An Unwilling Guest (26 page)

"It is that I let you hold my hand last night," she said desperately,
her face fairly blazing and her eyes filling with tears. "I am so—so ashamed, and I have spent such a miserable night and day. I did not know that I could deliberately go on and do a thing that I knew was so wrong, but I did. And I could not go without telling you how sorry and ashamed I am."

"Did you think that was so very wrong?" asked the young man with intense voice, gripping his hat which he still held in his hand as if it were trying to get away from him.

"Oh, yes, I think such things ought to be kept for just one—that is— I mean that a girl should not allow—
mere friends—to take such liber
ties." Her embarrassment was intense. In every word she spoke she seemed to herself to blunder worse. She did not see the white, stricken look on her companion's face. She was occupied with her own distress.

"I see," he said, still in that repressed tone. "But you must not blame yourself. It was entirely my fault. I remember now you did take your hand away. I should have taken the hint. It was rude and inexcusable in me. But I do not think any of those terrible things of you that you have suggested. It was not that I did not respect you. You are as pure as a lily. I beg you will forgive yourself. As for myself I shall always regret that I have caused you this pain."

"Oh don't!" she said, and he seemed to know that the tears had come again to her eyes, and then Evelyn was heard calling:

"Allison, where are you? The m
an has come for your trunk. Is i
t ready to lock?" and Allison hastily wiped her red eyes and rushed back to her room.

The conversation at dinner was mainly between Mr. Rutherford, senior, and Allison. He openly expressed his grief at her withdrawal from the family group. He brought the bright blushes to her face by telling her that he was coming to regard her as another daughter, and neither Allison nor Richard dared look up, but each was smitten to the heart by the thought his words suggested.

Both Allison and Richard had been counting on Evelyn's cold to keep her at home. They hoped to hav
e opportunity to finish that un
comfortable talk in some way that would not leave them with such torn hearts and minds, just how, neither knew; but each was looking
forward to the ride to the ferry. Allison felt sure he would accompany her. But neither had counted on Mr. Rutherford, senior. Just as Evelyn had kissed Allison good-bye and was wrapping her own fur cloak about her for the ride across the city he appeared in his overcoat with hat in hand.

"I think I'll just go over along with you, my son. We want this little girl to understand that we are very
lot
h
to part with her and shall ex
pect her back again as often and as soon as she can come."

It was a long speech for her father to make and Evelyn marveled at it and felt that she had done well to bring Allison into their home. Her father had shown his tenderness for her so much of late. It was
grow
ing very sweet to Evelyn. With a sudden impulse she said, "Wait," and
flew up the stairs, returning in
a moment with a large fur-lined opera cloak and hood enveloping her.

"I am going myself," she said, "I shall not catch cold in this and I cannot have you all go off without me."

It was an outwardly pleasant party that rode along through the lighted streets, though two of them bore heavy hearts. There would be no chance to say anything, thought Allison, and she would have to go away remembering that grave, hurt look on his face. It almost broke her heart.

'There shall be an opportunity
made for me to ask her one ques
tion," said the young man to himself a
s he ground his teeth with reso
lution in the dark. "Yes, even if I have to travel on to the next station for the purpose."

Quite across the ferry they went with her, and even into the train and sat chatting with her for a few minutes. Richard slipped away from them a moment to find the port
er and make some little arrange
ment for the traveler, and then coming back grew suddenly anxious lest Evelyn would have to get off the train when it was moving. He thought he never would get them to take leave. He was so anxious about it that he almost forgot to shake hands with Allison at all himself and then did it in a very hasty manner.

Once they were finally outside and
walking along by the train look
ing up to find her window, he suddenly remembered that he wished to
speak to the porter again and rushed back in spite of Evelyn's warning that the last whistle was sounding. He
cared not. He did not even pre
tend to look for that unnecessary porter. He strode up the aisle to the surprised Allison, who had begun to settle into the dreary retrospect that she knew would be hers during the journey. He cared not that his father and sister were looking through the window outside. He bent over her and said in low tones which only she could
hear:

"Did you mean that there was som
eone else? Are you engaged, Al
lison?"

She met him with a relieved smile of astonishment "Oh, no!" she said, in such a free glad tone, "what made you think of such a thing? Please forgive me for making you feel so uncomfortable. I cannot tell you what a happy time you have given me. And, oh, please, won't you get off quick? I a
m afraid you will be hurt!” This last with that femi
nine anguish of face and voice in which even the strongest-minded women indulge when those they lov
e are lingering beyond the warn
ing, "All aboard!"

He caught her hand, his face lighting up once more, and wrung it with a last good-bye, and then ran, while she watched anxiously till she saw him as the train, moving rapidly now, passed him on the platform where the
Rutherfords
waved her farewell

Richard Rutherford was not very talkative during the ride home. His father and sister monopolized the conversation. He was trying to justify his heart in feeling so much lighter than it had done during the drive down. Could it be possible that he had mistaken her meaning? It had looked as though she were trying to tell him gently that she belonged to another, or at least that she did not and could not care for him. But she had disclaimed that with such a clear, true look that he knew it could not be. Also there had been something else in her face, taken unaware, when he had returned to the car, a lighting of joy. It might or it might not mean good to him. Why had he been such a fool? Why had he not explained to her that it had been honest deep love for her that had prompted him to take her hand. Instead, he had allowed her to leave his home thinking he was a dishonorable man, a man who would toy with a girl's affections for an hour and think no more of it
.

He never had been that kind of a man and he could not understand now why he had allowed himself to be silent. Still he had feared to tell his love when she seemed to be trying to show him that it was not for her.

But something must be done. He would justify himself now at all hazards. She must know his love even if it frightened her and did seem premature.

When he reached home he wandered up toward his own room and in so doing passed the open door of her deserted room. It was dark there, but he could see the outline of the furniture from the light in the hallway. He stepped in and sat down in a low rocking-chair and tried to think. This room had but a few hours before sheltered her. It seemed a hallowed place. He would stay here a little while and think what he would do. It might be that so
me sweet influence from its for
mer occupant would show him the way. He must write and tell her, but he wanted guidance. What would she do? Ah! she would pray!

A few minutes afterward a light step entered the room and Evelyn stood beside her brother, her hand resting gently on his head.

"Dick, dear," she said tenderly, "what is the matter? I couldn't help seeing. Can't you tell me about it?"

He raised his head and kissed her hand. There was an uplifted look upon his face.

"Evelyn," he said, "I am going to vis
it Aunt Joan, and I am going to
morrow!"

Al
lison had scarcely settled herself to the thought of the journey and was preparing to puzzle her brain over what those last words of Richard Rutherford had meant, when a surprisingly deferential porter stood beside her with a large box and two smaller packages. He with difficulty made her understand that they were for her, and she opened them with much delight, unmindful of the watchful eyes of her fellow-passengers. The large box contained flowers, she was sure. Yes, great, dark, rich crimson
jacqueminots
with long, strong stems and crisp, green leaves. She buried her face in them to hide the tears that had rushed to her eyes in spite of herself.

The other packages contained two new books that were being much discussed and a box of fine confectionery. Suddenly the fact that he had called her "Allison," in parting came forth and stood out from all other facts and confronted her. She turned rosy red, and the gentleman across the aisle who had been watching her curiously decided there was no use hoping to get a glance from those eyes. She was too much absorbed, and besides she seemed to be already secured. The dreary retrospect that had been summoned to attend her journey got off at the next station, and Allison went home in a confused state of mind, now smiling to herself as she looked fr
om the dark window and now keep
ing back the tears that would come as she thought of some of the things she had obliged herself to say. They seemed rude and almost cruel now. What did he think of such a strange girl?

It was the second day. Allison had tried hard to settle into the old routine of little daily duties at home. She had unpacked her trunk and
told her mother a great many things that happened in New York; not all—she was not ready for that yet
—and the wise mother saw and un
derstood and waited.

She had gone out for a few minut
es to a neighbor's now on an er
rand and Allison was left alone in the house. It was not quite time for her father to come home for supper. She hovered about from room to room feeling a strange unrest, and chiding herself for it. She lighted the gas and went over to the table where stood a tall vase
f
illed with roses and bent and laid her cheek upon their cool, sweet petals.

It was just at that moment that someone was coming up the walk and saw the pretty vision through the half-drawn lace curtains. He paused a moment to take in the beauty and the meaning of it for him. His roses! His heart quickened and he went up the steps with a bound and rang the bell.

Out on the street a boy stood watching him up the path. He was a handsome boy with heavy features and large, saucy eyes. He stood a moment and then took a step or two back out of the way of a tree that hindered his vision. He watched until the hall door opened and let in the stranger and then he said aloud:

"Well, I'll be whacked! It's him. It is, sure. Well, I
s'pose
it's got to come sometime, and he's a mighty nice feller." Then he drew a long sigh and turned up the street whistling a tune he had learned in the Sunday-school.

Al
lison had not lit the gas in
the hall yet, but the open door from the parlor gave light enough to tell who the stranger was when he came into the hall. She stood, looking at him almost as if she saw a vision, and unbidden by her will her lips spoke one word:

"Richard!"

"Allison!" he answered, depositing his dress-suit case on the floor and taking her in his arms. She did not draw away nor even try to take away the hand he held in one of his.

"Allison," he said, "I had to come and ex
plain to you that it was be
cause I loved you that I took your hand. I could not bear to have you think another day that I had been dishonorable, or playing with you. My darling, will you forgive me now?"

For answer she raised her sweet face to his, all smiles and tears, trustingly as a flower would turn toward the sun, and he stooped and laid his lips upon hers.

*   *   *

Suddenly, out of what seemed a dear sky to the unthinking, pleasure-loving part of the civilized world, there burst the trouble in China.

Evelyn Rutherford had not been one who cared to read the daily papers much. She would glance them over occasionally, but she had not been taught to read the news when a child and did not care for it when she grew older.

Her father and brother were talking about the Chinese trouble when she came down to breakfast one morning. She paid little attention, supposing it to be some political trouble. There were so many wars and rumors of wars that came not near her.

That afternoon she was on her way to the elevated train and the pinched face of a newsboy who was madly crying, "Here's all about your Boxers!" attracted her attention.
She supposed it was some sport
ing news and did not care for a paper, but bought one for the sake of the little pleading face of the boy who offered it. Once in the train she leaned back and thought no more of the paper till looking down her eye caught the words "TROUBLE IN CHINA" in large letters. She drew a quick breath and grasped the paper tightly as she read. What horrible story was this? She read every word. There was little known as yet, except terrible surmise. She bought every
paper the next newsboy carried when she got off the tram and read with fevered haste. So many contradictory reports, so many theories and ghastly conjectures! They were all clamoring about the legations. What was the danger of the American minister, a man who had gone to China purely from business motives, or from ambition, to be compared to the dangers of the missionaries, of one true man in
particular who carried the mes
sage of love and peace and who had really given up his life that he might help those brutal people? She searched hungrily for word of the missionaries. She had been to the women's foreign meetings enough now to understand a little about it. There was very little said about the
missionaries in
parti
cular. They were mentioned as in
great danger. In some places there was report of a general massacre of the missionaries planned, and one paper had the audacity to state that it was more than likely that the Christian missionaries were the underlying cause of all this hatred toward foreigners by the Boxers.

She reached home in a state of excitement. She plied father and brother for information and th
ey gave it plentifully, but in
language far too technical for her to gain much help. Their talk presently branched off into a discussion of the political situation of the whole world with regard to China, and Evelyn ceased to try to follow them. Her heart seemed to be settling down in dull thuds and throbs to stand the strain that was put upon it
.
Only one more sentence did she catch from her brother as she st
arted upstairs. It was spoken in
a low anxious tone to her father

"I am afraid it will go hard with
Grey. He is right in
the midst of the trouble, and he's not one to run away from danger if he thinks his duty calls him there."

She stopped on the stairs, her hand to her heart, but heard no more. She remembered that Mauri
ce Grey would presently stand in
t
he po
sition of brother to Dick. He had a right to be anxious and to speak of him. How she envied Dick! She must keep her anxiety to herself. She had no right to even feel it, and how could she help it?

She turned out the gas in her room and sat down in
the dark. The slow tears trickled sadly down her cheeks and she let them stay wet on her face. She thought of the night when she had gone up to the dark attic and poured out her trouble in long sobs. She would like to cry like that again, only she could not. She was too tire
d. She was tired a great deal in
these days. Presently she went and knelt down beside her bed and tried to pray,—to pray for the one she loved and for herself. Her
cheeks had grown hot many a tim
e as she thought of that confession she had
made to herself in
the attic the year before, but to-night with such grave calamities imminent she forgot that it was any shame to her to love a man who loved not her and had never even shown her any but the simplest of attentions. She forgot everything but himself and herself and the God who could care for them both. She knew so little
about prayer yet; she did not know how to ask; but she prayed that she might be enabled to pray as she had prayed for her conversion.

The days that followed were harrowing ones; they were such for all the country, but so very hard for her since she mus
t not show her feelings to any
one. No, for that would be disgrace a
nd shame to him and her both, to
think that she should give her love unasked.

But she could go to the missionary meetings and she did, and found
there
mothers and wives and sisters who were mourning and praying and anxious for their dear ones, and sometimes she could put her arms about some distressed mother or sister and weep with her; often her tears of genuine sympathy did much to soothe and comfort. People wondered at this elegant young woman who
spent so much time and money in
the missionary work, and who seemed so anxious for China, and so sympathetic. Evelyn never said much nor did her deeds openly. She did not stop to question now what people would think of her changed ways, that she, a queen of society, should eschew all social
haunts and instead spend her tim
e in missionary meetings and studying about China. What mattered it to her what they thought?

"Evelyn does not look well," said Mr. Rutherford to his son one day. "She is white and thin."

"Oh, she'll be all right when the weather gets settled. It's spring fever. You know she didn't look well last spring," Richard said cheerily. He had a letter from Allison in his pocket and he was anxious to get upstairs to read it over again.

Into the midst of the days of anxiety and disquietude came Jane
Bashford
. She was Jane Worthington now. Her father had been strongly opposed to the match and so the young people had taken matters in their own hands and been secretly married. It had been just the k
ind of thing Jane delighted in,
so romantic. But it was not nearly so romantic when the brief honeymoon was over and she discovered that her dashing young husband had not the wherewithal to pay their hotel bills. Jane had to be very humble
and go back to her father, beg
ging forgiveness, and the father had g
ranted it within certain limita
tions. They were living quietly, Jane said, all too quietly for the young
son-in-law's ideas. He made his wife miserable by calling her father all kinds of names. He intimated that he had been given to expect plenty of money, and he plainly told his wife that he cared more for several other girls but had chosen her because he supposed that she was able to command the money and had sense enough not to bawl all the time like a baby. He hated sniveling women, he declared. "And he says," wept Jane, her pretty face sad and swollen with much weeping, "that he always loved you, and that he only took me to spite you."

Evelyn's own pale face flushed deep with angry scorn. This was the man with whom she had been glad to make merry only two short years ago! From what had she been saved! "The scoundrel!" she said under her breath, while Jane unmindful sav
e of herself and her own sorrow
ful little tale, poured out the story of her wrongs.

"He often comes home dead drunk
," she said with a strange hard
ness in her child-eyes that would have reminded Allison of the woman in the mission. She said it as if that were the smallest of her sorrows. Poor thing! She actually seemed to love him yet in spite of it all. "He
talks dreadfully to me, then, and he struck me the other night," she said, showing the black and blue mark of his brutal fist.

Could she show this poor child-wi
fe the way to Jesus, Evelyn won
dered? Might it be possible to reach her through her love for that poor wretch of a husband, and show a higher, dearer love that would not fail her?

Evelyn's heart was filled with compassion, while she looked down upon her old-time friend from a height to which she had climbed in these two years. How could they ever have been friends? she wondered. What possible tastes could
they now have in common? How in
credulous Jane would be if she should tell her of her interest in China. China was a far-away land to Jane for which she cared not one whit
.

Evelyn, with a prayer in her heart that came with the wish to help her former friend, set herself to remember all that had been said to help her to Jesus. All the steps by which she had come she would try to lead her friend. But when she attempted a little word she found she would have to begin down the ladder much, much lower than she had started.

"I don't know what you mean, Evelyn," said the weeping wife, looking up through her selfish tears. "How strangely you talk," half-petulantly. "What have you been doing to yourself? You look quite shabby and your dress is entirely out of style. Doesn't it make you feel awfully gloomy to think of such things? My! I couldn't bear it! Life is hard enough without being so poky. I go out all I can to forget my trouble. I went to the theatre every night
last week. Harry likes the the
atre better than anything else, only he will go back behind the scenes and talk to those horrid actresses. But then he says he always did that, that all men do, so I suppose I must put up with it. Pray? Dear me, no! I couldn't do that. It would put me in the blues worse than I am. You need a good dance to stir you up. Evelyn, you are growing mo
rbid. Come over to our house to
morrow afternoon and I'll introduce you to some of
Harry's
friends. They are awfully interesting men. A little wild, perhaps, but after all, very interesting. You don't want them too slow, you know."