New Name

by Grace Livingston Hill

  The letter was given to the doctor to mail the next morning when he came on his rounds, and in due time it reached the Marlborough post office. After reposing some days in the general delivery box, it was finally put up in a glass frame in the outer post office among uncalled-for letters. But the patient lay in a deep deathlike stupor, and knew nothing of all this. After his efforts to speak that one word, Marlborough, he had seemed satisfied, and the doctor and nurse tried in vain to rouse him again to consciousness of the world about him. It was thought that he had been injured around his head and that an operation might be necessary, but the doctor hesitated to take that step without first consulting with some of the sick man’s friends or relatives. The doctor even went so far as to write a note to a fellow physician in the town of Marlborough, asking him to look up this “Mary Banks” and endeavor to get a line on the man and his friends, if possible.

  But no Mary Banks could be found in all the town of Marlborough. Strange as it may seem, however, a young woman of romantic tendencies, by the name of Banks, who admitted that her middle name was Marie—Rose Marie Banks—was at last discovered, and induced to take the journey of some thirty miles to the bedside of the unconscious man, that she might identify him. It was a handsome young doctor who entreated her, anxiously, to please a former head and great colleague in the profession. He had just bought a new shiny blue car, and the day was fine. Rose Marie consented to go “just for the ride” and alighted happily before the cottage, stood an awed moment beside the sickbed, and gazed half frightened on the solemnity of the living deathbefore her. Then she shrank back with a “No, I ain’t never seen him before,” and hurried out to the waiting car, glad to be back in the sunshine of life once more. The sick man lay burning with fever and moaning incoherent words to the distracted nurse, who had done her best, and the days went on and on monotonously.

  Chapter 15

  It was strange how many circumstances could combine to hedge in Murray Van Rensselaer’s pathway so that there was no way of escape.

  They led him into the mahogany-lined cage with its bronze bars at the little window and inducted him into the mysteries of the duty of a bank teller, and he was fascinated. It was like a new game. He always was dead to the world for a time when he met with a new form of amusement. They never could get him to pay attention to anything else until he had followed out its intricacies and become master of its technique. And this playing with crisp new bills of fascinating denominations and coins in a tray of little compartments was the best he had ever tried. Poker chips and mah-jongg tiles weren’t nearly as interesting. These were real. They suddenly seemed the implements with which the world’s big battles were fought. He had a vague perception of why his fatherstayed in the game of business when he had enough money to buy himself out many times. It was for the fascination of it.

  Also, as he cashed checks and counted money, he had a realization that he was doing something for the first time in his life that was really worthwhile to the world. Just why it was valuable to the world for him to stand there and hand out money in return for checks he did not figure out. He only knew he liked it immensely. He felt as if he were doing these people a personal favor to give them money when they asked for it. He was so smiling and affable, and took so much trouble to give the fussy old lady exactly the right number of five- and ten-cent pieces that she asked for in change, and was so pleasant to the children who came with their Christmas savings accounts and had to have different things explained to them, that the other officials, watching him furtively as they went about their own business, raised approving eyebrows at one another. They nodded as they passed with a tilt of the head toward the new member of their corps, as much as to say: “He’ll do all right; he’s going to be a success.”

  It is true he often did not know how to explain the things they asked of him and had to make them up or manage to get out of answering entirely. He asked very few questions, however, of his fellow workers, for he did not wish them to suspect he did not know it all. Only now and then he would say: “Oh, I say, Warren,” to the man who had been assigned to coach him, “just what is your custom here about this?” making it quite plain that where he came from they had a method of their own, and he did not wish to vary from the usual habit here.

  It was remarkable how often he could skate like that on thin ice and not fall through. Of course his college practice had made his mind nimble in subterfuges, but on the other hand, the situation was quite different from any he had ever met with before. He found it the more interesting because of these various hazards, and he came to feel a new elation over each person whom he succeeded in serving satisfactorily without help. It was quite a miracle that he made no more mistakes than he did.

  The morning passed swiftly, and when he was told that it was the noon hour, he came to himself with a sudden realization that now was his chance to escape. He had almost forgotten that he had wanted to escape—needed to. He was enjoying himself hugely and liked the idea of going on and becoming a banker. He saw himself winning out and becoming a champion in the game of banking—just as he had won out and become a champion in tennis and golf and polo.

  But with the relief from his little cage window and the piles of fascinating coins came the remembrance of his terrible situation, came as if it were new all over again, and settled down upon his soul in crushing contrast to the happiness of the morning. Why, men had liked him, been pleased with what he did, showed him that he was going to be a success. The long lines of men and women, even boys and girls, outside his window, looking at him as if he were someone who held their fate in his hand, had eyed him with pleasant cordiality. Everywhere men had acknowledgedhis smile, as if it were worth something to know him. He had been used to all that, of course, at home, only there had been a new tang to this friendliness—a kind of respect that had never been granted to him before. Was it because he was doing real work? Or was it partly because of what they thought he was—that religious business that almost everyone managed to get in a hint about? He did not quite understand it, but it somehow gave him a new angle on life, a new respect for righteousness and right living. How odd that he had never thought before that there were compensations in being what men called “good.”

  But to have experienced this new deference and then to be let down to reality again was a tremendous blow. Of course he had known it was not his; he was only sort of playing at being a man and a bank employee, but it had been great! And now he had to go out and sneak away like a thief and disappear! He looked down at the piles of money he was leaving with a wistful regret. Suppose he was a thief! Suppose he should sweep all that with one good motion into his pocket and disappear. He could do it. It would be a good game, interesting to see if he could get away with it, but how loathsome to think about afterward! He almost shivered at the thought of himself doing a thing like that. That money had come to have a sort of personality and value of its own apart from what it might be worth to him personally. He had never looked at money before in any but the light of his own needs. There had always been plenty of it so far as he was concerned, and he had always seemed to feel he had a right to as much as he pleased. Butnow he suddenly saw that money was a necessity to the daily life of the community. He had seen it pay a gas bill and a telephone bill today, and he had seen small checks brought forth from worn wallets in trembling hands, and the cash carried away with a look that showed it was to be used for stern necessity. One could tell by the shabbiness of some of the owners that with them a little money had to go a long way.

  Now all this swept through his mind in a kind of hurried surge as he turned to follow the man Warren out to lunch. He knew none of the words to express these thoughts to himself, but the thoughts themselves left their impression on his soul as they surged through him.

  And now, the murderer, who had played at being a bank teller for a brief time, must go out supposedly to lunch, must shake this man Warren somehow and get away, never to return, and he did not want to go. He did not want to go
back to being a runaway murderer. He felt like a small boy who wanted somebody to show him the way home and comfort him. He decided the quickest way to shake Warren was to say that he must run back to Mrs. Summers’ for lunch, as she would be expecting him, and he needed to get something he had left in his other coat, some papers he must show to Mr. Harper at once.

  But he found no opportunity for such stratagem. The man Warren was in complete command of the situation. He was sent by Mr. Harper to bring Murray to the top floor, where lunch was to be served to the directors today, and where the president wasawaiting him and wanted him to sit beside him. They were joined almost at once by one or two others who had been more or less in his vicinity all the morning, so there was no chance whatever of escape unless he wished to try the astonishing method of making a dash. This matter of making a bold dash had become almost an obsession in his mind. He saw it was a thing that was impossible. They would think he was crazy. They would immediately cry out. He would be caught at once and have to explain. It might work in the darkness, perhaps, but not in broad daylight in a bank. So he followed meekly and was shot up in the elevator to the top floor and given a fine lunch and more of the pleasant deference that had soothed his overwrought nerves all the morning, until he was even able to rally and make several bright sallies in response to the conversation of the men about him. He could see again that they liked him and were pleased with his ready speech.

  Back to the window again and the pleasant game that was so fascinating. There was only one unpleasant occurrence, just before closing time, when the girl Anita came in to make a deposit and looked at him with her clear eyes. A distant, formal recognition she gave him, but no more, and again he felt her likeness to Bessie, poor Bessie Chapparelle, with her white face against his shoulder as he carried her into the hospital.

  It swept over him with a sickening thud: Bessie was dead. Why hadn’t he gone back to Bessie Chapparelle long ago? This girl Anita had that same sweet reserve about her that Bessie had put between himself and her while they were driving. He had wanted to breakdown that reserve, but he liked her for it. He could see that Anita would be a good girl to know. She would be somewhat like Bessie, perhaps. But because of Bessie he shrank from even looking at her. And somehow that odd fancy that she could look through him, that she might even read that he had killed a girl, took more and more possession of his mind. He must get away from this town!

  But Mr. Harper came to him just at closing time, and said he wanted to take him home to dinner that night, that there were one or two matters he wanted to talk over with him, and besides his wife and daughters were most anxious to meet him. They would leave the bank around five o’clock. His duties would be about over for the day then, and they would take a little drive around the town and vicinity of Marlborough, if that was agreeable to the young man. Then they would drive to the Harper home and dine and spend the evening.

  There was nothing to do but assent, of course, but his mind was so troubled trying to think how to get away that he scarcely paid heed to the routine of his work, which they were trying to teach him, and once or twice made bad calculations which he knew must have made them wonder that he did not know better. He saw they were being very nice to him, but he fancied a look of surprise passed over their faces that he had not understood more quickly.

  The day’s agenda was carried out without a break. He actually went through that entire day, ride and dinner and evening and all, and was returned to Mrs. Summers’ house late that night andushered to the very door, which she herself opened for him, so that there was no instant in which he could have gotten away unnoticed.

  As he stood by the bedroom window in the soft light of the little bed lamp and looked out into the pleasant street once more, as he had done twenty-four long hours before, he was amazed at the supervision that had followed him from early morning to late at night. It seemed almost uncanny. He was beginning to wonder if perhaps there was some secret reason for it, that he should be caught in this maze of deceit, and then to add this also to his already-heavy offense. Could it be possible that a kind Providence, or some other great unseen Power, if there was such a thing in the universe, had provided this way of escape from his terrible situation and prepared a new place and a new name for his wayward self to begin again?

  He looked around the pleasant, friendly little room that seemed already to have somehow become his, to the deep easy chair with the soft light falling on a magazine laid close at hand, to the comfortable white bed, with its sheets turned down again, ready for his entrance, and suddenly his heart failed him. How could he go out into the world again and hide away from men when here was this home and this place in the world awaiting him? He would never find another place where everything would be so easy to fit into. He might stay at least until something was heard of the other fellow. He would take pains to inquire about that wreck. He would profess to be anxious about some of hisfellow passengers, and they would talk, and he would find out a lot of things—where the other fellow really lived—and perhaps there would be a way of tracing him. If he had really died, the way would be clear for him. The man seemed to have come from a distance, from the way they spoke of his trains, and his trunk coming on ahead. It was likely there would be a good chance of his never being found out. Why not take the chance?

  Now, Murray Van Rensselaer had been taking chances all his life. He loved chances. He was a born gambler in life, and if it had not been for the white face of Bessie Chapparelle that haunted him everywhere he turned and suddenly appeared to him out of the most unexpected thoughts and occurrences, he would have just delighted in entering into this situation and seeing if he could get away with it. The little white haunting face spoiled everything for him everywhere. There had never been anything in his life before that really took the fun and the excitement out of living.

  There was one other occurrence of the day that set its searing touch upon his troubled mind, and that was when he had been returning from lunch. He had lifted his eyes to the wall beyond the table where patrons were standing writing checks and had seen a large sign hanging on that wall beyond the table in full sight of all who entered the bank, bearing the picture of a young man, and underneath the picture the words, in large letters, $5,000 REWARD—

  He read no more. To his distorted vision the picture seemed to be one of himself. Yet he was not near enough to see it, and hedared not go nearer. It had been like a nemesis staring him in the face all the afternoon as he worked away at the game of money, every time he looked up, and tried not to see the sign upon the wall with the face and the words upon it, yet always saw them.

  He thought of the sign now as he stood by the window and looked out, thinking how he could get across that tin roof silently, and down to the ground by way of the rose trellis.

  Then the thought presented itself that perhaps, after all, he was safer there, in the bank, even if it proved to be his own picture staring across at him, than he would be out in the world trying to run away from people who were hunting for him and wanting to get that reward. No one would think of looking for that face behind the teller’s window. He was bearing an honored name, and behind that name he was safe. He must stay. That is, unless the other man turned up, and then—? Well, then it would be time enough to decide what to do. At least his situation could be no worse than it was now. He would go to bed and to sleep like other people, and tomorrow he would get up and go to the bank and play that enticing game of money again and see if he could get away with it all. At least it would keep his mind occupied, so that he would not always have to see Bessie Chapparelle lying huddled beneath that overturned car.

  He turned from the window and looked toward the tempting bed again. He was not used to resisting temptations. It had been his habit always to do exactly as he pleased, no matter what the consequences. Let the consequences take care of themselves whenthey had arrived. Ten to one they would never arrive. It had been his experience that if you kept enough things going, there was no room for consequences
. Habit is a tremendous power. Even in the face of a possible arrest for murder, it swayed him now. And he was tired—deadly tired. The excitement of the day, added to the excitement of the days that had gone before, had exhausted him. Add to that the fact that he had been without stimulants of any kind, unless you could call coffee a stimulant. It was a strange thing, all these people who did not drink and did not approve of smoking. How did they get that way?

  He had thought that as soon as he got out in the world again somehow he would manage to get a pack of cigarettes. But at the breakfast table Mrs. Summers had told him how the one thing that had held her back at first from being ready to take him in was that she hated smoking in her house, but when Mr. Harper had boasted that he was a young man who never smoked, that decided her.

  “And he was so pleased about it,” she added. “You know, though he smokes himself, he said it was a sign of great strength of character in you that you had gone all through the war even without smoking, and you were said not to be a sissy, either.”

  He had paid little heed to her words while he was eating breakfast, because his mind was engrossed with how he could get away, but down at the bank Mr. Harper, at noon, lighting his cigar, looked at him apologetically and said: “I know you don’t smoke, Murray, but I hope you’ll pardon us older fellows whobegan too young in life to cut it out now. I admire your strength tremendously.”