A new name

by Grace Livingston Hill

And now, the murderer, who had played at being a bank teller for a brief time, must go out supposedly to lunch; must shake this man Warren somehow, and get away, never to return; and he did not want to go. He did not want to go back to being a runaway murderer. He felt like a small boy who wanted somebody to show him the way home and comfort him. He decided the quickest way to shake Warren was to say that he must run back to Mrs. Summers’ for lunch, as she would be expecting him, and he needed to get something he had left in his other coat, some papers he must show to Mr. Harper at once.

But he found no opportunity for such stratagem. The man Warren was in complete command of the situation. He was sent by Mr. Harper to bring Murray to the top floor, where lunch was to be served to the Directors today, and where the President was awaiting him and wanted him to sit beside him. They were joined almost at once by one or two others who had been more or less in his vicinity all the morning, so there was no chance whatever of escape unless he wished to try the astonishing method of making a dash. This matter of making a bold dash had become almost an obsession in his mind. He saw it was a thing that was impossible. They would think he was crazy. They would immediately set up a cry. He would be caught at once and have to explain. It might work in the darkness, perhaps, but not in broad daylight in a bank. So he followed meekly and was shot up in the elevator to the top floor and given a fine lunch and more of the pleasant deference which had soothed his overwrought nerves all the morning, until he was even able to rally and make several bright sallies in response to the conversation of the men about him. He could see again that they liked him and were pleased with his ready speech.

Back to his window again and the pleasant game that was so fascinating. There was only one unpleasant occurrence, just before closing time, when the girl Anita came in to make a deposit, and looked at him with her clear eyes. A distant, formal recognition she gave him, but no more, and again he felt her likeness to Bessie, little Bessie Chapparelle, with her white face against his shoulder as he carried her into the hospital.

It swept over him with a sickening thud. Bessie was dead. Why hadn’t he gone back to Bessie Chapparelle long ago? This girl Anita had that same sweet reserve about her that Bessie had put between himself and her while they were driving. He had wanted to break down that reserve, but he liked her for it. He could see that Anita would be a good girl to know. She would be somewhat like Bessie, perhaps. But because of Bessie he shrank from even looking at her. And somehow that odd fancy that she could look through him, that she might even read that he had killed a girl, took more and more possession of his mind. He must get away from this town!

But Mr. Harper came to him just at closing time, and said he wanted to take him home to dinner that night, that there were one or two matters he wanted to talk over with him; and besides his wife and daughters were most anxious to meet him. They would leave the bank about five o’clock. His duties would be about over for the day then, and they would take a little drive around the town and vicinity of Marlborough, if that was agreeable to the young man. Then they would drive to the Harper home and dine and spend the evening.

There was nothing to do but assent, of course, but his mind was so troubled trying to think how to get away that he scarcely paid heed to the routine of his work, which they were trying to teach him, and once or twice made bad breaks which he knew must have made them wonder that he did not know better. He saw they were being very nice to him, but he fancied a look of surprise passed over their faces that he had not understood more quickly.

The program was carried out without a break. He actually went through that entire day, ride and dinner and evening and all, and was returned to Mrs. Summers’ house late that night and ushered to the very door, which she herself opened for him, so that there was no instant in which he could have got away unnoticed.

As he stood by the bedroom window in the soft light of the little bed-lamp, and looked out into the pleasant street once more, as he had done twenty-four long hours before, he was amazed at the espionage that had followed him from early morning to late at night. It seemed almost uncanny. He was beginning to wonder if perhaps there was some occult reason for it, that he should be caught in this maze of deceit, and add this also to his already heavy offence. Could it be possible that a kind Providence, or some other great Unseen Power, if there was such a thing in the universe, had provided this way of escape from his terrible situation and prepared a new place and a new name for his wayward self wherein to begin again?

He looked around the pleasant, friendly little room that seemed already to have somehow become his, to the deep easy chair with the soft light falling on a magazine laid to hand, to the comfortable white bed, with its sheets turned down again ready for his entrance, and suddenly his heart failed him. How could he go out into the world again and hide away from men when here was this home and this place in the world awaiting him? He would never find another place where everything would be so easy to fit into. He might stay at least until something was heard of the other fellow. He would take pains to inquire about that wreck. He would profess to be anxious about some of his fellow passengers, and they would talk, and he would find out a lot of things—where the other fellow really lived, and perhaps there would be a way of tracing him. If he had really died the way would be clear for him. The man seemed to have come from a distance, from the way they spoke of his trains, and his trunk coming on ahead. It was likely there would be a good chance of his never being found out. Why not take the chance?

Now, Murray Van Rensselaer had been taking chances all his life. He loved chances. He was a born gambler in living, and if it had not been for the white face of Bessie Chapparelle that haunted him everywhere he turned and suddenly appeared to him out of the most unexpected thoughts and occurrences, he would have just delighted in entering into this situation and seeing if he could get away with it. The little white haunting face spoiled everything for him everywhere. There had never been anything in his life before that really took the fun and the excitement out of living.