There was more to that “blessing,” although the stranger guest did not hear it. He felt somehow strangely ashamed as these statements of thanksgiving fell from the pastor’s lips, as though he were being held to honor before One who knew better, who was looking him through and through with eyes that could not be deceived. So now there were two in that room whose eyes were hostile, who knew that he was false, that he did not belong there,the girl they called Anita and the Invisible One whose blessing was being invoked. And while he felt a reasonable assurance that he could escape and flee from the presence of that scornful girl, he knew in his heart that he could never get away from the other, who was the One they called God. God had never been anything in his life but a name to trifle with. Never once before had he felt any personality or reality to that name God. It filled him with amazement that was appalling in its strangeness. He felt that life until then had not prepared him for anything like a fact of this sort. Of course he knew there were discussions of this sort, but they had never come near enough to him for him even to have recognized an opinion about them before. Why they did now he did not understand. But he felt suddenly that he must get out of that room; even if he starved to death or was shot on the way, he must get away from there.
He opened his eyes cautiously, glanced about furtively for the nearest unguarded exit, and saw the eyes of Jane watching him greedily. She even met his glance with a feather of a smile flitting across her mobile young lips, a nice enough comradely smile, if he only had been in the mood to notice, and if she hadn’t been so persistent and forward, but it annoyed him. He closed his eyes quickly as if they had not been opened, and when he tried to glance about again, he looked the other direction, where he thought he remembered seeing a door into a passageway.
But a dash of blue blocked the passageway. Somehow Anita, in the blue gown, had gotten there from her position at the otherend of the room. She was standing, leaning against the door frame almost as if she were tired. Her shapely little head rested against the wall, and her eyes were closed. There was almost a weary look in the droop of her lips and the way she held the silver tray down by her side. Somehow she seemed different now when she was not looking at him. There was something attractive about her, a sweet, good look that made him think of something pleasant. What was it? Oh! Bessie!
Like a sharp knife the thought went through his heart. Yes, Bessie had a good, sweet look like this girl, and Bessie would have had eyes of scorn for anyone who was not true to the core. Up in heaven somewhere, if there was such a place as heaven—and now that he was sure he had lost it, he began to believe that there was—Bessie was looking down on him with scorn. A murderer, he was, and a coward! Here he was, sitting at a meal that was not his, wearing a suit and a name that were not his, hearing God’s blessing invoked upon him and his, and too much of a coward to confess it and take his medicine. Obviously he could not steal out now with that blue dress blocking the way. He must stay here and face worse perhaps than if he had never run away. What had he let himself in for in assuming even for a brief hour another man’s name and position in life? It was clear that this Allan Murray, whom he was supposed to be, was a religious man, had come from religious parents; so much of his newfound character he had learned from the minister’s prayer. Now how was he to carry out a character like that and play the part? He with the burden of a murderer’s conscience upon him!
The “blessing” was over, to his infinite relief, and a bevy of girls in white aprons, with fluttering ribbon badges and pretty trays, were set immediately astir. The minister turned to him with a question about the wreck, and he recalled vaguely that there had also been a word of thanksgiving in that prayer about the great escape he was supposed to have made. He grasped at the idea eagerly and tried to steer the conversation away from himself and into general lines of railroad accidents, switching almost immediately and unconsciously to the relative subject of automobile accidents, and then stopping short in the middle of a sentence, dumb, with the thought that he had killed Bessie in an automobile accident, and here he was talking about it—telling with vivid words how a man would drive and take risks and get used to it. Where was it he had heard that a guilty man could not help talking about his guilt and letting slip out to a trained detective the truth about himself?
His face grew white and strained, and the minister eyed him kindly.
“You’re just about all in, aren’t you?” he said sympathetically. “I know just how it is. One can’t go through scenes like that without suffering, even though one escapes unscathed himself. I was on a train not long ago that struck a man and killed him. It was days before I could get rested. There is something terrible about the nerve strain of seeing others suffer.”
And Murray thankfully assented and enjoyed a moment’s quiet while he took a mouthful of the delicious fruit that stood in a long-stemmed glass on his plate.
But the minister’s next sentence appalled him:
“Well, we won’t expect a speech from you tonight, though I’ll confess we had been hoping in that direction. You see, your fame has spread before you, and everybody is anxious to hear you. But I’ll just introduce you to them sometime before the end of the program, and you can merely get up and let them see you officially. I know Mr. Harper will be expecting something of that sort, and I suppose you’ll want to please him. You see, he makes a great deal of having found a Christian young man for a teller in his bank.”
The minister looked at him kindly, evidently expecting a reply, and Murray managed to murmur, “I see,” behind his napkin, but he felt that he would rather be hung at sunrise than attempt to make a speech under these circumstances. So that was his new character, was it? A Christian young man! A young Christian banker! How did young Christian bankers act? He was glad for the tip that showed him what was expected of him, but how in thunder was he to get away with this situation? A speech was an easy enough matter in his own set. It had never bothered him at all. In fact, he was much sought after for that sort of thing. Repartee and jest had been his strong points. He had stories bubbling full of snappy humor on his tongue’s tip. But when he came to review them in his panic-stricken mind, he was appalled to discover that not one was suitable for a church supper on the lips of a young Christian banker! Oh gosh! If he only had a drink! Or a cigarette! Didn’t any of these folks smoke? Weren’t they going to pass the cigarettes pretty soon?
Chapter 10
Sometime about half past ten that supper was over. It seemed more like a week to the weary wanderer, though they professed to by hurrying through their program because he must be tired.
He really had had a very good time, in spite of the strangeness of the situation and his anxiety lest his double might appear on the scene at any moment to undo him. He had tried to think what he would say or do in case that should happen, but he could only plan to bolt through the nearest entrance, regardless of any parishioner who might be carrying potato salad or ice cream, and take advantage of the natural confusion that would arise in the event of the return of another hero.
Having settled that matter satisfactorily, his easy, fun-loving nature actually arose to a moderate degree of enjoyment of the occasion. He had always taken a chance, a big chance, and in this kindly, admiring atmosphere, his terror, which had drivenhim from one point to another during the last few weeks, had somewhat subsided. It was more than halfway likely that the man he was supposed to be was either hurt seriously or dead, seeing that they had had no direct word from him, and it was hardly probable he would appear at the supper at this late hour, even if he did get a later train to Marlborough. So, gradually, the tense muscles of his face relaxed, the alert look in his eyes changed to a normal twinkle, for he was a personable young man when he was in his own sphere, and his tongue loosened. As his inner man began to be satisfied with the excellent food, and he drank deeply of the black coffee with which they plied him, he found a feeble pleasure in his native wit. His conversation was not exactly what might have been termed “religious,”
but he managed to keep out of it many allusions that would not have fitted the gathering. He was by no means stupid, and some inner sense must have guided him, for he certainly was among a class of people to whom his previous experience gave him no clue. They were just as eager and just as vivacious over the life they were living and the work they were doing as ever the people with whom he was likely to associate were over their play. In fact, they seemed somehow to be happier, more satisfied, and he marveled as he grew more at his ease among them. He felt as if he had suddenly dropped out of his own universe and into a different world, run on entirely different principles. For instance, they talked intermittently, and with deep concern, about a man whom they called John, who was suffering with rheumatic fever. It appeared that they wentevery day to see him, that he was of great importance to their whole group; some of them spoke of having spent the night with him and of feeling intensely his suffering, as if it were their own, and of collecting a fund to surprise him with on his birthday. They spoke of him with honor and respect, as if he were one with many talents whom they deeply loved. They even spoke of his smile when they came into his sick room and of the hothouse roses that someone had sent him, how he enjoyed them. And then quite casually it came out that the man was an Italian day laborer, a member of a mission Sunday school which this church was supporting! Incredible story! Quite irrational people! Love a day laborer! A foreigner! Why, they had spoken of him as if he were one of their friends!
He looked into their faces and saw something beautiful; perhaps he would have named it “love” if he had known more about that virtue, or maybe he might have called it “spiritual” if he had been brought up to know anything but the material in life. As it was, he named it “strange” and let it go at that. But he liked it. They fascinated him. A wild fancy passed through his mind that if he ever had to be tried for murder, he would like it to be here, among a people who thought and talked as these people did. They thought him like themselves, and he was not. He did not even know what they meant by some of the things they said.
Between such weird thought as this, he certainly enjoyed his dinner, wineless and smokeless even though it was. There was a taste about everything that reminded him of the days when heused to go up to Maine as a little boy and spend the summers with his father’s maiden sister, Aunt Rebecca, long since dead. Things had tasted that way there, wonderful, delectable, as if you wanted to eat on forever, as if they were all real and made with love. Odd how that word love kept coming to him. Ah! Yes, and there was Mrs. Chapparelle. She used to cook that way, too. It must be when people cooked with their own hands instead of hiring it out that it tasted that way. Mrs. Chapparelle and the pancakes, and the strawberry shortcake with cream, made of light puffy biscuit with luscious berries between and lots of sugar. Mrs. Chapparelle! Her face had begun to fade from his haunted brain since the night he had looked into her kitchen window and had seen her go briskly to the door in answer to the ring. What had she met when she opened that door? A white-robed nurse, and behind her men bearing a corpse? Or had they had the grace to send someone to break the news first?
The thought struck him suddenly from out of the cheerfulness of the evening, and he lifted a blanched face to Anita as she put before him his second helping of ice cream and another cup of coffee.
And he was a murderer! He had killed poor Bessie Chapparelle, a girl a good deal like this Anita girl, clean and fine, with high ideals. What would these people, these kind, good people, think of him if they knew? What would they do? Would they put handcuffs on him and send for the police? Or would they sit down and try to help him out of his trouble? He half wished that he dared puthimself upon their mercy. That minister now. He looked like a real father! But of course he would have to uphold the law. And of course there wasn’t anything to do but hang him when he had killed a girl like Bessie! Not that he cared about the hanging. His life was done. But for the sake of his mother, who had never taken much time out of her social duties to notice him, and the father who paid his bills and bailed him out, he was running away, he told himself, so that they would not have to suffer. Just how that was saving them from suffering he didn’t quite ever try to explain to himself. He was running away so there would not be any trial to drag his father and mother through. That was it.
He ate his ice cream slowly, trying to get ahold of himself once more, and across the room Anita and Jane happened to be standing together for an instant in a doorway.
“Isn’t he stunningly handsome, Anita? Aren’t you just crazy about him?” whispered Jane effusively.
“He’s good-looking enough,” admitted Anita, “but I’m afraid he knows it too well.”
“Well, how could he help it, looking like that?” responded the ardent Jane, and she flitted away to take him another plate of cake.
But the crowning act of his popularity came when Mr. Harper, president of the bank, senior elder in the church, and honored citizen, came around to speak with the young man and welcome him to the town. He had been detained and came in late, being rushed to his belated supper by the good women of the committee. He had only now found opportunity to find the new teller and speak to him.
Murray rose with a charming air of deference and respect and stood before the elder man with all the ease that his social breeding had given him. He listened with flattering attention while the bank president told him how glad he was to have a Christian young man in his employ, and how he hoped they would grow to be more than employer and employed.
Murray had dreaded this encounter if it should prove necessary, as he feared the president would have met his young teller before this occasion and would discover that he was not the right man. But Elliot Harper stood smiling and pleased, looking the young man over with apparently entire confidence, and Murray perceived that so far he was not discovered.
It was easy enough to assent and be deferential. The trouble would come when they began to ask him questions. He had settled it in his mind quite early in the evening that his strong point was to be as impersonal as possible, not to make any statements whatsoever about himself that could possibly not be in harmony with the character of the man he represented, as he thought they knew him, and to make a point of listening to others so well that they should think he had been talking. That was a little trick he learned long ago in college when he wanted to get on the right side of a professor. It came back quite naturally to him now.
So he stood with his handsome head slightly bowed in deference and his eyes fixed in eager attention, and the entire assembly fastened their eyes upon him and admired.
That might possibly be called the real moment when the town, at least those representatives of the town that were present, might be said to have opened their arms and taken him into their number. How he would meet Mr. Harper was the supreme test. With one accord they believed in Mr. Harper. He stood to them for integrity and success. They adored Mr. Harrison, their minister, and confided to him all their troubles; they had firm belief in his creed and his undoubted faith and spirituality; they knew him as a man of God and respected his wonderful mind and his consistent living. But they tremendously admired the keen mind, clear business ability, coupled with the staunch integrity, of their wealthy bank president, Elliot Harper. Therefore they awaited his leading before they entirely surrendered to the new young man who had come to live in their midst.
Murray Van Rensselaer felt it in the atmosphere as he sat down. He had not lived in an air of admiration all his life for nothing. This was his native breath, and it soothed his racked nerves and gave him that quiet satisfaction with himself that he had been accustomed to feeling ever since he was old enough to know that his father was Charles Van Rensselaer, the successful financier and heir of an ancient family.
He had stood the test, and the time was up. Now, anytime, in a moment or two, he could get away, melt into the darkness, and forget Marlborough. They would wonder and be indignant for a day or a week, but they would never find him nor know who he was. He would simply b
e gone. And then very likely in aday or two the other man whom he had been representing for the evening would either turn up or have a funeral or something, and they would discover his fraud. But there would in all probability be an interval in which he could get safely away and be no more. He had gained a dinner and a pleasant evening, a little respite in the nightmare that had pursued him since the accident, and he had a kindly feeling toward these people. They had been nice to him. They had showed him a genuineness that he could not help but admire. He liked every one of them, even the offish Anita, who had a delicate profile like Bessie’s, and the ridiculous Jane, who could not take her eyes from him. Now that he was an outcast, he must treasure even such friendliness, for there would be little of that sort of thing left for him in the world going forward. He could not hope to hoodwink people this way the rest of his life.
He felt a sudden pang at the thought of throwing this all away. It had been wonderfully pleasant, so different from anything he had ever experienced among his own crowd—an atmosphere of loving kindness like what he used to find at the Chapparelles’, which made the thought of stolen evenings spent in the company of Bessie seem wonderfully fresh and sweet and free from taint of any selfishness or sordidness. How different, for instance, these girls were from the girls at home. Even that Jane had an innocence about her that was refreshing. How he would enjoy lingering to play with these new people who treated him so charmingly, just as he had lingered sometimes in new summer resorts for a little while to study new types of girls and frolic awhile. It would bepleasant, how pleasant, to eat three good meals a day and have people speak kind words and try to forget that he was a murderer and an outlaw. If he were in a foreign land now, he might even dare it. But four hundred miles was a short distance where newspapers and telegraph and radio put everything within the same room, so to speak. No, he must get out, and get out quickly. There would likely be a late train, and perhaps his other self would arrive on it. If possible he would have to get away without going back to Mrs. Summers’, but at least if he went back he must not linger there. He could make some excuse, run out for medicine to the drugstore, perhaps, or if worse came to worst, pretend to go up to bed and then steal away after she was asleep. There would be a way!
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