An Unwilling Guest (19 page)

Then into this pleasant room, wher
e for the time being pure happi
ness reigned alone, there entered the serpent in the shape of Mr. Worthington.

It is needless to say that he had not one thing in common with the hour or the company. Mr. Rutherford and his son arose and stiffly bowed good-evening to the caller, Dick looking extremely annoyed at the interruption. Doctor Grey was introduced and a shadow crossed the brightness of his face as he quickly looked the stranger over, placed him, and then cast a questioning glance at Evelyn. She wondered if he had seen her with Mr. Worthington.

The caller essayed to draw Evelyn into a
tete
-a-
tete
, but she did not respond. She answered him in a tone calc
ulated to make the conversa
tion general, and remained where she had been sitting before he came in. He drew his black brows together in
a frown as he took in the situa
tion and reflected that he had come at an unfortunate t
im
e, though, perhaps, it was as well to make his favorable impression upon father and brother now as at any time. Then he set himself to listen and join in the conversation as soon as an opportunity should offer.

The doctor had been telling a story that seemed to interest them all when the caller had been announced, and he was now finishing it
.
Ev
elyn wished he would talk on all
ni
ght so that there need be no op
portunity for the other guest to speak,
for she felt unhappy and humil
iated by his presence. She resolved that she would have nothing more to do with him hereafter. How could
she, when she saw these two to
gether?

"O Maurice, that is too good," said young Mr. Rutherford laughing at the conclusion of the story. "I tell you, we must manage to see more of one another. Can't you plan your time next winter so that we can have at least one evening a week together somewhere? I tell you, you will kill yourself, if you go on at this rate. Come, say you will. You could have done a vast amount of good to me if you had held up on some of your slum work in college and put in a little time with
me."
Richard Rutherford looked at his friend with the winning smile that always had brought to him friends when he chose, and it was met by one full of response, but with a tinge of gravity.

"Dick, I should like it better than I can tell you, but
-
" here the
smile faded entirely and his face grew grave and almost sad, "but I do not expect to be in New York next winter."

"Not in New York next winter, man! Why, what do you mean?" asked Dick astonished, and Evelyn
gave the slightest perceptible
start which she hoped was unobserved. She did not know that her father from looking moodily at the young man by her side, had turned sadly toward her, wondering if his pretty daughter was going t
o throw her
self away on that worthless creature, and seeing her slight motion, had speculated behind the hand that partly shielded his face what it might mean.

"I expect to sail for China in September," said the young man quietly, a great reverence in tone and voice as if he were going under high commission.

"For China? Have you a foreign commission? Are you going as an ambassador? What! You have not joined the army?"

"Yes, I have a commission," he answered, smiling with that pleasant way he had of talking his religion to his friends that reminded Evelyn of the day upon the hilltop; "but it is from a higher tribunal than the government of the United States. My commission is an old, old one, and in a sense I joined the army long ago, but I suppose you have f
or
gotten it. I am sent as an ambassador of Jesus Christ. I go out as a medical missionary this fall."

During the silence and almost conster
nation that followed this state
ment, young Worthington, with inexplicable bad taste, saw his opportunity.

"Are you going to take your wife with you or have her sent out by Adams Express Company, selected by the people at home who pay the bills? I hear that is quite a fad among missionaries now, to have their wives chosen and sent over to them when they get ready. It must be a great convenience to those who find it hard to choose for themselves. I heard of a fellow the other day who advertised for one, but when she came he found she had but one eye. You'd better keep a sharp watch
on them if you intend to try that way. You might get left."

If the young man expected to raise a laugh he was mistaken. The faces of both the Rutherford gentlemen expressed the extreme dislike and superiority one might feel for an impudent little cur that has snapped at one's feet.

The eyes of the young doctor flashed
with a righteous fire of indig
nation. Evelyn thought she had never seen him look so handsome. She did not know he could be so roused. She involuntarily drew her chair sharply away from Mr. Worthington.

Then spoke Maurice Grey: "The man who will so dishonor a woman as to marry her when he bears her no love is, to my mind, not only unworthy of being a missionary of Jesus Christ, but also hardly worthy the name of man, surely not gentleman."

"You are married, then, or about to be?" persisted the young man, determined to carry off the situation in spite of the atmosphere which he could not help but see was hostile in the extreme.

"No, Mr. Worthington; a man would require a brave heart, indeed, to ask any woman he loved to share the hardships and dangers of a missionary's life. One would need to be sure that she also felt the call to go before daring to ask a woman to share such a life with him."

"Oh, the hardships and dangers are things of the past," sneered the young man. "Missionaries nowadays live like princes, with all that they need paid for and companies of servants to do their bidding. They really have very little to do."

"Pray, when were you a missionary, Mr. Worthington?" inquired Evelyn, in her most cutting tone. "You must have been on the spot to be so well informed."

Doctor Grey looked up in surprise. He had never heard this Evelyn. The icy tones did not belong to his ideal, nevertheless they did him good at this juncture.

Mr. Rutherford, Sr., relieved the
situation by ignoring Mr. Worth
ington entirely, and, leaning forward, asked in earnest tones: "But what does Doctor Atlee say to this? I understood that you and he were partners, and my son told me this morning that he heard Doctor Atlee call you his better half. Does he know of this most extraordinary and self-sacrificing move on your part?"

A strange, sweet light overspread the face of Maurice Grey: "Yes, he knows, and I am going with his blessing. It is hard to give up the association with him. He is a grand man. Did you know it was his early dream to go as a missionary himself? Yes, and he gave it up to take care of his invalid mother, who was suddenly thrown upon his care. She is still living and still an invalid, and he is devoted to her. He says he wants me to go in his place. He has been wonderful. He is giving a large sum to the new hospital I am to have in charge.

Then did Dick Rutherford begin a fire of questions about China and the work, and Maurice Grey answered
with some of the stories the re
turned missionary had told which had roused his sleeping desire to go, until they all were stirred.

Finding that it was of no use to try to turn the conversation to his own level, or to secure Miss Rutherford's attention, Mr. Worthington again essayed to take part in the conversation.

"If all that is true, I should think you would not care to marry," he said in his lazy tone. "One could scarcely find any attractive woman who would care to relegate herself into barbarism." He
desired to erase, if possible, the impression he had created by his last blunder, but he was on entirely foreign ground himself.

Evelyn's great dark eyes fairly flashed at him as she said in a low tone: "The woman who will not go to the ends of the earth for the man she loves is no
t worthy to be called a woman.”

Maurice Grey turned his fine eyes upon her with the pleasant light of sympathy in them. Dick Rutherfor
d looked at his sister with com
placency. He was glad to hear such a sentiment from her lips, but he scowled at the young man who had called it forth and resolved to find some way to keep his sister from him.

The evening closed abruptly by the sudden recollection of Doctor Grey that it was time he looked in at the hospital to see how a man was doing who had that afternoon undergone an operation.

"Now, Evelyn, that is a man," said h
er father as he turned from bid
ding their guest good-bye, "and that other fellow is a—a contemptible puppy!"

T
he days that followed were full of a suppressed excitement for Evelyn. She marveled daily over the spirit of sacrifice that could make the rising young doctor with such life
and prospects before him delib
erately go to that far-off land to do what any common doctor might do. It was again that same old problem th
at she had puzzled over at
Hill
croft
, what strange power was the motive? She began to feel a certain desire, faint, but still perceptible even to herself, to feel that power in her own life. She put more real earnestness into her prayer by fits and starts now. Sometimes she fancied she really meant it.

She was glad she had thought of inviting Doctor Grey to dinner. She watched daily to see if he would call. She remained at home a great deal afternoons, and often in the evenings pleaded some excuse for foregoing a social engagement. She longed to have a talk with him, just to ask him one or two questions, and—yes, just to have him tell her once more he was praying for her, if he was. It somehow had grown to be a comfort to her when she was unhappy to think of that good man praying for her. Good? Oh yes, she was doubly sure of that, now that he was giving up all for his Christ.

Her brother met him several times in these days, for he talked of it when he came home. Twice he had gone to his office and been taken out by him among his patients. He t
old of some of the homes. He de
scribed a few of the desolate places among the poor where they had gone after answering calls to names well known in the social circle. He told how he had taken his clean handkerchief and wet in it a cooling lotion to place on an old man's aching brow, and how he had helped to wash a dirty little suffering child because there was no one else by who
knew how. Mr. Rutherford senior seemed interested and questioned, always finishing with:

"Well, he's a man. I wish there were more such among our friends."

To all this Evelyn listened, now and then asking a question, but for the most part silently.

And still the days went by and the doctor did not call as he had promised,

It was late in the spring when he came at last and warm enough to have the windows open. There were faint hints of spring in the odors of the air, even in New York.

When his card was brought up, Evelyn secretly rejoiced that neither her father nor brother was at home that evening and she could have the caller to herself. There were so many things she would like to ask him if only she could muster the courage.

Marie stood waiting orders.

"Tell John as you go down, Marie, not to admit any other callers this evening. I shall not be receiving," said Evelyn.

"Yes, ma'am," said Marie, and tripped away.

But John was not in the kitchen where she had expected to find him and her lover was waiting in the moonlight at the back door, so she slipped out for just a few minutes till John should return. She could run in if she heard the bell ring. Alas, for Marie's good intentions. The moonlight and the lover were absorbing, and the bell would need to ring very loud indeed to reach the pretty ears filled with such sweet words as the lover knew how to say.

The two people in the parlor had scarcely said the few preliminary words of welcome, and each was just t
aking in
the pleasure of the an
ticipated hour together, when Evelyn heard the front door open and then John's accustomed voice announced, "Mr. Worthington," and without waiting for further ceremony, an
d quite as if he were on inti
mate terms in that house, the visitor entered.

Evelyn arose, her face flushed with embarrassment. "Why John, I am not—didn't Marie tell you?" she began, and then she saw the young man and as there was nothing further to be said, she bit her lip and gave him a cold bow. It could not be said to be a welcome. Her heart
grew cold within her. What should she do? What could she do? If she had but had the wit to say plainly when he first entered that she was engaged—but no, that would not do, and he would misunderstand. If only he had not seen Doctor Grey! But there was no remedy for it now. Her ready wit and easy grace almost deserted her.

Maurice Grey saw her discomfiture and pondered what it might mean. He confessed his own disappointment, but told himself it was no more than he should have expected and perhaps it was better so, and he sighed to himself.

There was a pause during which
the three considered how to pro
ceed, and then Evelyn recovered herself somewhat

"I was just asking Doctor Grey about his sister and mother when you came in. I visited them in the fall, you know," and she turned to Maurice and went on with her questions.

"I have been wishing I had Allison here with me for a while," she went on. "I tried to make her promise to come when I left there. Is she still as busy as ever? I have heard from her but once."

Mr. Worthington gloomily chewed his mustache and pondered. He had not been calling frequently at the Rutherford house lately and the few times that he had ventured he had found Miss Rutherford out, or otherwise engaged. He did not care for this pious fellow, who seemed to
be monopolizing the conversation, but his experience at their last meeting had been anything but successful so far as his participation in the conversation was concerned, so he refrained from another attempt

There were a great many things she would have liked to talk about, but Evelyn shrank from touching on any of them before this listener. For instance, there was their forei
gn meeting. Doctor Grey did men
tion it, a few minutes later, with a rare smile, and Mr. Worthington looked on curiously and wondered who this fellow was, anyway, who seemed to have been abroad with the family.

General conversation did not succeed. At last Evelyn bethought herself of her brother's words and an inspiration came to her.

"Doctor Grey," she said, "my brother tells me you can sing. He has talked so much about it that I do want to hear you. Won't you come into the music room and sing for us?"

"If it will please you," said Maurice Grey quietly and as if it were a matter of little moment; "but then I may ask you to play?"

Now Mr. Worthington was a singer of popular songs, with a voice of no little worth in his own estimation, and he followed them to the music room in no very fine frame of mind, determined to show this conceited fellow how little he knew about music. But, instead, he sat and listened as the magnificent voice rolled forth. He knew he could not sing like that, and he knew that
Miss Rutherford knew it. There
fore when in the second selection he wa
s asked to take the tenor he re
fused to sing at all and so put his voice into such comparison, pleading huskiness, suddenly developed, as his reason for declining.

The two at the piano had it quite their own way now for a time, while he sat in the shadow of the gr
eat piano lamp and listened, in
wardly fuming. They even sang one
or two duets, making Mr. Worth
ington half regret that he had said he was hoarse, and Miss Rutherford called for another and another favorite, which the singer willingly and gladly sang. E
very word was written clearly in
her heart for the future, though she knew it not. The echoes of "Calvary," which he found among the pile of music, kept ringing on in her soul for days.

Rest, rest to the weary, peace, peace to the soul; Though life may be dreary, earth is not thy goal. Oh, lay down thy burden! Oh, come unto me! I will not forsake thee, I will not forsake thee, though all else should flee!

"And now," said he, sitting down and throwing his head back in the easy-chair in a listening attitude, "you are to play. I want all those things you played at
Hillcroft
."

And Evelyn forgot completely tha
t other one in the shadowed cor
ner of the couch and played to one listener only. She played as Mr. Worthington had never heard her play before, and he had heard good music enough to be somewhat of a judge.

"Oh, that is rarely sweet!" said Maurice Grey, as though he had been drinking at some delicious fountain. "And now can you play 'Auf
Wiedersehen
'?"

Without replying and without waiting for the notes her fingers
sought among the chords for the keynote, and the soft sweet strains of the old loved tune stole through the room.

Doctor Grey was very still when it was over. Mr. Worthington was about to attempt some method of breaking up this musicale, but was not sure how to begin. He did not seem to be in things at all. He felt like knocking the lamp over, or kicking the other fellow downstairs, or something desperate. But he found there was no need. At last he had sat him out.

"And now," said Maurice Grey, with an apology for looking at his watch, "it is my duty to say goodbye. Or shall it be 'Auf
Wiedersehen
'? I cannot tell you how I have enjoyed this evening. I shall carry the memory of it with me for many a long day. I leave to-night on the midnight train for home, and in a week I start for the Pacific Coast, where I am to embark for China. Matters have been hastened a good deal. It seemed best that I should be on the ground and oversee the new hospital building, and so I am going at once."

She followed him into the hall. Something in her manner kept Mr. Worthington in the parlor after having shaken hands with the man whose whole body he would well have enjoyed shaking. Evelyn felt as if she were stunned by this sudden announcement. She did not know what to say. He was going, and none of the things she meant to ask and none of the—something, was it comfort?—she had hoped to get from him spoken. He took her hand a moment as he lingered at the door and said in his low, appealing voice:

"Have you remembered the promise?"

And she answered as low, "Yes," with her eyes down.

She looked up in time to see the light of joy in his eyes and then down again as she felt the tightening of his clasp on her hand when he said in tones almost triumphant:

"I knew it. I knew you would. And, may I know, is it being answered yet? Do you feel—are you any more willing to be—His?" His voice was yearning, anxious, as if he could not bear to go away without this answer.

Almost immediately she felt that it was so and answered in a slow
hesitation: "I think so." The conf
ession meant much to her and re
vealed much of her own heart to herself. Then she looked up in spite of her
embarrassment
to see the light of joy In his face, for she seemed to know it was there and to realize that the sight of it would soon be but a memory which she must fasten now or lose perhaps forever.

Then he was gone, but not until she knew how glad he was.

She waited an instant before she went back to the drawing room. Mr. Worthington was studying a book of fine engravings. She stood in the doorway for an instant surveying him with a fine scorn until as he looked up she said in her most cold and haughty tones: "I must ask you to excuse me. I am not feeling well" and swept from the room and up the stairs.

She did not stop at her own room, but went on up the next flight of stairs and the next, still wearing her magnificent air of pride until she climbed up into the cold dark attic, where trunks and old furniture were stored, and where were dust and utter darkness and silence.

There, after closing the door behind her, she sank down upon the dusty, bare floor, regardless of her soft white robes, and burying her face in her lap as she might have done when a little girl, she sobbed and cried aloud. No one could pos
sibly hear her up here. The ser
vants' rooms were far removed, and besides they were all downstairs. She could scream, if she chose, and no one would know. Never In her life had she wept so bitterly. Her whole being was broken utterly. "Oh, I love him!" she said to herself, though not aloud, for it was a secret too dear and sacred to be trusted even to the darkness and dust.

"I love him better than my soul, a
nd he has gone, gone, gone, for
ever probably! He does not love me. At least not in that way. But I am glad, glad that he cares for my soul Oh, what shall I do?"

Over and over again her heart cried this pitiful wail. The proud girl had reached the depths of humiliation. She wished she could die; no, could be utterly exterminated, and yet, no, that was unworthy of one to whom it had been granted to love a man like that. She must not. But oh, what should she do? And then his own voice seemed to float out of the shadows in a whisper to her heart:

Rest, rest to the weary, peace, peace to the soul;

Though life may be dreary, earth is not thy goal.

O, lay down thy burden! O, come unto me!

I will not forsake thee, I will not forsake thee,

though all else should flee!

Gradually the words soothed her tu
rbulent soul. She began to real
ize that it was late and Marie would soon be returning. She must get to her room and be in the shelter of the dark before she came. No one must know this secret of hers. And so she got herself down without being seen, and wished, as she slipped from the cover of the darkness above that she had a mother to whom she could go, who would put loving arms around her and comfort her. She felt sure that Allison's mother would do that, and that Allison would not be afraid to go to her mother with such a secret.