and dressed herself in the simplest thing the borrowed wardrobe contained that was at all suitable for traveling. She counted out her remaining money and found she had enough to pay a reasonable sum for their board, pay for her journey, and have just ten dollars left. That would be enough to keep her a week until she could find something to do. She surely could find something in a week.
She sat down at Jeannette's desk and wrote two notes, one to leave with the board money on the bureau where they would be sure to find it, the other to Benedict, to be given him when he came b
ack.
When she had fixed everything, she looked about for a second on the peaceful little room that had been such a haven to her in her necessity, and then she knelt for a moment beside the bed.
"Dear Christ, go with me and take care of me. Stay with him and take care of him, and keep him safely wherever he is. I thank Thee for the blessings we both have had. Make me strong to bear the hard things."
Then she went out and down the stairs.
She had planned her going to be ready just when the grocery boy from the mainland would come over with the day's orders, so that she would have little time for discussion with the kind friends downstairs before it would be necessary for her to leave.
It was fully as hard as she had expected. She told Mrs. Battin that she had seen some advertisements in the morning paper and felt she ought to go and look up something to do at once. She thought this would be a good time to go when her patient was away and would not need her.
The poor lady, of course, begged her to stay until next week when they would all go up to the city together. She said Gail could stay with her for a while until she found the right place. But Gail smiled and protested and had her way. They told her that Benedict would be disappointed that she had gone during his absence and begged her to be sure to return on the evening train so that she might be there if he came back that night.
She did not promise, but she did not hint that she would not be returning. She let them think what they would, only telling them not to worry and thanking them for all they had done for her and her companion.
When she tore herself away from their protests and their loving advice at last and hurried after the whistling grocery boy, they stood together, those two who had so stolidly received her on her arrival, and wept as they saw her disappear from their sight.
"Yoh reckum dat chile ain't runnin' 'way from him, Mis' Battin, honey?" asked Corinne, as she turned with streaming eyes to go into the house again. "Yoh reckum dey done hap it out an' 'greed to paht? Yoh reckum dat's why he went flyin' off so suddent dis yer mawnin'?"
But Mrs. Battin's kind old heart was too full for utterance.
"Bring me my shawl, Corinne, I'm all of a tremble," she said in her old querulous tone, and she went and sat down in Gail's rocking chair and stayed a long time reading the Ninety-First Psalm and trying to remember the girl's voice as she had read it.
Out in the bay, the girl was straining her eyes to catch the last glimpse of the weather-beaten old cottage on the beach, while the grocery boy whistled a jolly tune.
Chapter 9
Gail Desmond, when she made her hasty escape from the haven by the sea and started out into the world again, had no intention of merely going to the nearby city where she knew Benedict was bound. Her goal was New York, and once there, she felt pretty sure there would be no danger of being found again. She did not rest easy until she was seated in the New York express with her ticket bought and a six-hour ride before her. Then she leaned back and let her sad thoughts have their way. It did not matter now if her chin did tremble and her lips fail to keep back the sighs that came unbidden to them. No one would notice. She was sitting in the last seat in the car with vacant seats all about her, and the train was rushing away from Washington as fast as it could go. Benedict, if he came back to the shore at all, would never know now how her heart was breaking. She had covered all her tracks, and he would never find her.
Why was it that she had to meet such a man only to know that he was not for her? Why had a loving Providence seen fit to let her suffer so? But no, she would not question the Guiding Hand that had brought her through the sea and let her save a life. She would be glad of that always, that she had been able to save the life of one who had been so willing to lose it for hers.
She did not see the hurrying landscape through the open window. Her eyes were closed, and her thoughts were holding sad communion with herself. The jarring of the car beat the plush of the seat cushion into her wet cheek and made its imprint there; the monotonous chant of the train put her to sleep. Perhaps her good angel stood over her sorrowfully, who knows, and pitied the poor lonesome child who was so rapidly rushing away from the little bit of heaven that had been hers for a few days.
About that time, Corinne, back in the cottage by the sea, was standing over her mistress, making her drink a cup of tea and eat a bit of delicately browned toast, and saying speculatively: "Mis' Battin, honey, yoh reckum dat chile done runned away from dat man 'cause she feel pride? Yoh reckum she 'fraid he tink he gotta take her 'cause she brung him safe tru dat ar stawm? Ain't nuttin' like pride to make a gal run away from a man like dat. Yoh reckum dat's de trubbel, Mis' Battin, honey?"
The hours passed on, and the exhausted child in the backseat of the New York express slept soundly. The porter passed through and gave the last call for the dining car, but she did not hear. For the time, her troubles were forgotten. In her dreams she was sitting on the beach again at sundown, talking about the little sand snipes pattering on the silver-pink sands with their little lavender kid feet, catching sand crabs for their supper, and fluttering neatly back from each saucy wave that tried to wet them. There was a smile on her lips as she dreamed, and her sorrow fell away for a little while and let her sleep in peace.
It was evening when they reached Philadelphia, and there was time to go out for something to eat, but Gail sat back apathetically. She did not feel hungry.
People began to crowd into the train. The seats filled up, and some were standing in the aisles. A family of foreigners with numerous cross babies came across the aisle and swarmed over into her seat. They smelled of garlic and were sticky and sleepy, poor babies. Gail looked down at their little tumbled heads in pity and forgot for the moment her own sorrows in wondering what there was in life before their young feet. Life all seemed such a puzzle. Would they find the way and follow the light up into the real day, learning to bear the tests as they came to them one by one? Was there any way she could help them? That was her creed, but how uninteresting it looked just now. She was standing a test. This necessity for her to flee from what she could not help counting dearer than her life was her test, of course, yet it seemed more like a sharp, stabbing pain sent to blind and stun her. Could she pass this test and come out bright and happy as God wanted her to be? Could she ever look on it as just one of the hard things of life that must be? Would it ever get over seeming like the end of all things for her?
It was late evening when they reached New York. She had never been there but once before, and that when she went with Mrs. Patton to sail on the voyage that had ended so tragically. She climbed the great stone staircases to the street and stood uncertainly at the entrance to the Pennsylvania Station looking out into the lighted world. Where should she go at that time of night to be safe? Should she hunt up the Traveler's Aid who advised lone women travelers and ask to be directed to the YWCA, or should she just stay in the waiting room for the rest of the night?
She decided on the latter course, for her ticket to New York had cost two dollars more than she had counted on, and she must be careful. Eight dollars was a small sum on which to face an unwelcoming New York alone. Of course, there was still Mrs. Patton whom she might hunt up and claim for a mistress if she cared to do so. Mrs. Patton would at least be likely to give her a recommendation and let her stay with her until she could find another place, heartless little creature though she was. But all her soul cried out against appealing to Mrs. Patton, so she turned back and spent a weary night in the waiting room, with only a sandwich and a glass of milk to eat.
In the morning, fortified by another sandwich and a cup of tea, she took her way confidently out into the great world to find her place. She had made herself as neat as her limitations allowed and did not feel troubled about her appearance. She had a theory that there was always plenty of work to be had if one was willing to do it, and she had little doubt but that she would find it without much trouble. She was met at the outset, however, by a difficulty that she had not anticipated.
There were fees to be paid at employment agencies before anything could be done, and she had no money to spare for fees.
Wearily she walked the streets, going into pleasant-looking places and asking if there was a place for her. She bought a paper and studied the advertisements. Gail had been taking care of herself long enough to realize that there were dangers in the world. She had learned to preserve a quiet dignity among strangers that was a protection in itself. But her knowledge of any city life was limited to what she had gleaned from the books she had read and rare visits for a few days under her father's careful protection. Moreover, she failed to estimate her youthful beauty at its true value and realize that even in her simple, rather old-fashioned attire, she was a marked object wherever she went. It troubled her greatly to find that men were staring at her as she passed.
Toward evening, she grew frightened at the thought of her dwindling treasury and went back to the station. There was a couch in the inner waiting room, and she could sleep anywhere, tired as she was. Surely by tomorrow she would find something to do. She thought of the YWCA again but did not like to spend the money for a room if she could help it until she was sure of some remunerative employment.
The couch was occupied when she returned to the station, but before midnight it was vacated, and she was glad to stretch herself upon it and fall asleep immediately, too weary even to think of all her troubles. The shipwreck and Clinton Benedict by this time seemed to be only a myth of past ages instead of something that had really happened to her. It seemed that she always had been tramping the streets of New York hunting for a job and that no one wanted her.
In her dreams, the dear immediate past came back to her. She was again in the cottage by the sea, only now it was herself that was lying like a patient in the big bed with Clinton Benedict waiting upon her.
She started wide awake and found that there were tears upon her cheeks, and a large German woman, with a fat baby asleep at her breast, was watching her from the big rocking chair nearby. The dull whir of a great city boomed on through the night outside, much like the booming of the sea.
Out of the Storm Page 7