Chapter 20
When Mrs. Chapparelle left her kitchen and the white face pressed against the windowpane and hurried to answer the wheezy old doorbell, her only thought was to hurry and get back to her hot griddle. She knew it was almost smoking hot now, and she wanted to try a little batter to see if there was just the right amount of baking soda in it before Bessie came.
She glanced at the clock as she passed through the door. It was late for Bessie already. What could have kept her? But then, she must have lingered longer at the library, for this was her vacation, and books were always such a temptation to her dear girl. How she wished she were able to buy more of them for her very own.
This would be Bessie, of course. She must have forgotten her key. Strange! Bessie never forgot things like that.
But it was not Bessie standing in the dusky street, with the big glaring arc light casting long shadows on the step. It was thesame boy with the silver buttons and the mulberry uniform who had been there that afternoon with the two great big suit boxes, and insisted on leaving them there for a Miss Elizabeth Chapparelle. She had told him very decidedly that nothing of the sort belonged there, and that she could not inform him where they should go. She had even looked in the telephone book for another Chapparelle, but had not found any. Then she had told him that he had better go back to the shop and get further information. Now! Here was that boy again! What could be the meaning of it? She wished Bessie would come home while he was here and tell him herself that the packages were not hers. Bessie might know to whom they belonged.
But the boy was under orders this time.
“Lady, they’re a present,” he announced with a knowing wink. “I knowed I was right the first time. I’ve lived in this city since I was born, and I get around some every day. You can’t kid me about an ad-dress! This here delivery belongs here, and don’t belong nowheres else.”
Mrs. Chapparelle was quite indignant.
“I’m sorry,” she said firmly, “but I’m sure there’s a mistake. There is no one who would send my daughter a gift from that shop. I cannot receive it. I cannot be responsible for goods kept here that do not belong to us. You must take it back and say the people would not receive it.”
“Say, lady, would you want me to lose my job? You don’t know Madame! She said I was to leave it, see? And when Madame saysleave it, I leave it. You c’n fight it out yerself with Madame, but I ain’t risking my job. You’ll find the young lady will know all about it, and I’m leaving it. It’s all paid for, lady, so don’tcha worry.”
He dropped the package swiftly and returned to the street, where he lost no time at all in swinging himself into the mulberry car with the silver script lettering and glided away from the door, leaving the usually capable Mrs. Chapparelle standing annoyed and hesitating in the open door, a spatula in one hand and the two big boxes at her feet. What in the world could have happened to bring about this ridiculous situation? Now here were likely some very valuable garments that would most certainly have cost a great deal of money, landed at her feet for safekeeping. She disliked keeping them even until morning. Something might happen to them. The house might catch on fire and the clothes be destroyed, and she would be responsible. It would not matter so much if they had money to pay for such things, but they had not, and would be in real trouble if anything was damaged. It was likely the freak of the delivery boy, who did not want to bother to take the things back, and thought this an easy way out of it. She would not stand it. She would call up the shop at once and demand that they come for their property. It was not much after six. If she telephoned at once, she might catch them before closing.
She closed the door and, stooping, read the name and address on the boxes. Grevet’s. She studied the telephone book and was soon talking with one of the employees in the office.
“No, ma’am. I don’t know anything about it, ma’am. The shopis closed. Madame is gone. You’ll have to call again in the morning, ma’am. I’m only one of the service girls. I don’t know anything about it.”
She hung up and turned annoyed eyes toward the front door, wishing Bessie would come. How late it was! Why should Bessie be so late? It could not be possible that the child had been saving up money and had bought something for her to surprise her. She surely would not be so shortsighted. It would not be like Bessie. Bessie would know that she would not like it. And Bessie would never go and get anything for herself, either, at a shop like that. It would cost a fortune. As for it being a present, as the boy had said, that was all nonsense. Who would ever send Bessie a present from Grevet’s? Nobody had any right to send Bessie presents. No, it was a mistake, of course. They would open it before long when Bessie came and find out if there was any clue to its owner. Just now she could smell the griddle burning, so she dropped the boxes on a chair in the front room and fled back to her kitchen.
The griddle was sending up blue smoke, and she quickly turned down the gas and mopped off the burning grease with an old dishcloth, promptly subduing her griddle back to its smooth, steady heat again. The batter hissed and sputtered and flowed out on the black griddle, shaping itself into a smooth round cake and puffing at once into lovely lightness, with even, little bubbles all over its gray-white surface. Her practiced eye watched it rise and knew that the cake was just right, just enough soda, just light enough, and just enough milk to give it a crisp brownness. Sheslid a deft spatula under its curling edges, flopped it over exactly in its own spot, its surface evenly browned. Then she turned her attention to the amber syrup bubbling slowly to just the right consistency of limpid clearness. She shoved the coffeepot to the back of the stove, lifted the cake to a hot plate on the top of the oven, tore a bit out of it and tasted it to make sure it was perfect, and then looked at the clock. Why, it was a quarter to eight! Was it possible? What had become of Bessie? How could she stay out so late? She knew her mother would worry! What should she do?
Often she had rehearsed in her mind through the years what she would do if anything happened ever that Bessie did not come home some evening. She would go about it in a most systematic way. She would phone the office to see if she was there. She would ask the janitor if he knew when she left the building, and who was she with? She would phone the other girls in the office. She had carefully gleaned their addresses one by one from her unsuspecting daughter to be prepared for such a time of trouble. Failing in getting any help from the girls or their employer, she would phone the nearest police station, and the big radio stations, and ask for help.
All this carefully planned program began to rush before her mind now as if a scroll with it written out had been unfolded. How many mothers have been through such a time of anxiety, and had a similar plan present itself, and say, “Here, now, is the time to use me,” and yet the mother hesitates. So this mother waited and hesitated. Bessie was so careful and so sensible. Bessie had so muchcommon sense. Terrible things did not happen in the world very often. There was some little simple explanation to this delay, and Bessie would surely walk in after five minutes more. Bessie would hate so to have her make a fuss, as if she could not take care of herself. Yet she might have telephoned if she had to stay.
So the mother reasoned and shoved back the griddle, turned the gas very low, heated the oven, and put away the rest of the meal to keep hot; finally abandoning clock, griddle, oven, and all, she went into the little dark front room to sit at the window, as mothers will, and look out and watch the passersby, waiting for the loved one.
The clock struck eight, and Bessie did not come. There lay those two strange boxes. They could have no connection, of course, with Bessie’s being late, and yet they annoyed her. Bessie would be annoyed, too, when she came and found them. Perhaps she would not talk about them till her daughter had eaten her supper. Of course, she would soon come, and they would be eating pancakes and syrup, and she would take a deep breath again and know that all was well.
Was that the clock striking the half hour? Oh, what could have happened to Bessie? Never had she sta
yed away like this before without telephoning. Of course it was not late for a grown girl to be out in the bright city streets, but Bessie always let her know where she was. There had not been anything planned for this evening. She had been going to the library. Perhaps somehow she had gotten locked in the library through lingering too long. Howcould she find out? Would there be a night watchman who would go and search for her? What was the name of the library Bessie went to? She searched her brain for the right name as she strained her eyes to the street, which seemed full of strangers passing, but no sign of her girl. She went to the kitchen, warm and cozy and safe, with the batter waiting in a yellow bowl on the tiny old-fashioned marble-topped table beside the stove. The first buckwheats of the season, and Bessie loved them so! She looked in a panic at the clock, which was nearing a quarter to nine, and went hurriedly for the telephone book to look up a number. She really could not remain inactive any longer. She had set nine o’clock as her limit to wait, but she must be ready with numbers to call when the first stroke rang. Bessie would not let her go later than nine without phoning. There was a kind of pact between them that she would not get anxious nor do anything foolish till after nine.
She had written out the numbers of three libraries and the police station, and it was three minutes to nine when she heard the front door open. She was so frightened she was trembling, and for a moment her voice went down in her throat somehow, and she could not call. She would hear a voice. Was it Bessie?
“I’m quite all right now, thank you—” It sounded weak and tired. She got to her feet and stood as the kitchen door opened and Bessie walked in.
“I’m so sorry, Mother! You were frightened. But I couldn’t help it. Have you had supper? I’m nearly famished. Couldn’t we have supper first and let me tell you all about it afterward?”
Bessie sat down by the table and began to take off her hat. Her face looked white and tired, whiter than her mother had ever seen her look before, but she was smiling. Her mother rushed over and clasped her in her arms.
“My little girl!” she whispered softly with her face against her soft hair. “You’re sure you’re all right?”
“All right, Mother dearie, only so hungry—and a little tired,” and she put her arm down on the white table and laid her head upon it. “Cakes! I’m so glad there are cakes! It didn’t hurt them to wait, did it? I’m sorry I troubled you. I just know you have been all worried up.”
Mrs. Chapparelle smiled and poured a foaming glass of milk.
“Drink some of this quick, dearie. It will hearten you up, and I’ve got the griddle keeping warm. It won’t be a second now till I’ll have a piping-hot cake for you.”
Bessie drank the milk slowly, and the color began to creep into her cheeks faintly, but there was a sad, troubled look around her eyes. Her mother watched her furtively as she went briskly about getting the supper on the table. She knew something unusual had happened.
But she’s here, dear Lord, safe and sound! she said in her heart thankfully as she felt the glad tears come into her eyes.
Mrs. Chapparelle did not ask questions. They talked, not much, about the little occurrences of the mother’s day. Yes, the man came to take the ashes, and he only charged fifty cents. He was coming every week now, and they were to pay by the month. And Mrs. Herron called up and wanted some more towels initialed for Lila’s hope chest. She wanted the script letters, and they were worth more to embroider. The little girl next door had been taken to the hospital to have her tonsils taken out, and the milkman had left an extra pint of milk by mistake, so there was plenty to drink with the buckwheats. “And there! I meant to shut that window,” the mother added as she hurried over to the corner of the kitchen. “Do you know I thought I saw a man’s face looking in awhile ago, just before I began to get worried about you.”
“Well, I’ve often told you, Mother, I think you should shut that blind before dark, especially when you’re alone.”
Bessie’s color was better now. She was sitting up and eating cakes with relish. The droop was going out of her slender figure.
“Oh yes, and a very rude boy brought some packages here this afternoon which he insisted belonged to Miss Elizabeth Chapparelle. You didn’t buy anything today, did you?”
“Not a thing, Mother dear. I didn’t have but fifty cents in my purse when I started. You know it’s almost payday,” she rippled out with a voice like falling water, as if it were a joke between them.
“Well, I told him they weren’t yours, of course, and I packed him off with his packages. But just when you ought to have been coming back, didn’t he arrive again with his parcels and insist upon leaving them. He said he would lose his job if he took them back, that Madame told him not to bring them back, they were paid for, and they were a present. The lazy little scamp didn’t want to go back tonight, I suppose, and he actually went away and leftthem with me right while I was telling him he shouldn’t, just sailed away in his delivery car and left me standing with the things at my feet. I was all upset about it. They may be valuable things, and somebody fuming now about them. Maybe we ought to call up the Madame and find out where they really belong and telephone the owners so they can come and get them. Very likely somebody wanted them at once to wear tonight or pack up or something. I tried Grevet’s, but they didn’t answer. They said the shop was closed—”
“Grevet’s!” Bessie lifted eyes wide with alarm, and her face grew white again. “You don’t mean they came from Grevet’s?”
“Why, yes,” said her mother, puzzled. “You don’t mean you know anything about them?”
“Where are they, Mother? I must see them first. If it’s what I think it is, there’s a mistake, and I ought to hunt up the right people at once—”
She rose from the chair and swayed slightly, catching at the table to steady herself.
“Bessie, you are sick!” cried her mother. “Something has happened. What is it? You must tell me at once, and you must lie right down.”
She caught the girl in her arms and drew her toward an old-fashioned bench in the corner of the kitchen.
“What is it, Bessie? Tell me quick! What has happened? You can’t hide it from me any longer!”
“Don’t get worried, Mother,” said Bessie, allowing her motherto draw her down on the bench. “It wasn’t much. Just a little accident. I wasn’t hurt, not much more than scared, I fancy. They took me to the hospital and looked me over thoroughly, and they insisted on keeping me there until a nurse could come home with me. That’s why I was so late. You see—”
“But why didn’t you telephone me?”
“Well, I started to, but the nurse wouldn’t let me. She wanted to do it herself, and I was afraid she would frighten you, so I concluded it was better to wait a little and come myself.”
“But what was the accident? You are hurt. I know you are hurt!”
“No, truly, Mother dear, I’m all right now, only a little shaken up. I was riding in an automobile with Murray Van Rensselaer, and a big truck came around a corner and ran into us and overturned us!”
The mother’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright with anxiety.
“You were riding with Murray Van Rensselaer? But where is Murray now? Was he hurt, too? Did they take him to the hospital?”
“Why, no, I think not, that is—I don’t know. The nurse thought he was all right. They said he was very impatient to know how I was, but when I came down they couldn’t find him—”
“Oh!” said the mother indignantly. “He probably had some social engagement. One of his mother’s dinners. I could see the cars arriving tonight, and the flowers, and things from the caterer’s—!”
“Don’t, Mother!” The girl sprang away from her. “Don’t! He may have been hurt. He didn’t seem like that kind of man. Perhaps he went away to a doctor himself.”
“Well, I hope he did. For the sake of our old regard for him when he was a boy, I sincerely hope he had some good reason for deserting you after he had gotten you smashed up in an a
ccident. How on earth did you come to be riding with him? I thought you would never condescend to do that after the way he has treated you all these years.”
“Mother, I must see those packages, please! I’ll tell you the whole story as soon as I’ve got that fixed up, but I must understand what has happened.”
“You lie down, and I’ll bring them,” commanded her mother gently, and went away to get the boxes.
When she returned, Bessie stared at them gravely.
“I’ll have to open them, I guess,” she said at length. “There ought to be some card inside that will perhaps give the address.”
“He said there was a card inside,” said the mother as she began to untie the knots carefully.
They turned the soft wrappings of tissue back and discovered lovely gowns inside, sumptuous in their texture, exquisite in their simplicity.
“Oh, Bessie, if your father had lived, you could have had things like that!” wailed the mother’s heart as she caught the first glimpse of shimmering silk and deep velvet.
“I’m just as happy without them, Mother,” said Bessie serenely, slipping the card from the little white envelope.
There was nothing written on the card except his engravedname. It told her nothing. She would have to search out Madame Grevet and find the true owner.
“I think she lives somewhere in the city. I’m almost sure someone pointed out her house to me one day. Let’s have a look at the telephone book.”
She was almost nervously anxious to get those gifts for Murray’s dear friend out of the house. She did not want even to tell her story to her anxious mother until the matter was all set right.
But Madame Grevet was not to be found. She must have a private number. An appeal to the janitor of the shop brought no further help. He did not know her number, and anyway, if she had one she would be out. She was always out when she was at home, he said.
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