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  His resilient nature allowed him to feel wonderfully cheerful as he arose from the table at last and prepared to make his adieus.

  But it was not easy, after all, to get away. Mrs. Summers came to him and asked him if he would mind carrying a basket home for her—she wouldn’t be a minute—and then pressed him into service to gather up silver candlesticks and a few rare china dishes.

  “You see, they’re borrowed,” she explained, “and I don’t like to risk leaving them here lest someone will be careless with them in the morning before I could get over, or mix them up and take them to the wrong person. I wouldn’t like them to get broken or lost under my care.”

  They walked together across the lawn under a belated moon that had struggled through the clouds and was casting silver slants over the jeweled brown of the withered grass.

  “It’s been so lovely having you here,” said Mrs. Summers gently, “almost like having my boy back again. I kept looking at you and thinking, ‘He’s my boy. He’s coming home every night, and I can take care of him just as I did with my own.’”

  Murray’s heart gave a strange lurch. Nobody had ever spoken to him like that. Love, except in a tawdry form, had never come his way, unless his father’s gruffness and continual fault-finding might be called love. It certainly had been well disguised so that he had never thought of it in that light. It had rather seemed to him, when he thought about it at all, that he stood to his father more in the light of an obligation than anything else. His mother’s love had been too self-centered and too irritable to interest him. There had been teachers occasionally who had been fond of him, but their interest had passed when he used them to slide out of schoolwork. There had been a nurse in his babyhood that he barely remembered, who used to comfort him when he was hurt or sleepy, and sometimes when he was sick cuddle him in her arms as if she cared for him, but that was so very far away. He had sometimes watched the look between Bessie Chapparelle and her mother when he would be there playing games in the evenings with Bessie, a look that had made him think of the word love, but that also was far away and very painful now to think about. Strange how one’s thoughts will snatch a bit from every part of one’s life and blend them together in an idea that takes but an instant to grasp, just as a painter will take a snatch of this and adab of that color and blend them all into a tint, with no hint of the pink or the blue, or the black, or the yellow, or the white, that may have gone to form it, making just a plain gray cloud. Murray was doing more thinking these last few days than he had ever done in the whole of his life before. Life, as it were, was painting pictures on his mind; wonderful living truths that he had never seen before were flashing on the canvas of his brain, made up of the facts of his past life which at the time had passed over him unnoticed. He had gone from his cradle like one sliding downhill and taking no note of the landscape. But he found now that he had suddenly reached the bottom of the hill and had to climb up (if indeed he might ever attain to any heights again), that he knew every turn of the way he had come and wondered how he could have been oblivious before. It occurred to him that his experience might be called “growing up.” Trouble had come, and he had grown up. Life had turned back on him and slapped him in the face, and he began to see things in life, now that he had lost them, that he had not even recognized before.

  As he slipped his arm through the big basket and stood waiting for Mrs. Summers to decide whose cake pan the big square aluminum one was, he looked wistfully about him on the disarray of tables, kind of hungering in his heart to come here again and feast and bask in the cheery comforting atmosphere. Good and sweet and wholesome it all was, a sort of haven for his weary soul that was condemned to plod on throughout his days without a place for his foot to remain, forevermore. He had a strange, tiredfeeling in his throat as if he would like to cry, like a child who has come to the end of the good time, and whose bubbles are broken and vanished. There would be no more bubbles for him anymore. The bowl of soapsuds was broken.

  And so as they walked toward the little cottage with its gleaming light awaiting them from the dining room window, he felt strangely sad and lonely, and he wished with all his heart that he might walk in and be this woman’s boy. If only he could be born again into her home and claim her as his mother and take the place as her son and be a new man, with all his past forgotten! He thought—poor soul, he had not yet learned the subtlety of sin and the frailty of human nature—he thought if he could be in this environment, with such people about him, such a home to come to, and such a mother to love him, he could learn to fit it. If it hadn’t been for the possibility of the other man coming, he would have dared to try it and keep up his masquerade.

  Chapter 11

  He helped her unpack the basket and put her things away, and he gave a wistful look about the pretty, cozy room. He had never supposed there were homes like this anywhere. There was nothing formal about the place, and yet there were bits of fine old furniture, pictures, and bric-a-brac that spoke of travel and taste. It just seemed a place where one would like to linger and where home had been impressed upon everything around like a lovely monogram worked into the very fabric of it.

  “Now,” said Mrs. Summers as she whirled about from the cake box, where she had been bestowing a dozen lovely frosted sponge cakes that had been left over and she had brought home, “you must get to bed! I know you are all worn out, and you’ve got to be on hand early tomorrow morning. What time did Mr. Harper say he wanted you at the bank? Was it nine o’clock? I thought so. So I won’t keep you up but a minute more. I thought it would be niceif we just had a bit of a prayer together the first night, and a verse. I always like a verse for a pillow to sleep on, don’t you? Even if it is late. Will you read, or shall I?” and she held out a little limp-covered book that looked, like everything else in the house, as if it had been used lovingly and often.

  “Oh, you!” gasped Murray embarrassedly, looking at the book as if it had been a toad suddenly lifting its head in the way, and wondering what strange new ceremony now was being thrust at him. There seemed no end to the strange things they did in this pleasant, unusual place. Take that thing they called “blessing” and was a prayer! It was like that book his nurse used to read him in his childhood, called Alice in Wonderland. You never knew what you would be called upon to do next before you could eat or sleep. Did they do these things all the time, every day, or just once in a while, when they were initiating some new member? It must be a great deal of trouble to them to keep it up every day, and must take up a good deal of time.

  “Very well,” said Mrs. Summers. “You sit in that big chair, and I’ll just read a little bit where I left off last night.”

  They did it every night, then! Like massaging one’s face and putting on night garments, as his mother always did, lovely gauzy things with floating scarfs like wings. This must be a sort of massaging for the soul.

  He settled down in the comfortable chair and watched the white fingers of the lady flutter open the leaves of the book, familiarly and lovingly.

  He liked the shape of her lips as she spoke, the sound of her voice. There was fascination in watching her, so sweet and strong and pleasant.

  “There was a man of the Pharisees, named Nicodemus, a ruler of the Jews: The same came to Jesus by night, and said unto him, Rabbi, we know that thou art a teacher come from God: for no man can do these miracles that thou doest, except God be with him.”

  Murray heard the words, but they meant nothing to him. He was not listening. He was thinking what it would have been like if he had been born into this home. Then suddenly into his thoughts came those words, so startling. Where had he heard them before? “Jesus answered and said unto him, Verily, verily, I say unto thee, Except a man be born again, he cannot see the kingdom of God.”

  Why! How very strange! Those were the words he had seen in the streetcar. Almost the identical words, “Ye must be born again!” He would never forget them, because that had seemed the only way out of his difficulty. And now she was re
ading again, this time identical: “Marvel not that I said unto thee, Ye must be born again.”

  Why! It was like someone answering his thoughts. What did it all mean? He listened and tried to get the sense. It appeared to be an argument between one named Nicodemus and one Jesus. There was talk of wind blowing and water and a Spirit. It was all Greek to him. A serpent lifted in the wilderness, of believing and perishing, and eternal life. He almost shuddered at that. Eternal life! Who would want to live forever when he was a murderer andan outcast? “For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world,” went on the steady voice, “but that the world through him might be saved”

  Astonishing words! They got him! Condemnation was what he was under. Saved! He almost groaned. Oh, if there were but a way for him to be saved from this that had come upon him!

  “He that believeth on him is not condemned.”

  Strange words again, and of course it all meant nothing—nothing that could apply to his case. Depression came upon his soul again. The condemnation of the law overshadowed him. He looked restlessly toward the door. Oh, if he could get away now and go—go swiftly before condemnation overtook him and got him in its iron grip forever!

  The little book was closed, and the astonishing little lady suddenly rose from her chair and knelt down beside it. He was embarrassed beyond measure. He wanted to do the proper thing and excite no suspicions, but how was one to know what to do in a situation like this? Kneeling down in a parlor beside a Morris chair! How could anyone possibly know that that was the thing expected? Or was it expected?

  Then he began slowly, noiselessly, to move his weary, stiffened muscles, endeavoring to transfer his body into a kneeling posture without the slightest sound, the least possible hint that he had not of course been kneeling from the start.

  Strange happening for this onetime social star to be kneeling now in this humble cottage, hearing himself (or what wassupposed to be himself) prayed for earnestly, tenderly, with loving chains of prayer “binding his soul about the feet of God.” He grew red and embarrassed. He felt tears stinging his eyes. How was it that a possibility of anything like this being done anywhere in the universe for him never entered his mind before? It was indeed as if he was born into a new universe, and yet he still had the consciousness of his old self, his old guilt, upon him. It was intolerable. He never had felt so mean in his life as while he knelt there, hearing himself brought to the presence of God and knowing that he had cheated this wonderful woman who was praying for him, and that he was soon going to steal from her house in the night and never be seen by her anymore. What would she think? And how would she meet her God the next time she prayed? Would she curse him, perhaps, and would worse punishment come upon him than had come already? And how would a God feel about it? He had never been much concerned about God, whether He was or was not, but now he suddenly knew as this woman talked with Him with that assurance, that face-to-face acquaintance, that intimacy of voice, that there was a God. Whatever anybody might say, he knew now that there was! It was as if he had seen Him, he had felt Him, anyway, in a strange convincing power like the look from a great man’s eyes, whom one had never met before, nor heard much of, yet recognizes at the first glimpse as being mighty! Well! There was a Power he hadn’t counted on! The Power of God! He knew the details of the power of the law. But what if he also was in dangerfrom the Power of God? What if this deception, just for the sake of a bath and a supper, should anger God and turn the vengeance of heaven and hell upon his soul? He vaguely knew that there were yet unfathomable depths of misery that he had not even tapped the surface of, and his burden seemed greater than he could bear. If he only might become someone else, be born again, as the book had said, so that no one would ever recognize him, not even God! But would that be possible? Could one be born at all without God about?

  Floundering amid these perplexities, he suddenly became aware that the lady had risen, and, red with embarrassment, aware of tears upon his face which he could not somehow wipe away quickly enough, he struggled to his own feet.

  She was not looking at him. She had moved across the room to a pitcher of ice water she had prepared before she began to read, and now she poured a glass and handed it to him. He was struck with the look of peace upon her lips. It seemed a look that no one he had ever known before had worn. Wait, yes, Mrs. Chapparelle sometimes had looked that way, even when they had very little for supper. Once he had stayed with them when there were only potatoes and corn bread. No butter, only salt for the potatoes, and a little milk, two glasses, one for him and one for Bessie. She must have gone without herself, and yet she had that look of peace upon her lips! Had even smiled! What was it? Talking with God that made it?

  He got himself up the little white staircase with the mahogany-painted rail and the softly carpeted treads of gray carpet, and locked himself inside his room. He knew he had said good night and agreed upon something about when he would come to breakfast in the morning. As he did not intend to be present at breakfast the next morning, he had paid little heed to what she had said. His soul was in turmoil, and he was weary to the bone. He dropped into the big chair and gazed sadly about him on the pretty room.

  He had it in mind to make a little stir of preparation for bed and then wait quietly until the house was still and he could steal down the stairs or out the window, whichever seemed the easiest way, and be seen no more. But he felt a heaviness upon him that was overpowering. He looked at the white bed with the plump pillows and the smooth sheets that had been turned back for his use. His eyes dwelt upon the softness of blankets and the immaculate cleanness of everything, and he longed with inexpressible longing to get into it and go to sleep, but he knew he must not yield. He knew that it would not be safe for him to linger till the morning. The news of him would have spread even by this time, and someone somewhere would say that he knew that the man he was supposed to be was dead or hurt, or else was coming in the morning. No, he must get up and get into his coarse clothes at once and be ready to depart. It would not do to be quiet now and noisy later. She would think it strange of him to be long in getting to bed. He must hurry! He took off the shoes that were a bit too large for him and crinkled his tired toesluxuriously. He took off the suit that was not his and folded it for the trunk tray. He took off the collar and necktie and put them back in the trunk. Then he looked at the pile of soiled underwear that he had brought back from the bathroom after his bath, and his soul rebelled. If the fellow he was supposed to be ever came back from the wreck and got his good job and his good home, he might thank his lucky stars and not bother if he was minus a pair of undergarments. He couldn’t go in those soiled, tattered things any longer. And besides, if he was a murderer, why not be a thief, too, to that extent, anyway? He was sure if he was in the other fellow’s place he wouldn’t begrudge a poor lost soul a few of his clothes.

  So he gathered the soiled clothes into a bundle, laid them on the coals that were still red in his fireplace, and watched them blaze up into flames with weary satisfaction. Then he turned out the light and tiptoed over to the window. He raised the shade and looked out to reconnoiter.

  The window overlooked the street, and there was a great arc light hung in the trees, so that it shone full upon his windows. Moreover, there were people passing, and cars flying by, not a few. Marlborough had by no means gone to bed, even though the Presbyterian church social was over and the last member of the committee gone to her home. It was no use to try to escape yet. He must wait till after midnight.

  So he tiptoed back, intending to turn on the light and begin to get together the rest of his things. But the flickering firelight froma charred stick that had broken in two and fallen apart to blaze up again feebly fell invitingly over the white bed and played with the shadows over the pillow. An inexpressible longing came over him to just see how it felt to lie down in that soft clean whiteness and rest for five minutes. He would not stay for more than five minutes or he might fall asleep, and that would be disastrous, but he must rest
a moment or two while he was waiting, or he would not be able to travel—he was so tired. He would open the window so that when he was ready to go, he would not be making a noise again, and then he would rest.

  So, just as he was, he lay cautiously down and drew the soft blankets around him, with the fragrant sheet against his face, and closed his weary eyes.

  The night wind stole softly in and breathed restfully upon him, filling his lungs with clean, pure air and fanning his hot forehead, and the little charred stick collapsed with a soft shudder and went out, leaving the room in darkness, and Murray Van Rensselaer slept.

  Chapter 12

  When he awoke eons might have passed. He didn’t know where he was, and a broad band of sun was streaming across his bed. The wind was blowing the muslin curtain out like a streamer across the room, and Mrs. Summers was tapping at the door with crisp, decided knocks, and calling to him: “Mr. Murray! Mr. Murray! I’m sorry to have to disturb you, but it’s getting very late. You ought to be eating your breakfast this minute. You don’t want to be late the first morning, you know!”

  He opened blinded eyes and tried to locate himself. Who in thunder was Mr. Murray, and why didn’t he want to be late the first morning? Was that his man calling him? No, it was a woman’s voice. He blinked toward the window and saw the outlines of a church against the brightness of the sunny sky and saw people going down a strange street. He turned his head on his pillow and closed his eyes. What the dickens did it matter, anyhow? He wastired and was going to sleep this heaviness off. He must have been out late the night before. Hitting the pace pretty hard again! Must be at some club, or one of the fellows took him home. What was the little old idea, anyhow, trying to wake him up? Couldn’t they let a fellow sleep till he was ready to wake up?