A new name

by Grace Livingston Hill

IX

Murray Van Rensselaer was roused from the relaxation which the luxury of soap and water had brought to him by the sound of Mrs. Summers’ voice and a tap at the bath-room door.

“Your suit is ready on the bed, and I took the liberty of laying out some underclothes and things which I found in the trunk. Will it take you long to dress? I don’t want my oysters to get tough.”

“I’ll be with you in no time now,” he called gaily, as he scrubbed away feebly with one of the big Turkish towels. He was beginning to realize all he was in for. Where would he get shaving things? He was not used to shaving himself often either. He had depended on his man so long. But perhaps that trunk would have some things in it. Darn it all! Suppose that suit didn’t fit after she had taken so much trouble pressing it. He would simply have to make a dive out of the window if it didn’t. Or stay. He could say they had sent the wrong trunk! Only how would she account for the fact that he hadn’t noticed it when she took out the suit? Well, he needn’t cross the bridge till he came to it.

He gathered up his coarse garments, enveloped himself in a towel, and with a hasty survey of the hall, made a dive into “his room,” feeling as if he had already weathered several storms.

There on the bed lay garments, and fearfully he put forth his hand and examined them. They were pleasant garments, smooth and fine; not perhaps so fine as the heir of the house of Van Rensselaer had been wont to wear, and still, good enough to feel luxurious after the ones he had picked up by the way on his journeys, and used as a disguise. He climbed tentatively into them and found that they fitted very well—a little loose on his lean body, grown leaner now with enforced privation, but still a very respectable fit.

Everything was there, even to necktie and collar, even to buttons put into the shirt. What a mother that woman was! Fancy his mother doing a thing like that, putting buttons in a shirt! And hunting out all those garments just as if she had been a man! Well, she was great! He had a passing regret that he could not remain and enjoy her longer, but at least he was thankful for this brief touch with a life like that. Well, he would remember it, and some time, when—no! There would never be any time when he could, of course. He was a murderer and an outlaw. But if there had been, she would have been a sweet memory to put by to think of, a kind of ideal in a world that knew no ideals. There had been fellows in college, a few, that looked as if they had homes and mothers like this. He hadn’t realized then what made them different, but this must have been it. They had homes, and mothers. He began to envy the chap whose name was Allan Murray. What a winter he would have in this room, sitting by that fire reading those books. He had never been much of a reader himself, but now as he slid his feet into the shoes that were a whole size too large for him, and glanced up at the comfortable chair and the light and the gleaming blue and red and gold of the backs of those books, he thought it might be a pleasant occupation. In fact, almost anything that kept one at home and gave one rest and peace seemed heaven to him now.

The bath had refreshed him and given him a brief spurt of strength, and now that he was again attired in clean garments, and looked fairly like a respectable young man once more, his courage rose. He had managed the old-fashioned razor very well indeed for one as unskilled in caring for himself as he was, and his clean-shaven face looked back at him now from the big old mahogany-framed mirror with a fairly steady glance. He wasn’t so bad-looking after all. There were heavy shadows under his eyes, and he looked thin and tired, and there was an almost peevish resemblance to his mother in his face that he had never noticed before; but still, nobody would ever look upon him just casually and take him for a murderer. And here, for the time being, he was protected by another man’s identity and name. If that chap Allan Murray only didn’t turn up in the midst of proceedings why perhaps he could even venture to get a little dinner, if things didn’t get too thick. Of course he could always bolt if there were any signs of the other fellow coming to life. It was to be hoped that he at least had sustained a sprained ankle in the wreck that would keep him till morning, or till a late train that night. He hated the idea of having to go off with the other fellow’s clothes. They might be some he was fond of, and maybe he couldn’t afford to buy many. But he had a good job ahead of him, and he’d probably pull through—teller of a bank! That must bring a tidy salary. And anyhow, if a fellow was a murderer why not be a thief also? One was an outlaw anyway. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Besides, would that other fellow stop at a suit of clothes if his life was at stake? And the reputation of his fine old family? I ask you.

His meditations were broken by a pleasant voice chanting:

“Are you ready, Allan Murray? My oysters will be tough if they have to wait another minute!” And there was that in her voice that made him respond cheerily much in the same spirit: