Part 21 (2/2)
Benedict is much improved in health. It is rumored they will spend the summer at their country seat on Wissahickon Heights.”
”My!” interrupted Lizzie with her mouth full of fried potatoes. ”That's that fellow that was engaged to that Miss What's-her-Name Loring. Don't you 'member? They had his picture in the papers, and her; and then all at once she threw him over for some dook or something, and this feller went off. I heard about it from Mame. Her sister works in a department-store, and she knows Miss Loring. She says she's an awfully handsome girl, and George Benedict was just gone on her. He had a fearful case. Mame says Miss Loring--what is her name?--O, Geraldine--Geraldine Loring bought some lace of her. She heard her say it was for the gown she was going to wear at the horse-show. They had her picture in the paper just after the horse-show, and it was all over lace, I saw it. It cost a whole lot. I forget how many dollars a yard. But there was something the matter with the dook. She didn't marry him, after all. In her picture she was driving four horses. Don't you remember it, grandma? She sat up tall and high on a seat, holding a whole lot of ribbons and whips and things. She has an elegant figger. I guess mebbe the dook wasn't rich enough. She hasn't been engaged to anybody else, and I shouldn't wonder now but she'd take George Benedict back. He was so awful stuck on her!”
Lizzie rattled on, and the grandmother read more society notes, but Elizabeth heard no more. Her hear had suddenly frozen, and dropped down like lead into her being. She felt as if she never would be able to raise it again. The lady! Surely she had forgotten the lady. But Geraldine Loring! Of all women! Could it be possible? Geraldine Loring was almost--well, fast, at least, as nearly so as one who was really of a fine old family, and still held her own in society, could be. She was beautiful as a picture; but her face, to Elizabeth's mind, was lacking in fine feeling and intellect. A great pity went out from her heart to the man whose fate was in that doll-girl's hands. True, she had heard that Miss Loring's family were unquestionable, and she knew her mother was a most charming woman. Perhaps she had misjudged her. She must have done so if he cared for her, for it could not be otherwise.
The joy had gone out of the morning when Elizabeth went home. She went up to her Grandmother Bailey at once, and after she had read her letters for her, and performed the little services that were her habit, she said:
”Grandmother, I'm expecting a man to call upon me to-day. I thought I had better tell you.”
”A man!” said Madam Bailey, alarmed at once. She wanted to look over and portion out the right man when the time came. ”What man?”
”Why, a man I met in Montana,” said Elizabeth, wondering how much she ought to tell.
”A man you met in Montana! Horrors!” exclaimed the now thoroughly aroused grandmother. ”Not that dreadful creature you ran away from?”
”O no!” said Elizabeth, smiling. ”Not that man. A man who was very kind to me, and whom I like very much.”
So much the worse. Immediate action was necessary.
”Well, Elizabeth,” said Madam Bailey in her stiffest tones, ”I really do not care to have any of your Montana friends visit you. You will have to excuse yourself. It will lead to embarra.s.sing entanglements. You do not in the least realize your position in society. It is all well enough to please your relatives, although I think you often overdo that. You could just as well send them a present now and then, and please them more than to go yourself. But as for any outsiders, it is impossible. I draw the line there.”
”But grandmother----”
”Don't interrupt me, Elizabeth; I have something more to say. I had word this morning from the steams.h.i.+p company. They can give us our staterooms on the Deutschland on Sat.u.r.day, and I have decided to take them. I have telegraphed, and we shall leave here to-day for New York. I have one or two matters of business I wish to attend to in New York. We shall go to the Waldorf for a few days, and you will have more opportunity to see New York than you have had yet. It will not be too warm to enjoy going about a little, I fancy; and a number of our friends are going to be at the Waldorf, too. The Craigs sail on Sat.u.r.day with us. You will have young company on the voyage.”
Elizabeth's heart sank lower than she had known it could go, and she grew white to the lips. The observant grandmother decided that she had done well to be so prompt. The man from Montana was by no means to be admitted.
She gave orders to that effect, unknown to Elizabeth.
The girl went slowly to her room. All at once it had dawned upon her that she had not given her address to the man the night before, nor told him by so much as a word what were her circ.u.mstances. An hour's meditation brought her to the unpleasant decision that perhaps even now in this hard spot G.o.d was only hiding her from worse trouble. Mr. George Benedict belonged to Geraldine Loring. He had declared as much when he was in Montana. It would not be well for her to renew the acquaintance. Her heart told her by its great ache that she would be crushed under a friends.h.i.+p that could not be lasting.
Very sadly she sat down to write a note.
”_My dear Friend_,” she wrote on plain paper with no crest. It was like her to choose that. She would not flaunt her good fortune in his face. She was a plain Montana girl to him, and so she would remain.
”My grandmother has been very ill, and is obliged to go away for her health. Unexpectedly I find that we are to go to-day. I supposed it would not be for a week yet. I am so sorry not to see you again, but I send you a little book that has helped me to get acquainted with Jesus Christ. Perhaps it will help you too. It is called 'My Best Friend.' I shall not forget to pray always that you may find Him. He is so precious to me! I must thank you in words, though I never can say it as it should be said, for your very great kindness to me when I was in trouble.
G.o.d sent you to me, I am sure. Always gratefully your friend,
”ELIZABETH.”
That was all, no date, no address. He was not hers, and she would hang out no clues for him to find her, even if he wished. It was better so.
She sent the note and the little book to his address on Walnut Street; and then after writing a note to her Grandmother Brady, saying that she was going away for a long trip with Grandmother Bailey, she gave herself into the hands of the future like a submissive but weary child.
The noon train to New York carried in its drawing-room-car Madam Bailey, her granddaughter, her maid, and her dog, bound for Europe. The society columns so stated; and so read Grandmother Brady a few days afterward. So also read George Benedict, but it meant nothing to him.
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