New Name

by Grace Livingston Hill

  “Couldn’t we pick the lock?” said Jane, wishing she still wore hair pins. It would be so romantic to lend the hair pin that opened the new hero’s trunk.

  But Mrs. Summers opened a little cabinet by the foot of the stairs and took out a hammer and screwdriver.

  “I think we’ll manage with these,” she said pleasantly. “Jane, if you’ll just take those two vases and that maple cake and run over to the church and tell them we’ll be a few minutes late, but we’re coming, then I needn’t stop to go over just yet. Now, Allan Murray, come on!” she said, and started up the stairs.

  Murray Van Rensselaer hesitated and looked toward the door, but the reluctant Jane, with arms full of cake and vases, was still filling it, eyeing him blissfully, and there was no escape that way. Perhaps if he once got in the room above with the door locked, he could climb from the window and get away in the dark. So he dragged himself up the stairs after his hospitable hostess and was ushered into a bedroom, the like of which for sweetness and restfulness had never met his eye before.

  There were thin white smooth curtains at three low windows, a white bed with plump pillows that looked the best thing in the world for his weary body, a little stand beside it with a shaded lamp, and a Bible. Odd! A Bible! Across the room was a fireplace under a white mantel, and drawn up beside it under a tall shaded lamp was a big luxurious chair with a bookcase full of books beside it.

  Then he turned to the inner side of the room, and there a bureau with a great mirror suddenly flung his own image back to him and startled him.

  The last time he had seen himself in a mirror was at his tailor’s trying on a new suit that had just been finished for his order. He could see the trim lines of his figure now, the sharp creases of well-pressed garments, the smart cut, the fine texture of the material, his own well-groomed appearance, his handsome careless face, shaven and sure of himself and his world, the grace of his every movement. He had not known he was particularly vain of himself, but now as he gazed on this forlorn, unshaven object, with bloodshot eyes, with coarse, ill-cut garments, and a shapeless cap crushed in his dirty, trembling hand, he was suddenly filled with a great shame.

  Mrs. Summers was down on her knees beside a neat trunk, making strong, efficient strokes with a hammer on the lock.

  I don’t belong here! The words were as audible to his ears as if he had spoken them aloud, and he turned with a swift motion to glide out the door and away, but too late. The lock of the trunk had given way with a rasping sound, and Mrs. Summers rose with a little smile of triumph on her lips and looked toward him. He could not flee with those kind mother eyes upon him.

  “Now, if you’ll help me pull it out from the wall, we can open it,” she said pleasantly, and there was nothing for him to do but acquiesce, although he really was very little help with that trunk, for his arms were weak, and when he stooped, a great dizziness came over him, so that he almost thought he was going to fall.

  Mrs. Summers swung the top of the trunk open deftly.

  “We can have Mr. Klingen, the locksmith, up in the morning to fix that lock before we put the trunk away in the attic for the winter,” she said, smiling. “Now, which is the suit you want to wear tonight? This blue one right on top? We’ve got to hurry a little because it’s getting late. And I’ll tell you a secret. I’ve got three big pans of scalloped oysters downstairs piping hot and just ready to be eaten, and I want you to help me carry them over to the church. They’re a surprise. They don’t know they’re going to have scalloped oysters. They think they’re only having roast lamb and mashed potatoes, but I just thought I’d have a little celebration on myself, so I made these without telling. Do you like scalloped oysters?”

  “Do I like scalloped oysters?” beamed Murray, forgetting his role of outlaw and realizing his empty stomach. “Lead me to ‘em.”

  His hostess smiled appreciatively.

  “All right, you hurry then, and I’ll have your clothes up in a jiffy! Here’s the bathroom, and this is the hot water.” She turned the faucet on swiftly. “And this knob controls the shower. Bob always liked a shower. Do you?”

  “I certainly do!” said Murray fervently.

  “Well, now, hurry up! I’ll have your suit up in no time. Let’s run a race!”

  She ran smiling down the stairs as if she were an old comrade, and he stood still in the cozy little bathroom with the steam of the nice, hot water rising in the white tub, and what seemed likea perfect army of clean, luxurious towels with big embroidered S’s on them, and Turkish washrags with blue crocheted edges, and cakes of sweet-smelling soap all calling him to the bath that his aching body so much desired, and yet now was the time when he ought to be going! He must be going!

  He glanced back from the door and down the stairs. He could just see an ironing board beyond the dining room door, right in the doorway, and the blue suit lying across it, the trousers folded in a most acceptable manner, and there was her step. She was standing right in the doorway with the iron in her hand and facing toward the stairs! He could not get away without passing her, at least not by going down the stairs. And, well—why not take a bath? He certainly needed it. There would be a way to get away later. And oh, scalloped oysters, and those good things he had seen through the windows! But of course he couldn’t go to that supper! Still, there was the bath all ready, and no telling when he would ever get a chance again.

  So he locked the door and began swiftly to take off the alien garments that in the three weeks of his wanderings he had managed to acquire. At least, here was a bath, and why not take the goods the gods provided?

  Chapter 9

  Murray Van Rensselaer was roused from the relaxation which the luxury of soap and water had brought to him by the sound of Mrs. Summers’ voice and a tap at the bathroom door.

  “Your suit is ready on the bed, and I took the liberty of laying out some underclothes and things that I found in the trunk. Will it take you long to dress? I don’t want my oysters to get tough.”

  “I’ll be with you in no time now,” he called lightly as he scrubbed away feebly with one of the big Turkish towels. He was beginning to realize all he was in for. Where would he get shaving things? He was not used to shaving himself often, either. He had depended on his man so long. But perhaps that trunk would have some things in it. Darn it all! Suppose that suit didn’t fit after she had taken so much trouble pressing it. He would simply have to make a dive out of the window if it didn’t. Or wait. He could say they had sent the wrong trunk! Only how would she account forthe fact that he hadn’t noticed it when she took out the suit? Well, he needn’t cross the bridge till he came to it.

  He gathered up his coarse garments, enveloped himself in a towel, and with a hasty survey of the hall, made a dive into “his room,” feeling as if he had already weathered several storms.

  There on the bed lay garments, and fearfully he put forth his hand and examined them. They were pleasant garments, smooth and fine, not perhaps so fine as the heir of the house of Van Rensselaer had been used to wearing, and still, good enough to feel luxurious after the ones he had picked up by the way on his journeys and used as a disguise. He climbed tentatively into them and found that they fit very well—a little loose on his lean body, grown leaner now with enforced privation, but still a very respectable fit.

  Everything was there, even to necktie and collar, even to buttons put onto the shirt. What a mother that woman was! Fancy his mother doing a thing like that, putting buttons on a shirt! And hunting out all those garments just as if she had been a man! Well, this woman was great! He had a passing regret that he could not remain and enjoy her longer, but at least he was thankful for this brief touch with a life like that. Well, he would remember it, and sometime, when—no! There would never be any time when he could, of course. He was a murderer and an outlaw. But if there had been, she would have been a sweet memory to put by to think of, a kind of ideal in a world that knew no ideals. There had been fellows in college, a few that looked as if theyhad homes a
nd mothers like this. He hadn’t realized then what made them different, but this must have been it. They had homes and mothers. He began to envy the chap whose name was Allan Murray. What a winter he would have in this room, sitting by that fire reading those books. He had never been much of a reader himself, but now as he slid his feet into the shoes that were a whole size too large for him and glanced up at the comfortable chair and the light and the gleaming blue and red and gold of the backs of those books, he thought it might be a pleasant occupation. In fact, almost anything that kept one at home and gave one rest and peace seemed heaven to him now. The bath had refreshed him and given him a brief spurt of strength, and now that he was again attired in clean garments, and looked fairly like a respectable young man once more, his courage rose. He had managed the old-fashioned razor very well indeed for one as unskilled in caring for himself as he was, and his clean-shaven face looked back at him now from the big old mahogany-framed mirror with a fairly steady glance. He wasn’t so bad-looking after all. There were heavy shadows under his eyes, and he looked thin and tired, and there was an almost irritating resemblance to his mother in his face that he had never noticed before, but still, nobody would ever look upon him just casually and take him for a murderer. And here, for the time being, he was protected by another man’s identity and name. If that chap Allan Murray only didn’t turn up in the midst of proceedings, why, perhaps he could even venture to get a little dinner, if things didn’t get too thick. Of course he could alwaysbolt if there were any signs of the other fellow coming to life. It was to be hoped that he at least had sustained a sprained ankle in the wreck that would keep him till morning, or till a late train that night. He hated the idea of having to go off with the other fellow’s clothes. They might be some he was fond of, and maybe he couldn’t afford to buy many. But he had a good job ahead of him, and he’d probably pull through—teller of a bank! That must bring a fairly large salary. And anyhow, if a fellow was a murderer, why not be a thief also? One was an outlaw anyway. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Besides, would that other fellow stop at a suit of clothes if his life was at stake? And the reputation of his fine old family? I ask you.

  His meditations were broken by a pleasant voice chanting: “Are you ready, Allan Murray? My oysters will be tough if they have to wait another minute!” and there was that something in her voice that made him respond cheerily much in the same spirit:

  “Yes, I’m coming, Mrs. Summers. Be with you immediately.” And that was the first that his real inner consciousness knew or had admitted that he really meant to dare to go to that supper.

  He snatched a nice white hairbrush and brushed his hair vigorously, parting it in a way he had never done before, and bungled a knot in the blue tie she had laid out; then, grasping a gray felt hat that seemed to wink at him from the tray of the trunk, he hurried downstairs, as pleasant-appearing a young man as ever one would need to see. He caught a glimpse of himself in a long old mirror between two windows in the living room as hecame downstairs, and he said to himself: Why, I don’t look in the least like myself. I look a new man. Nobody would ever dream that I’m a murderer!

  He carried two pans of scalloped oysters across the lawn to the church, while Mrs. Summers walked beside him and carried the third and guided him to the church kitchen door. Now, here would be a good chance to escape when she went inside the kitchen, only he would simply have to take one of those pans of oysters with him, for they were making him giddy now with their delicious odor. He wished he had remembered to bring his old overcoat with him, for it was cold out here in the chill November air.

  But Mrs. Summers gave him no chance to escape. She swung the door open and ushered him inside, where he was surrounded by a bevy of young people, who fairly took him into their arms with welcome and almost carried him on their shoulders into a great banquet hall, where tables were set with flowers and overflowing plates of good things, and the odors of wonderful food were more than a starving man could resist. He let them shut the door and draw him inside. Only when he lifted his eyes and met the eyes of one girl in blue whom they introduced as Anita, and who looked at him as if she knew he was a sham, and despised him, did he come to himself and wish he could run away.

  But Anita dealt her glancing blows and passed indifferently, and he was hurried eagerly into the banquet room and placed in the seat of honor beside the minister, who had also just arrived.

  There was a great excitement, for someone had just come inwith grave face and open evening paper, stating that the name of Allan Murray was among those who were seriously injured in the wreck.

  Murray couldn’t help feeling a twinge of relief and security as he heard that. At least he could eat his dinner in peace, without any more likelihood than there had been for the last three weeks that he would be apprehended and lodged in jail before the meal was over.

  But his relief was but short-lived, for another difficulty approached. The minister leaned over, smiling, and said in a low tone: “Murray, they’re going to call on you to ask a blessing.”

  Murray’s heart stood still, and he felt a trembling sensation creeping over him, as if the enemy after a brief respite had him in sight again. Whatever a blessing was, he didn’t know. If the man had asked him to “say grace,” he might have understood. But a “blessing”! Well, whatever it was, he had best keep out of it, so, gripping his self-control together again, he endeavored to look as if nothing extraordinary had been asked of him and leaned engagingly toward the minister.

  “Doctor, I hope you’ll excuse me from doing anything tonight. I’m simply all in. That wreck—!”

  “Oh, certainly,” the minister hastened to assure him. “I shouldn’t have asked, and of course everybody will understand. But you are so well known as an active Christian worker, you know, that it was only natural to feel it appropriate. Still, of course I understand. I’ll just tell the young president of this affair how itis, and she’ll excuse you. I guess you must have a good appetite by this time if you’ve just arrived from the wreck?” he finished kindly.

  “I’ll say!” said Murray, glad that there was one question he could answer truthfully.

  Then, suddenly, a silence spread over the entire chattering company, and Murray looked up to see the girl in blue, the one who had looked through him with scorn, whom they called Anita, standing at the middle table on the opposite side of the room, about to speak.

  “Mr. Harrison, will you ask God’s blessing?”

  Her voice rang clear, and her eyes seemed to sweep the speaker’s table where he sat and touch him with a slight look of disapproval. Somehow he felt that that girl was suspecting him. It was almost like having a police officer standing over there looking at him. It gave him a feeling that if he should dare get up and try to slide away unnoticed, she would immediately call the whole company to order and have him arrested.

  These things had for the moment engrossed his mind so that he had not taken in what the girl had been saying. But all at once he noticed that everybody in the room but himself was sitting with bent head in an attitude of prayer. At least, everybody except one girl. It was perhaps the ardent furtive glance of Jane’s eyes raised from a bent head to watch him that finally called him to himself and made him involuntarily close his eyes and bend his head. He felt as if he had been caught thinking by Jane, and that there was no knowing but she would interpret his thoughts. Sheseemed so almost uncanny in her ability to creep into intimacy without encouragement.

  But once his eyes closed, the words of Anita came back to him like an echo, especially that word “blessing.” It was the same unusual word the minister had used, and he had used it in much the same phrase, “Ask a blessing.” So this was what they meant—make a prayer! Gosh! Was that what they had wanted him to do? What he was supposed to be able to do? He had indeed assumed a difficult character, and one he would never have voluntarily chosen. What should he do about it? Would it happen again? And could he invent another excuse, or would that lay him open too much t
o suspicion? What did they say when they made a prayer over a table like that? Could he fake a prayer? He had tried faking almost everything. He was known at home as a great mimic. But to mimic something about which he knew nothing would be a more difficult task than any he had ever undertaken before. He set his mind to listen to the words that were being spoken.

  The first thing he noticed about this “blessing” business was that the minister was talking in a conversational tone of voice, as if addressing some other mortal, though with a deferential tone as to One in authority, yet on a familiar, friendly basis. The tone was so intimate, so assured, as if addressed to One the speaker knew would delight to honor his request, that Murray actually opened the fringes of one eye a trifle to make sure the man by his side was not addressing a visible presence.

  There was something beautiful and strong and tender aboutthe face of the minister with his eyes closed, standing there in the hush of the candlelit tables, the tips of his long, strong fingers touching the tablecloth, the candlelight flickering on his rugged face, peace upon his brow, that impressed Murray tremendously in the brief glance he dared take. And the words from those firm lips were no less awe-inspiring. A thrill of something he had never quite experienced before ran down his spine, a thrill not altogether unpleasant.

  Those words! They sank into his soul like an altogether new lesson that was being learned. Could he ever repeat it and dare to try to get away with a prayer like that?

  “We thank Thee for the new friend that has come among us to live, who is not a stranger, because he is the son of those whom we have long loved and known. We thank Thee for the beautiful lives of his honored father and mother, who at one time walked among us, and the fragrance of whose living still lingers in the memory of some of us who loved them. We thank Thee also that he is not only born of the flesh into the kingdom, but that he has been born again, of the Spirit, and therefore is our brother in Christ Jesus—”