CHAPTER IX
IN A TRAP
Elizabeth rode straight out to the east, crossing the town as rapidly aspossible, going full gallop where the streets were empty. On the edge ofthe town she crossed another trail running back the way that they hadcome; but without swerving she turned out toward the world, and soonpassed into a thick growth of trees, around a hill.
Not three minutes elapsed after she had passed the crossing of the trailsbefore the four men rode across from the other direction, and, pausing,called to one another, looking this way and that:
"What d'ye think, Bill? Shall we risk the right hand 'r the left?"
"Take the left hand fer luck," answered Bill. "Let's go over to the ranchand ask. Ef she's been hereabouts, she's likely there. The old woman'llknow. Come on, boys!"
And who shall say that the angel of the Lord did not stand within thecrossing of the ways and turn aside the evil men?
Elizabeth did not stop her fierce ride until about noon. The frenzy of herfear of pursuit had come upon her with renewed force. Now that she wasalone and desolate she dared not look behind her. She had been strongenough as she smiled her farewell; but, when the train had dwindled into amere speck in the distance, her eyes were dropping tears thick and fastupon the horse's mane. So in the first heaviness of her loneliness sherode as if pursued by enemies close at hand.
But the horse must rest if she did not, for he was her only dependencenow. So she sat her down in the shade of a tree, and tried to eat somedinner. The tears came again as she opened the pack which the man's stronghands had bound together for her. How little she had thought atbreakfast-time that she would eat the next meal alone!
It was all well enough to tell him he must go, and say she was nothing tohim; but it was different now to face the world without a single friendwhen one had learned to know how good a friend could be. Almost it wouldhave been better if he had never found her, never saved her from theserpent, never ridden beside her and talked of wonderful new things toher; for now that he was gone the emptiness and loneliness were so muchharder to bear; and now she was filled with a longing for things thatcould not be hers.
It was well he had gone so soon, well she had no longer to grow into thecharm of his society; for he belonged to the lady, and was not hers. Thusshe ate her dinner with the indifference of sorrow.
Then she took out the envelope, and counted over the money. Forty dollarshe had given her. She knew he had kept but five for himself. How wonderfulthat he should have done all that for her! It seemed a very great wealthin her possession. Well, she would use it as sparingly as possible, andthus be able the sooner to return it all to him. Some she must use, shesupposed, to buy food; but she would do with as little as she could. Shemight sometimes shoot a bird, or catch a fish; or there might be berriesfit for food by the way. Nights she must stop by the way at a respectablehouse. That she had promised. He had told her of awful things that mighthappen to her if she lay down in the wilderness alone. Her lodging wouldsometimes cost her something. Yet often they would take her in fornothing. She would be careful of the money.
She studied the name on the envelope. George Trescott Benedict, 2----Walnut Street, Philadelphia, Penn. The letters were large and angular, noteasy to read; but she puzzled them out. It did not look like his writing.She had watched him as he wrote the old woman's address in his little redbook. He wrote small, round letters, slanting backwards, plain as print,pleasant writing to read. Now the old woman's address would never be ofany use, and her wish that Elizabeth should travel alone was fulfilled.
There was a faint perfume from the envelope like Weldwood flowers. Shebreathed it in, and wondered at it. Was it perfume from something hecarried in his pocket, some flower his lady had once given him? But thiswas not a pleasant thought. She put the envelope into her bosom afterstudying it again carefully until she knew the words by heart.
Then she drew forth the papers of her mother's that she had brought fromhome, and for the first time read them over.
The first was the marriage certificate. That she had seen before, and hadstudied with awe; but the others had been kept in a box that was neveropened by the children. The mother kept them sacredly, always with thecertificate on the top.
The largest paper she could not understand. It was something about amine. There were a great many "herebys" and "whereases" and "agreements"in it. She put it back into the wrapper as of little account, probablysomething belonging to her father, which her mother had treasured for oldtime's sake.
Then came a paper which related to the claim where their little log homehad stood, and upon the extreme edge of which the graves were. That, too,she laid reverently within its wrapper.
Next came a bit of pasteboard whereon was inscribed, "Mrs. Merrill WiltonBailey, Rittenhouse Square, Tuesdays." That she knew was her grandmother'sname, though she had never seen the card before--her father's mother. Shelooked at the card in wonder. It was almost like a distant view of thelady in question. What kind of a place might Rittenhouse Square be, andwhere was it? There was no telling. It might be near that wonderful Desertof Sahara that the man had talked about. She laid it down with a sigh.
There was only one paper left, and that was a letter written in palepencil lines. It said:
"_My dear Bessie:_ Your pa died last week. He was killed falling from a scaffold. He was buried on Monday with five carriages and everything nice. We all got new black dresses, and have enough for a stone. If it don't cost too much, we'll have an angle on the top. I always thought an angle pointing to heaven was nice. We wish you was here. We miss you very much. I hope your husband is good to you. Why don't you write to us? You haven't wrote since your little girl was born. I s'pose you call her Bessie like you. If anything ever happens to you, you can send her to me. I'd kind of like her to fill your place. Your sister has got a baby girl too. She calls her Lizzie. We couldn't somehow have it natural to call her 'Lizabeth, and Nan wanted her called for me. I was always Lizzie, you know. Now you must write soon.
"Your loving mother, ELIZABETH BRADY."
There was no date nor address to the letter, but an address had beenpencilled on the outside in her mother's cramped school-girl hand. It wasdim but still readable, "Mrs. Elizabeth Brady, 18---- Flora Street,Philadelphia."
Elizabeth studied the last word, then drew out the envelope again, andlooked at that. Yes, the two names were the same. How wonderful! Perhapsshe would sometime, sometime, see him again, though of course he belongedto the lady. But perhaps, if she went to school and learned very fast, shemight sometime meet him at church--he went to church, she was sure--andthen he might smile, and not be ashamed of his friend who had saved hislife. Saved his life! Nonsense! She had not done much. He would not feelany such ridiculous indebtedness to her when he got back to home andfriends and safety. He had saved her much more than she had saved him.
She put the papers all back in safety, and after having prepared her fewbelongings for taking up the journey, she knelt down. She would say theprayer before she went on. It might be that would keep the terriblepursuers away.
She said it once, and then with eyes still closed she waited a moment.Might she say it for him, who was gone away from her? Perhaps it wouldhelp him, and keep him from falling from that terrible machine he wasriding on. Hitherto in her mind prayers had been only for the dead, butnow they seemed also to belong to all who were in danger or trouble. Shesaid the prayer over once more, slowly, then paused a moment, and added:"Our Father, hide him from trouble. Hide George Trescott Benedict. Andhide me, please, too."
Then she mounted her horse, and went on her way.
It was a long and weary way. It reached over mountains and throughvalleys, across winding, turbulent streams and broad rivers that had fewbridges. The rivers twice led her further south than she meant to go, inher ignorance. She had always felt that Philadelphia was straight aheadeast, as straight as one could go to
the heart of the sun.
Night after night she lay down in strange homes, some poorer and moreforlorn than others; and day after day she took up her lonely travelagain.
Gradually, as the days lengthened, and mountains piled themselves behindher, and rivers stretched like barriers between, she grew less and less todread her pursuers, and more and more to look forward to the future. Itseemed so long a way! Would it never end?
Once she asked a man whether he knew where Philadelphia was. She had beentravelling then for weeks, and thought she must be almost there. But hesaid "Philadelphia? O, Philadelphia is in the East. That's a long way off.I saw a man once who came from there."
She set her firm little chin then, and travelled on. Her clothes were muchworn, and her skin was brown as a berry. The horse plodded on with adejected air. He would have liked to stop at a number of places theypassed, and remain for life, what there was left of it; but he obedientlywalked on over any kind of an old road that came in his way, and solacedhimself with whatever kind of a bite the roadside afforded. He wasbecoming a much-travelled horse. He knew a threshing-machine by sight now,and considered it no more than a prairie bob-cat.
At one stopping-place a good woman advised Elizabeth to rest on Sundays.She told her God didn't like people to do the same on His day as on otherdays, and it would bring her bad luck if she kept up her incessant riding.It was bad for the horse too. So, the night being Saturday, Elizabethremained with the woman over the Sabbath, and heard read aloud thefourteenth chapter of John. It was a wonderful revelation to her. She didnot altogether understand it. In fact, the Bible was an unknown book. Shehad never known that it was different from other books. She had heard itspoken of by her mother, but only as a book. She did not know it was abook of books.
She carried the beautiful thoughts with her on the way, and pondered them.She wished she might have the book. She remembered the name of it, Bible,the Book of God. Then God had written a book! Some day she would try tofind it and read it.
"Let not your heart be troubled"; so much of the message drifted into herlonesome, ignorant soul, and settled down to stay. She said it over nightswhen she found a shelter in some unpleasant place or days when the roadwas rough or a storm came up and she was compelled to seek shelter by theroadside under a haystack or in a friendly but deserted shack. She thoughtof it the day there was no shelter and she was drenched to the skin. Shewondered afterward when the sun came out and dried her nicely whether Godhad really been speaking the words to her troubled heart, "Let not yourheart be troubled."
Every night and every morning she said "Our Father" twice, once forherself and once for the friend who had gone out into the world, it seemedabout a hundred years ago.
But one day she came across a railroad track. It made her heart beatwildly. It seemed now that she must be almost there. Railroads were thingsbelonging to the East and civilization. But the way was lonely still fordays, and then she crossed more railroads, becoming more and morefrequent, and came into the line of towns that stretched along beside thesnake-like tracks.
She fell into the habit of staying overnight in a town, and then riding onto the next in the morning; but now her clothes were becoming so dirty andragged that she felt ashamed to go to nice-looking places lest they shouldturn her out; so she sought shelter in barns and small, mean houses. Butthe people in these houses were distressingly dirty, and she found noplace to wash.
She had lost track of the weeks or the months when she reached her firstgreat city, the only one she had come near in her uncharted wanderings.
Into the outskirts of Chicago she rode undaunted, her head erect, with thecarriage of a queen. She had passed Indians and cowboys in her journeying;why should she mind Chicago? Miles and miles of houses and people. Thereseemed to be no end to it. Nothing but houses everywhere andhurried-looking people, many of them working hard. Surely this must bePhiladelphia.
A large, beautiful building attracted her attention. There were handsomegrounds about it, and girls playing some game with a ball and curiouswebbed implements across a net of cords. Elizabeth drew her horse to theside of the road, and watched a few minutes. One girl was skilful, and hitthe ball back every time. Elizabeth almost exclaimed out loud once when aparticularly fine ball was played. She rode reluctantly on when the gamewas finished, and saw over the arched gateway the words, "Janeway Schoolfor Girls."
Ah! This was Philadelphia at last, and here was her school. She would goin at once before she went to her grandmother's. It might be better.
She dismounted, and tied the horse to an iron ring in a post by thesidewalk. Then she went slowly, shyly up the steps into the charmedcircles of learning. She knew she was shabby, but her long journey wouldexplain that. Would they be kind to her, and let her study?
She stood some time before the door, with a group of laughing girls notfar away whispering about her. She smiled at them; but they did not returnthe salutation, and their actions made her more shy. At last she steppedinto the open door, and a maid in cap and apron came forward. "You mustnot come in here, miss," she said imperiously. "This is a school."
"Yes," said Elizabeth gravely, smiling. "I want to see the teacher."
"She's busy. You can't see her," snapped the maid.
"Then I will wait till she is ready. I've come a great many miles, and Imust see her."
The maid retreated at this, and an elegant woman in trailing black silkand gold-rimmed glasses approached threateningly. This was a new kind ofbeggar, of course, and must be dealt with at once.
"What do you want?" she asked frigidly.
"I've come to school," said Elizabeth confidingly. "I know I don't lookvery nice, but I've had to come all the way from Montana on horseback. Ifyou could let me go where I can have some water and a thread and needle, Ican make myself look better."
The woman eyed the girl incredulously.
"You have come to school!" she said; and her voice was large, andfrightened Elizabeth. "You have come all the way from Montana! Impossible!You must be crazy."
"No, ma'am, I'm not crazy," said Elizabeth. "I just want to go to school."
The woman perceived that this might be an interesting case forbenevolently inclined people. It was nothing but an annoyance to herself."My dear girl,"--her tone was bland and disagreeable now,--"are you awarethat it takes money to come to school?"
"Does it?" said Elizabeth. "No, I didn't know it, but I have some money. Icould give you ten dollars right now; and, if that is not enough, I mightwork some way, and earn more."
The woman laughed disagreeably.
"It is impossible," she said. "The yearly tuition here is five hundreddollars. Besides, we do not take girls of your class. This is a finishingschool for young ladies. You will have to inquire further," and the womanswept away to laugh with her colleagues over the queer character, the newkind of tramp, she had just been called to interview. The maid came pertlyforward, and said that Elizabeth could not longer stand where she was.
Bewilderment and bitter disappointment in her face, Elizabeth went slowlydown to her horse, the great tears welling up into her eyes. As she rodeaway, she kept turning back to the school grounds wistfully. She did notnotice the passers-by, nor know that they were commenting upon herappearance. She made a striking picture in her rough garments, with herwealth of hair, her tanned skin, and tear-filled eyes. An artist noticedit, and watched her down the street, half thinking he would follow andsecure her as a model for his next picture.
A woman, gaudily bedecked in soiled finery, her face giving evidence ofthe frequent use of rouge and powder, watched her, and followed,pondering. At last she called, "My dear, my dear, wait a minute." She hadto speak several times before Elizabeth saw that she was talking to her.Then the horse was halted by the sidewalk.
"My dear," said the woman, "you look tired and disappointed. Don't youwant to come home with me for a little while, and rest?"
"Thank you," said Elizabeth, "but I am afraid I must go on. I only stop onSundays."
"But just come home with me for a little while," coaxed the wheedlingtones. "You look so tired, and I've some girls of my own. I know you wouldenjoy resting and talking with them."
The kindness in her tones touched the weary girl. Her pride had been stungto the quick by the haughty woman in the school. This woman would sootheher with kindness.
"Do you live far from here?" asked Elizabeth.
"Only two or three blocks," said the woman. "You ride along by thesidewalk, and we can talk. Where are you going? You look as if you hadcome a long distance."
"Yes," said the girl wearily, "from Montana. I am going to school. Is thisPhiladelphia?"
"This is Chicago," said the woman. "There are finer schools here than inPhiladelphia. If you like to come and stay at my house awhile, I will seeabout getting you into a school."
"Is it hard work to get people into schools?" asked the girl wonderingly."I thought they would want people to teach."
"No, it's very hard," said the lying woman; "but I think I know a schoolwhere I can get you in. Where are your folks? Are they in Montana?"
"They are all dead," said Elizabeth, "and I have come away to school."
"Poor child!" said the woman glibly. "Come right home with me, and I'lltake care of you. I know a nice way you can earn your living, and then youcan study if you like. But you're quite big to go to school. It seems tome you could have a good time without that. You are a very pretty girl; doyou know it? You only need pretty clothes to make you a beauty. If youcome with me, I will let you earn some beautiful new clothes."
"You are very kind," said the girl gravely. "I do need new clothes; and,if I could earn them, that would be all the better." She did not quitelike the woman; yet of course that was foolish.
After a few more turns they stopped in front of a tall brick building witha number of windows. It seemed to be a good deal like other buildings; infact, as she looked up the street, Elizabeth thought there were miles ofthem just alike. She tied her horse in front of the door, and went in withthe woman. The woman told her to sit down a minute until she called thelady of the house, who would tell her more about the school. There were anumber of pretty girls in the room, and they made very free to speak toher. They twitted her about her clothes, and in a way reminded Elizabethof the girls in the school she had just interviewed.
Suddenly she spoke up to the group. An idea had occurred to her. This wasthe school, and the woman had not liked to say so until she spoke to theteacher about her.
"Is this a school?" she asked shyly.
Her question was met with a shout of derisive laughter.
"School!" cried the boldest, prettiest one. "School for scandal! Schoolfor morals!"
There was one, a thin, pale girl with dark circles under her eyes, a saddroop to her mouth, and bright scarlet spots in her cheeks. She came overto Elizabeth, and whispered something to her. Elizabeth started forward,unspeakable horror in her face.
She fled to the door where she had come in, but found it fastened. Thenshe turned as if she had been brought to bay by a pack of lions.
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