Murray undressed in a dream. He had not heard any of the nice things they had said about him as they walked down the silent street to Mrs. Summers’ door. He had answered only in monosyllables. He had been thinking that when one got to know the news the next thing was to tell it, and how was that going to work out with the life he had left behind him and the mess that he was in? What was the thing for him to do next?
He did not see the pile of mail lying on his bureau. If he had he would probably have paid very little heed to it. He had got over the sudden start that it gave him to see mail addressed to Allan Murray awaiting him. There had been letters several times, most of them circulars, one or two business letters. He had pried them open carefully to discover any possible clue to the situation, and then sealed them and put them carefully away in the trunk. Opening the letters even of a dead man were not to his taste, but in this case it seemed almost necessary if he were to remain where he was.
However, the mail lay unnoticed till morning. He turned out the light and knelt awkwardly by his bed. It is a strange thing when a man kneels for the first time before his Maker. Murray dropped down and hid his face in the pillow, as if he were coming to a refuge, yet did not know what to say.
He knelt a moment quietly waiting, then he said aloud in a low clear voice, as if there were some one else visible in the room:
“Lord, what do you want me to do now?”
In the morning he saw the letters. It was Sunday morning. He remembered that at once, for a bell was ringing off in the distance somewhere. And then his glance wandered to the little pile of letters lying on the bureau. They seemed to recall him to himself. He reached out and got them. Several circulars. There had been mail before from the same firms. Two letters bore the names of Christian Endeavor County Secretaries, and the last in the pile said, in a clear hand, written in the upper left-hand corner: “If not called for in five days please return to Mr. Allan Murray.”
XX
When Mrs. Chapparelle left her kitchen and the white face pressed against the window-pane and hurried to answer the wheezy old door-bell, her only thought was to hurry and get back to her hot griddle. She knew it was almost smoking hot now, and she wanted to try a little batter to see if there was just the right amount of soda in it before Bessie came.
She glanced at the clock as she passed through the door. It was late for Bessie already. What could have kept her? But then she must have lingered longer at the library, for this was her holiday, and books were always such a temptation to her dear girl. How she wished she were able to buy more of them for her very own.
This would be Bessie, of course. She must have forgotten her key. Strange! Bessie never forgot things like that.