An Unwilling Guest (25 page)

"Say, do you reckon he could save me?"

He started and turned to find a face bloated and wrinkled, with bloodshot eyes and features that told of long years of vice and crime. All at once his doubts seemed to leave him, he caught the spirit of helpfulness in the room, and said in, clear, firm tones, "I know he could!" and then he motioned to one of the workers who was passing to give the man some help and made room for him to come in.

It was not long before the meeting broke into singing then. He saw that Allison had put her dainty white handkerchief over the sleeping baby's head to shade his eyes from the glare of light, and he saw that the mother was looking at her through her tears with eyes almost of adoration. Then he noticed that Allison's face was white, as if she had been through a long, hard struggle and he knew that the nervous strain upon her had been intense. He motioned to her that perhaps it was time they went home and she seemed glad to follow him away.

The power of the meeting was still upon them. They did not feel that they could talk just here, not till they were where it was quieter, but presently Allison drew a deep, quick breath almost as if it hurt her, and said:

"Did you see that woman? She tried
to jump off Brooklyn Bridge to
day, but was kept from it by hearing her baby cry. She came there to-night to get him a warm place to sleep in for a little while—and—I think she has found Jesus."

"I saw," said Richard. "It is wonderful. An old wretch beside me gripped my arm as if he thought I wa
s going to get away from him be
fore I answered, and asked, 'Say, do you reckon he could save me?'"

"Did he!" said Allison, catching her breath with a little glad gasp, and then, "Oh, what did you say?"

"I told him I knew he could," was the decided answer. "And I was surprised to find that it was true."

"Oh, I am so glad!" said Allison, and then before either could say a word or know what was coming, around the corner straight over them almost, swept a crowd of frantic people
hurrying to a fire with the engine clanging and clattering in
their midst.

It must have been that they had been too much engrossed with their own conversation to listen to what was
going on, or their ears were ex
pecting hubbub and confusion in
this quarter of the city, for they had no warning until it was upon them. It was a wild unmanageable mob of street gamins and men of the lowe
r class, who care not for any
one but themselves, and they were excited by the cry of fire and the sound of the engine gong. Everything that was before them must go down or go with them. There was no resisting their force.

With a quick exclamation that sou
nded almost like a prayer Rich
ard caught Allison in his arms and held her within a doorway, himself bearing the brunt of the hurrying throng that surged and pressed against him.

I
t was but for two or three minutes that they stood there, perhaps, with the wild, yelling multitude of m
en, women, and children, dishev
eled and dirty, tearing madly by, and the red glare of the engines lighting the scene weirdly, yet in that sho
rt time Allison, in her safe re
treat, seemed to have changed int
o a new being. She hardly under
stood the sudden throb of joy and delight in her protector's strength that rushed over her. It was beautiful to be so taken care of. It was all a tumult below her, but she shut her eyes to the scene outside. In that doorway it was safe and peaceful.

When the uproar had passed, he drew her hand firmly within his arm and led her rapidly away.

She did not say a word. She walked
as in a dream. She scarcely no
ticed what he did when he hailed a passing cab and put her in it

"You poor child! Were you terribly frightened?" he asked tenderly.

"No, only at first," said Allison, with a ring of joy in her voice; "I knew you would take care of me."

He reached over and took one of her little gloved hands and held it in his own with a firm pressure. It was delightful to be cared for so tenderly. It was joy to have him hold her hand. What did it mean? She must not allow herself to love him. He was not for her. He was rich and in the great world—worldly. He was not a Christian; yes, and then the memory of the words he had spoken just before the crowd came upon them surged over her with another wave of joy and her hand trembled slightly in his. He placed his other hand over hers then as if she needed protection. It was as if their hearts could speak to one another through their hands and she felt in entire harmony with him. For a moment she
gave herself up to the delight of it.
Then conscience awoke and clam
ored loudly; but was this Allison? What was the matter with her? She who had been brought up to hold her eyes modestly from the world, who had always felt that no improprieties should be allowed, that flirting was dreadful, and had labored most earnestly with her mill girls to prevent them from dancing, on the ground th
at dancing per
mitted too much familiarity. She to do this? This was an undercurrent of thought. But she w
ould not reason now. Several tim
es conscience spoke loudly enough to be heard above the tumult of her happy heart and she almost tried to withdraw her hand. Once she quite succeeded in doing so and found her heart leaping in gladness that he had reached out and taken it again.

And so in this half-ecstatic state and talking both of them about the meeting and the fire and their escape, anything but the thought that was uppermost in their minds, they
reached the house and were sur
prised to find that the cab had halted.

Allison's feet were scarcely on the pavement before her full senses returned. She turned and fled up the steps while Richard was paying the cabman, and had succeeded in bringing John to the door before the fare was amicably settled. She paused only a moment to discover that Evelyn's light was out and all was still before she went into her own room and locked the door. There she flung her wraps from her and sat down in the dark, with her burning face in her hands.

What had she done? Been just like any unprincipled girl! Allowed a man, who had not told her he loved her, to hold her hand for probably half an hour, perhaps more, she had no idea of the flight of time! It did not matter. What was time in an affair like this? Five minutes was enough to condemn her—one minut
e! Probably he was used to hold
ing girls' hands. Probably the girls he knew allowed such liberties often. Her brother had told her once of a college classmate who made a practice of going around getting gir
ls' handkerchiefs to make a col
lection. He had a hundred and thirty at that time. Who would want to be one of a hundred and thirty girl
s to share a man's—what? Not af
fections, in such infinitesimal parts. But he had not seemed like that
.
He had seemed good and noble. But then she must remember that he
probably did not think anything of such familiarities, that he was just trying to be kind to her in what he supposed had been a time of fear. Oh, how she had disgraced herself and all her family! What would mother think of her? And father—father who objected to her going to a children's surprise party when she was quite young because he told her that they would be sure to play kissing games and he did not want his little girl kissed by any boys, and when she had insisted and he had yielded to her promise that she would have
nothing to do with such games, l
o, she had been caught by a foolish bet of one boy to kiss her just because she ha
d declared she would not play in
that way. She could remember now and feel again the remorse and anguish with which she went home with her father w
hen he called for her at the ap
pointed hour and confessed her shame and defeat. He had talked so kindly and gently to her about it and had explained the beauty of the purity of womanhood, and that familiarities should be saved for the time when one should come to claim her love and life companionship. Sh
e had believed it and rejoiced in
the ideal her father had set before her, and now she had gone against all his teachings. How was it she had so fallen? He would think her a simple little country ignoramus, or worse, a fli
rt, whose talk of Christ had all
been for show and whose real, inner life was against her profes
sion. It would, maybe, lead him
away from Christ, now, just now, when he was coming into the light. Something must be done. But what? Could it be explained? Could she do it? Oh, how could she speak of it, put it into cold words that she had let him hold her hand for so long and had done nothing to stop it? Her cheeks burned and burned till it seemed as if they would scorch the pillow against which she leaned her aching head. And then, as if trying to excuse herself, there would come over her again the joy she had felt But she must not give that as an excuse. She knelt to pray, but she could only sob softly into her pillow.

Weary at last with the long exciteme
nt of the evening, and fully re
solved, in some way, to make reparation for what she had done, she finally fell asleep and slept until the sun was quite high in the heavens,

It was a relief to her to find that the gentlemen had gone down-town nearly an hour since and that she and Evelyn were to be alone at
breakfast. She did not want to meet Mr. Rutherford again until she could make her confession of wrong, and then how, how could she ever look him in the face again?

An hour later an escape seemed open for her. Her mother wrote that she was not very well and an invalid cousin had written that she was coming to spend a month. Mrs. Grey did not wish to hasten Allison's return, if she thought she was needed any longer in New York, nor did she want her to come if she was having a pleasant time and wished to" stay a little longer, but if she felt that her visit was nearly over, they would all be glad to see her once more.

With a cry of joy Allison bent over and kissed the dear, familiar writing, and then her face crimsoned again as she remembered what a tale of disgrace she would have to tell that fond mother! Yes, she would go. She would go at once. She would take the evening train. There would be plenty of time to pack, and then she would get away from herself and forget this fearful surge of joy at the dreadful thing she had done last night, and forget this young man before she should have his image too clearly fixed in he
r heart, for that his companion
ship had been pleasant to her, she could not deny. He had but been kind to her, of course, as his sister's guest. She must never forget that again for one little instant. In some way she must plan to speak to him about last night. It was an awful, an almost impossible thing to do, but she must do it, for the honor of her religion and her family and herself.

Richard Rutherford had not been su
rprised that Allison did not ap
pear at the breakfast table.

"How shy and sweet she is," he smile
d to himself as he started down
town. All day long he was in a transport of ecstasy. It had been a delight to shield her from that howling mob. The ride home had been all too short. How soon could he dare to tell her of his great, deep love for her? Must he wait until he had proved to her that his belief in her
Saviour
was strong and true? He must be very careful, for she was a shy little soul,—he might frighten her before he had taught her to love him. What joy was this that had been given him right at the outset of the new life he had determined to live! It seemed to him like a pledge of God's faithful loving-kindness. What bliss to find another creature
in the world whom he felt to be a part of his own soul! He had been used to think this would never be, and had in his heart admitted the charges of his friends that he was over-fastidious. But now here was one whom he could fully trust, whom he could love and care for with his whole soul. Would she consent to belong to him? Would she ever drop that shy reserve and give her life into his keeping, be his wife? His heart leaped with a new thrill of understanding as he pronounced that word over to himself. It had never se
emed to him a
particularly beau
tiful word before; but now what word so sweet in the whole English language as "wife"?

It was therefore with intense dismay that he learned, on coming home that afternoon, somewhat earli
er than usual, that she was pre
paring to leave that evening and was at that moment engaged in pack
ing.
It was Evelyn who told him and s
ent him out to telegraph and en
gage a berth for the evening train,
as John had gone in another di
rection and there was need of haste, if Allison was not to sit up all night

He went, of course; there was nothing else to do, but his face was clouded over and his heart was heavy as lead. The sunshine seemed suddenly to have left the day. Had the sun set so early? Why, oh, why had he not told her of his love before, that he might have the right to make a protest now against such a hasty departure? No, that would never have done. He might only have frightened her away the sooner. What was he that he should suppose any girl
was ready and willing to fall in
love with him at once? It is true there had been a time in his career when many girls had seemed to be at his beck and call and he had prided himself on being popular among them and able to have any one he wished; but he was older now. Or had the light of love shown him his true self, with all its shortcomings, in a truer sense? He sighed heavily and wished the car would not crawl so slowly, but at last he was back at the house again. He must plan in some way to see Allison at once, though he knew he ought not to venture to tell her of his feelings now in such a hurry; but at least he could see her alone and tell her how sorry he was that she was going, and perhaps, but it was
not likely, it would be safe to risk it yet. Still, he would see her. How? Should he ask Evelyn to send her down to the library on some trivial excuse, or should he send the maid? Ah, it would be awkward business any way he could fix it. Then he turned the key in the latch and let himself in, coming face to face with Allison herself, in the front hall, poised with one foot on the lower stair, her cheeks flaming and her eyes bright with a fixed determination.

"Mr. Rutherford, may I see you just a minute?" she said, and he knew that there was something unusual the matter. He followed her to the music room without saying a word, anxiety written on his face.

She sat down in the fire-lit room.
It was growing dark now and re
minded them both of the first Sunday evening she had spent there.

"What is it?" he asked in a strained voice.

"I have a confession to make to you before I go away."
There was intense excitement in
her voice, and
her fingers worked nervously to
gether in her lap while the firelight played over her and showed her as a pretty picture of distress.

"I hardly know how to tell you," she went on rapidly, looking down at the locked fingers, "but I must bef
ore I go. I cannot have you mis
judge my—my religion, or my up-bringing—or
myself—though I did wrong. I do not know how to begin l
est you will think I am condemn
ing you also, and I am not I know that you must think very differently about these things, and—and it w
ould not be the same for you any
way," she gasped, choking a little at the remembrance of the miserable day and night she had spent.

"I beg that you will tell me what I have done, Miss Grey. I cannot imagine what it can be that you are accusing yourself of. I assure you I am utterly unaware of anything," he said with white face, and voice that fairly trembled with intensity.

"Oh, it is not you. It is I.I
knew better. I have always despised girls who allowed such familiarities. I want you to know that I think that I did wrong. It seems dreadful to have to speak of it at all." She paused, wishing he would help her, but she saw he did not yet comprehend what she was talking about