A new name

by Grace Livingston Hill

“Sincerely,
“Elizabeth Chapparelle.”

After the note was despatched Bessie felt better. Surely Murray could not misconstrue such a letter into an invitation to open the friendship again. If he tried that she could easily show him that she wanted nothing of him. But she had done her duty toward the beautiful clothes, and now she could perhaps adjust her mind to think better of him. If possible, she wanted to think well of him because as an old friend he had figured largely in her childhood days, and she did not like to have anything haloed by her schooldays turn out to be common clay. He might go his way and forget her forever if he would only let her think well of him. She wanted to respect him with all her heart, but she did not see exactly how she was ever going to do it again. Supposing even that he had not meant to insult her with a costly gift without asking permission—and such a gift—a gift of clothing! There was still the fact that he had deserted her after getting her into a smash-up. She would not have supposed even a spoiled heartless flirt would do a thing like that to an old friend. Yet he seemed to have done it.

The hours went by and she lay on the couch in the kitchen and pretended to read, but in reality she was listening for a ring at the door, or the telephone. Yet none came. She stayed on the couch for two reasons. First, to satisfy her mother, who persisted in being anxious about her on account of the accident, and second, because she really felt quite weak and shaken up. Tomorrow her employer would be back in the office, and she must go to work again. The precious two days’ holiday was going fast, and had all been spoiled. She felt almost bitter about it, there had been so much joy in its anticipation, but she did not want her mother to realize that. Mother was happy in just having her home with her.

So the letter was mailed and Bessie waited, thinking surely when he got it he would call up or come around with a belated apology. She could not fully rest until she knew he understood that she was not the kind of girl to whom he could send such presents.

Days passed. A week. Two weeks. Three. Nothing was heard of Murray. Bessie and her mother began to wonder whether after all they ought not to have taken the boxes around to the Van Rensselaer house. Finally Bessie settled down to the belief that Murray was angry that she had not received his presents, and had decided to drop her. Well, so she was content. She wanted no friendship with a man like that. She was glad if he felt that way. She was glad he knew he could not treat her the way he evidently treated other girls.

She settled back into the pleasant routine of her life, with the big ambition ahead to put her mother into more comfort, with opportunity for rest, and she succeeded pretty well in forgetting the one bright day with her old friend that had ended so disastrously. Only far back in her mind was a little crisp disappointment that her only old friend, whom she had so long idealized, had turned out to be such a hopeless failure; and sometimes in the dark at night when she was trying to go to sleep her cheeks burned at the thought that she had accepted him so readily and jumped into his car at the first bidding. How she would like to go back to that bright twenty-first birthday afternoon, and haughtily decline that invitation to ride! Sometimes her pride fairly cried out for the chance.

Poor Murray!

Then, one morning Mrs. Chapparelle, scanning the paper as was her wont for bits of news to give her child while she ate her breakfast before going to the office, came upon a little item tucked down in the society columns.

“It is beginning to be an interesting question, ‘What has become of Murray Van Rensselaer?’ He isn’t at his home, and he hasn’t gone abroad, at least not according to any of the recent sailing lists of vessels. He is not registered at his club, and he has not been seen at any of the popular southern resorts. His family decline to talk. Polo season is coming on, and Murray Van Rensselaer has disappeared! Everybody is asking what are we going to do without Murray? Perhaps a certain lively Countess could give information! Who knows?”

Bessie looked up, startled, indignant.