At the first word from his son’s voice the father stiffened in his chair and grew alert, listening with all his senses keen. As the boy went on an icy thrill went round his heart. What had Murray done now? A murderer? There had never been a murderer in the Van Rensselaer family to his knowledge. He tried to rise, but his muscles would not obey him. He found himself suddenly weak.
Murray’s voice was going on haltingly. He seemed to be struggling with deep emotion.
“I thought I wanted you to know that I loved Bessie! I’ve always loved her, only she grew out of my life. Of course I never was good enough for her, and she wouldn’t probably have looked at me. I couldn’t have hoped to marry her. She was a flower, a saint from heaven! But I loved her, and I shall always love her! If I were free—but there’s no use talking of that. I don’t want to be free! I want to pay all the penalty I can for what I did. But I do want you to know that I did not do it carelessly. I was not driving fast. My carelessness was in paying more heed to her than to what was going on about me. But I’m not excusing myself, only I didn’t want you to think I was careless of her, or that I had been drinking!”
“Murray, what on earth do you mean, child!” broke in Mrs. Chapparelle, “come into the kitchen, dear, and sit down and let me give you a cup of tea! Why, your hands are like ice. Come with me!”
Mr. Van Rensselaer had got to his feet somehow and was standing in the doorway by this time, but neither of the two saw him. Mrs. Chapparelle had hold of Murray’s hand and was drawing him toward the kitchen door. But just at that moment a key turned in the front door and Bessie entered, all fresh and rosy from the keen winter air.
Holding each other’s hands the mother and the young man turned with startled looks and faced her. They none of them saw the shaken man standing in the doorway with a hand on a curtain either side, looking at them all with growing comprehension and apprehension in his eyes.
The young man and the girl saw only each other.
“Bessie!” said Murray with a sudden light of wonder in his eyes, “Bessie? You are not dead!” He dropped the mother’s hands and stood an instant watching her to see if she were surely not an apparition.
“Murray!” There was great gladness in the girl’s voice. A melting of the wall that had grown up through the years.
And then he had her in his arms. Her face was against his breast. His face was buried in her hair, her sweet bright hair. The others standing by did not exist for them.