CHAPTER I

THE train had limped along all the afternoon with engine trouble, and now at evening the passengers learned that they were two hours behind schedule and still losing time.

Mrs. Dunlap put away her writing materials and sat up with a sigh to look about her. It began to look as if she might be going to miss her connections unless relief from this state of things came soon.

She had just finished correcting the last galley of her new book which was to come out that fall; she had gone over the notes for her new addresses she was on her way to make at several appointed places; she had finished reading her magazine from cover to cover; she had even written a couple of letters to friends; and here she was with time on her hands! An almost unheard of thing for this busy woman. Not many hours of leisure came her way, and when one did, it filled her almost with dismay at the enforced waste of time.

Off in the west a thread of crimson still lingered on the horizon, but it soon faded into a line of pale amber and then disappeared. The lights of the train blared out and shut the travelers into the narrow confines of the car, and Mary Dunlap leaned back in her seat and fell to studying her fellow passengers.

The usual mother with many children who had been the usual noisy nuisance all the afternoon, had subsided into quiet for the time being; the mother and the littlest baby being asleep, the rest occupied with a picture book some thoughtful traveler had donated.

The personnel of the car had changed somewhat during the afternoon. Several people had got out at the stations along the way and others had come in. Among the latter were the two people who occupied the seat directly in front of Mary Dunlap, and before she realized it, she was thoroughly absorbed in studying them, her interest caught by the singularly pure and lovely outline of the young woman's face, in profile.

They were apparently a young married couple, though the man was not so young as the girl, who looked entirely too young to be married yet. As she studied them she could not help wondering over the girl's choice of a husband. They did not seem at all well mated. The girl was the far more attractive of the two.

Mary Dunlap decided that they were newly wed. The man had an air of proprietorship which she thought could only be explained by that relation. To the girl everything seemed to be strange and new, but she did not wear a happy face.

"Poor child!" thought the watcher. "She has just said goodbye to her mother, I suppose."

Then for a moment, memory carried her swiftly back to the day when she had been called upon to bid one dear girl the long goodbye.

Still, she reflected, on this girl's face there was unrest—real anxiety. There were even moments when she fancied that there was actual fear! What could be the explanation?

The husband had been most attentive, almost oppressively so. Could he be urging her to some course she did not approve?

"The man looks like a gentleman tyrant!" she told herself. "He will be certain to have his own way in the end. That poor child might as well yield first as last."

The call for dinner in the dining car took her away from their vicinity for a little while, and before she returned they had followed her to the diner. But later in the evening when they came back to their seats, she could not help seeing that they were having some kind of a heated argument, and that the girl was deeply distressed, almost on the verge of tears, the man alternately vexed and cajoling.

Mary Dunlap was a woman of wide interests and keen insight into character. She could not help siding with the young wife, and feeling that the man was in the wrong. He looked like a man who would have his own way at all costs.

In vain did she tell herself that she was probably all wrong. The girl might be a spoiled darling who was childishly insisting on some extravagance which the man, older and wiser, was trying to reason her out of. But try as she would, she could not make it seem that way. The man had a selfish sophistication about him that made her distrust him.

Both the young people were well dressed, with that regard to quiet elegance that showed they had plenty of money, and belonged to what is known as the higher social class. The trouble could not be about money.

Mary Dunlap turned her eyes away from them at last, resolved to wonder no more about these strangers who had caught her passing interest. It was none of her business anyway, what troubled these two. They would have to settle their own affairs. There was obviously no way in which she could help them; and perhaps even this kindly observation was a species of eavesdropping. She would think no more about them.

With her eyes on the dark landscape outside the window, she began to think about those two hours that the train had lost and to wonder what she could possibly do about it in case she missed her connection at the junction. Being a methodical woman, and a careful planner she was not used to missing her appointments, and it was most annoying to have the train crawl along this way, and then stop for unexplainable periods. Nevertheless, there was a certain resignation about her annoyance. She believed fully that design, not mere chance or Fate determines our ways, and reorders our plannings sometimes, in accordance with All-seeing wisdom; and she could not help wondering why her plans had been put in jeopardy.

For a long time she watched the lights of the little villages go flying by, for now the train seemed to have taken up a steady, dogged trot, and rolled along without stopping as if it had made up its mind to get home sometime.

But when she finally turned her gaze back to the car again she could see that the two in front of her had not settled their argument yet. They were not talking much now, but each face was eloquent of disagreement. The girl's eyes held unshed tears, and her look was openly anxious. Now and then she cast a pleading look at her companion, and said a little wistful word, ending in a sigh. The man was still stubbornly positive, his lips curving in a superior smile of amusement at the girl's reiterated objections. Again Mary Dunlap began to realize that her own interest in the affair was unwarrantably eager. She must stop thinking about these two people or they would pretty soon turn around suddenly and see her staring at them.

But just at that instant there occurred a happy interruption. The brakeman came eagerly through the train as one bearing welcome news, shouting the name of the Junction at last.

Mrs. Dunlap sat up briskly and looked at her watch. Ten minutes past midnight! Would the other train have waited?

Capably and quickly she straightened her hat, put on her gloves, buttoned her coat, gathered her hand bag, brief case, and suit case, and was ready at the door of the car when the train came to a halt.

But a glance at the track on the other side of the station showed that the train had not waited! The station looked deserted and dirty in the dim midnight, and her heart sank. Now, why had this had to happen?

Mrs. Dunlap paused for a moment in the doorway of the station as the disappointed crowds surged from the belated train. They had all more or less of a discouraged look and she sympathized with them. It was a new experience to her to be stranded unexpectedly at midnight in a strange place. Her delay would undoubtedly disappoint many people; but it certainly was not her fault. She had planned carefully as usual, and now must send telegrams in various directions to explain her non-appearance; her first disappointment as a platform speaker after years of service. She could not possibly reach her first appointment now in time and the whole schedule would be thrown out. Too bad, but she must make the best of it.

As she made her way to the telegraph office the man, who had for several hours occupied the seat in front of her, brushed past her. He too had probably missed connections and must telegraph. She wondered where he had left his young wife and wished she might have had a chance to show her some little kindness. She felt strangely drawn to the girl, who looked too young to be a wife and seemed so utterly troubled.

"I wonder if they are as much disappointed as I am over the upset of plans, and if they are disappointing as many people as I am?" she said to herself, and again a question came to her mind; "I wonder why it was allowed to happen? I certainly thought I was needed at that meeting to-morrow morning! They have been planning for it so long! It is so embarrassing to have to disappoint them this way!"

It very soon became necessary however to give undivided attention to the question of where she was to spend the remainder of the night. The Kennard House to which she had been recommended by the ticket agent proved to be crowded and the gentlemanly and sympathetic clerk could give her no encouragement.

He shook his head in response to her question: "The Albemarle? No, they are as badly off as we are. A car just drove away from here with people who had tried the Albemarle first. It is certainly an unfortunate night for that express train to be late! The city is overcrowded on account of the Convention. You are alone, madam? I hardly know what to suggest to you. We let our very last room go, about three minutes before you came in, to a couple who were your fellow passengers."

Was that a courteous hint that if she hadn't been so slow in her movements she might have had their room? Was the fortunate couple the two who had held her thoughts for hours? If so, she was glad she had been late; that sad-eyed little wife needed a quiet room for getting her nerves under control.

Then came another hotel official to exchange a few words in undertone with the one who was trying to serve her. A moment, then her sympathetic friend turned to her again.

"Madam, I have just heard that the man who engaged No. 38 for the night, has changed his mind, and is staying with friends in town. If you cared to wait in the reception room for a few minutes we could have it ready for you."

Grateful thanks were of course the only reply to make to this.

As she took up the pen to register Mrs. Dunlap remarked: "It seems almost foolish to register for the few hours there are left of the night." But she said it with a genial smile and the friendly air that made clerks and porters and all who served her, glad to offer a helping hand.

The name just preceding her own held her attention as probably the one that belonged to the couple who had so continually interested her that evening. "R. H. Keller and wife." They were booked for Room 537. That must be four floors above her own. She wished they had been nearer, then she might have opportunity to exchange courtesies with that frightened little bride; if she could only mother her a little, she would be glad.

The parlor in which she waited looked vast and gloomy in its midnight dimness and solitude. No not quite solitude, there were other occupants, a man and woman, probably waiting like herself for a room to be made ready. Her first impulse was to choose a corner as far removed from them as space would permit. Instead, she took possession of one of the couches quite near where they were standing for she suddenly recognized them as her traveling companions, and her interest in the girl flamed anew as she caught sight of her face.

What could be troubling that girl! The more she saw of the man's face the more she distrusted him. Perhaps she imagined it, but it seemed as though he had recognized her close proximity with a frown! Nevertheless, she determined not to retreat. What if there should be a chance just to speak a cheery word to the girl? She tucked herself among the cushions, drew her coat closely about her, and seemed to sleep, but she had never felt wider awake. Her nervousness was taking the form of a premonition.

The man had turned toward his wife. "We may as well be comfortable while we wait," he said. "It is beastly luck to have to wait at all. These second class towns never have proper hotel accommodations. Let us go over to that couch at the other end of the room where the pillows look less stinted."

The girl looked over at the distant couch then glanced back to the one where Mrs. Dunlap rested.

"Oh, no," she said, moving nearer to the fireplace. "I am chilly; I would rather stay here. Suppose you push a couple of those large rocking chairs up this way?"

"I can make you much more comfortable on the couch," he said, his tone indicating annoyance. "That fire will not keep you warm, there is nothing left of it but charred old stumps. Do let me snug you up among the cushions."

He essayed to pass an arm about her as he spoke, but she drew away from him with a wan smile as she said:

"I would rather stay here; it seems less lonely to be near a woman. Why did we trouble about rooms? I think I would just as soon stay where I am?"

"Standing?" he asked in a tone which to the woman on the couch sounded sullen.

"No," answered the girl with that pitiful attempt at a smile, "I would be willing to sit if you would bring up chairs. There cannot be much longer to wait, I should think. What time did you say we could get a train?"

When he told her, the response was almost a wail.

"Oh, Rufus! That was not what you said before? Why, that is not until another day!"

The woman on the couch held herself motionless by a strong effort of will. This was not the tone of a happy wife! She was certain now that something was wrong besides a few hours of delay. This was more like the outbreak of a woman half afraid of the man who was supposed to be caring for her.

"It is beastly luck," the man said again. "Something is always the matter on this confounded branch road! If you hadn't been staying in such an out of the way place, we should have been saved all this. Still, I don't understand why we should make it any more uncomfortable than it is. You ought to be resting quietly, instead—"

Her voice interrupted him, louder than it had been before. "I cannot rest: I cannot! I can only think of my mother's utter dismay and—and terror when she hears—"

"H-sh!" The man's sibilant whisper was sudden and fierce!

No wonder the girl started, and cried out in fright: "Oh, what is it!"

He bent over her and spoke lower.

"It is nothing at all, my dear, except that you are utterly tired out and your nerves are on edge. But you must be careful what you say. That confounded eavesdropper has planted herself as close to us as she could, and may get the idea from your words that I am a fiend of some kind. Thank goodness, though, she has gone to sleep, at last! I must say they are taking an unaccountable time to get that room ready."

"That room!" repeated the still frightened voice. "There are two rooms, of course?"

"Of course," he repeated hastily, "but I could wait for mine, you know."

"I don't like it," the girl said, quite as if she had not heard him, "I don't like anything about it! I wish—Oh, Rufus, can't we go on to-night? Or go somewhere and talk things over and make other plans. I don't want any room!"

He spoke kindly but with great firmness.

"That is impossible, dear, as you will realize when you think a moment. All the arrangements are made, and my friend is waiting and will be there for the next train. There is no other train until morning that will do us any good. Why can you not be the sensible girl you have been all the afternoon and let me do the extra planning that this detention has made necessary? I assure you I can take care of you." As he spoke, he tried to draw her nearer.

She made a despairing movement away from him and said:

"Oh, I cannot make you understand! I know how strange it seems to you, but if you could think for a moment of my side of it! Can't you realize how different it will all be to me when I have the right to be with you anywhere and always? As it is, I cannot help feeling strangely alone and—and almost disgraced! I do, Rufus, I cannot help it. Mother has always been so particular about me; and she would think this that we are doing was terrible! I know now that she would. Can't we go somewhere on the cars, and talk it all over? I don't feel so perfectly strange when we are moving. Hark! Was that one o'clock? And we were to have been there long before twelve! And you were to telegraph to mother early in the morning! Oh, this is dreadful!"

He bent toward her and spoke gently. "Daisy, listen, you are making yourself ill over troubles that do not exist. Everything is all right; we shall be in by noon, and my friend will meet the train. Meantime in the early morning I will wire your mother, as we planned; and—"

She interrupted him. "But we don't get in until noon! And what you were going to say won't be true!"

"Oh, nonsense! Why, my dear, if you were not so tired as to be beyond reasoning, I could convince you in a very few minutes of the folly of that! I shall only be anticipating the truth by a very few hours in order to relieve her anxiety."

"Rufus, I cannot help it. I cannot have our life together begin with falsehood! It is bad enough as it is. I cannot help being sorry that we did not wait until mother had a chance to know you better. She is not a hard or unreasonable woman."

"I see plainly that you do not trust me." He spoke with such bitterness and sharpness that the listener on the couch who could catch only portions of the girl's words, felt as though she would like to spring up that minute and defend her. But the voice rose clearer just then.

"Rufus! How can you say that to me? If I had not trusted you utterly, would I be here to-night? If you had a mother, you would understand how perfectly dreadful it is to—"

As she hesitated for words, a hotel official came towards them.

"Are you Mr. R. H. Keller, sir? If so, you are wanted at the office telephone."

"Confound the fellow!" muttered Keller. Then, in a gentler tone, "Don't let that frighten you, Daisy. It is a business call that I have been expecting; but it comes at an inopportune time, of course. I shall be back in a very few minutes."

Left to herself, the girl walked back and forth in front of the fire, seeming to catch her breath in convulsive little sobs. She was so near the couch that Mrs. Dunlap could have put out her hand and touched her. When that good woman saw a pair of small hands clenched and heard a low moan, she came suddenly to a sitting posture and in a moment more was speaking in a low tone.

"Will you forgive me, dear? I am the mother of a precious girl who was about your age when God called her home. And I miss her so! I cannot help seeing that you are in trouble. May I not play mother to you for a little while and try to comfort you?"

But the girl's face at that moment expressed such abject terror, that she made haste to add:

"There is nothing to be frightened over, dear; this is a quiet, entirely respectable house, and your husband will be back in a few moments." It was the probing word that this student of human nature had resolved should open her way, and it succeeded.

"He is not my husband!" the girl exclaimed. "Not yet," she added quickly. "We were to have been married as soon as the train reached our destination; but the train was delayed; we could not go on; and there were no rooms to be had without this awful waiting! I wish now that we had not—" She stopped abruptly, then began again.

"I know I must appear very silly indeed to a stranger. But I cannot seem to help it. And I cannot explain, either, why it should suddenly seem so perfectly dreadful to me, but it does! I am so used to traveling with my mother; I cannot get away from the thought of how perfectly awful it would seem to her if she knew that I—"

The tremulous voice stopped again; and at that moment Mrs. Dunlap felt that she could almost enjoy shooting the man who had deliberately planned such a state of things for this frightened child. She passed a protecting arm about the trembling form and spoke low and tenderly.

"My child, will you trust me and tell me all about it? You remind me of my own dear daughter; I am sure that you have a precious mother. Does she know that you expected to be married to-night?"

"No, oh, no! She doesn't dream of such a thing! We couldn't tell her because she—she is prejudiced against Mr. Keller; he has enemies, we think, who are trying to injure him because he is a more successful man than they are, and she—Why, she wasn't even willing to have me walk out with him, alone! But I thought—I mean I think that when we are married, and everything is settled forever, we shall be able to make her understand. It really isn't as though I were a child; I am of age."

At this, the child-woman drew herself up with such a pitiful attempt at womanhood that Mrs. Dunlap, under happier circumstances, felt sure she would have asked how many hours it was since the child had attained to that dignity!

The tremulous voice continued:

"Still, I could not live without my mother; and I do not need to, of course. As soon as she discovers how truly good and noble Mr. Keller is, and what a devoted son he is ready to be to her, it will be all right. Mother has always wanted a son."

A note of appeal had crept into her voice as though she longed to hear from even this stranger an assurance that all would be well. Mrs. Dunlap's mother-heart bled for her, and a throb of thankfulness for the absolute safety of her own daughter thrilled through her. With it came the determination to do what she could to help this girl, even at the cost of a possible mistake.

"My child," she said, "I feel that I must tell you something that I think you ought to know. You are registered at this hotel as 'R. H. Keller and wife!' And one room—not two—is being made ready for you."