|
Main
- books.jibble.org
My Books
- IRC Hacks
Misc. Articles
- Meaning of Jibble
- M4 Su Doku
- Computer Scrapbooking
- Setting up Java
- Bootable Java
- Cookies in Java
- Dynamic Graphs
- Social Shakespeare
External Links
- Paul Mutton
- Jibble Photo Gallery
- Jibble Forums
- Google Landmarks
- Jibble Shop
- Free Books
- Intershot Ltd
|
books.jibble.org
Previous Page
| Next Page
Page 68
The girl went slowly to her room. All at once it had dawned upon her that
she had not given her address to the man the night before, nor told him by
so much as a word what were her circumstances. An hour's meditation
brought her to the unpleasant decision that perhaps even now in this hard
spot God was only hiding her from worse trouble. Mr. George Benedict
belonged to Geraldine Loring. He had declared as much when he was in
Montana. It would not be well for her to renew the acquaintance. Her heart
told her by its great ache that she would be crushed under a friendship
that could not be lasting.
Very sadly she sat down to write a note.
"_My dear Friend_," she wrote on plain paper with no crest. It
was like her to choose that. She would not flaunt her good
fortune in his face. She was a plain Montana girl to him, and so
she would remain.
"My grandmother has been very ill, and is obliged to go away for
her health. Unexpectedly I find that we are to go to-day. I
supposed it would not be for a week yet. I am so sorry not to
see you again, but I send you a little book that has helped me
to get acquainted with Jesus Christ. Perhaps it will help you
too. It is called 'My Best Friend.' I shall not forget to pray
always that you may find Him. He is so precious to me! I must
thank you in words, though I never can say it as it should be
said, for your very great kindness to me when I was in trouble.
God sent you to me, I am sure. Always gratefully your friend,
"ELIZABETH."
That was all, no date, no address. He was not hers, and she would hang out
no clues for him to find her, even if he wished. It was better so.
She sent the note and the little book to his address on Walnut Street; and
then after writing a note to her Grandmother Brady, saying that she was
going away for a long trip with Grandmother Bailey, she gave herself into
the hands of the future like a submissive but weary child.
The noon train to New York carried in its drawing-room-car Madam Bailey,
her granddaughter, her maid, and her dog, bound for Europe. The society
columns so stated; and so read Grandmother Brady a few days afterward. So
also read George Benedict, but it meant nothing to him.
When he received the note, his mind was almost as much excited as when he
saw the little brown girl and the little brown horse vanishing behind the
little brown station on the prairie. He went to the telephone, and
reflected that he knew no names. He called up his automobile, and tore up
to Flora Street; but in his bewilderment of the night before he had not
noticed which block the house was in, nor which number. He thought he knew
where to find it, but in broad daylight the houses were all alike for
three blocks, and for the life of him he could not remember whether he
had turned up to the right or the left when he came to Flora Street. He
tried both, but saw no sign of the people he had but casually noticed at
Willow Grove.
He could not ask where she lived, for he did not know her name. Nothing
but Elizabeth, and they had called her Bessie. He could not go from house
to house asking for a girl named Bessie. They would think him a fool, as
he was, for not finding out her name, her precious name, at once. How
could he let her slip from him again when he had just found her?
At last he hit upon a bright idea. He asked some children along the street
whether they knew of any young woman named Bessie or Elizabeth living
there, but they all with one accord shook their heads, though one
volunteered the information that "Lizzie Smith lives there." It was most
distracting and unsatisfying. There was nothing for it but for him to go
home and wait in patience for her return. She would come back sometime
probably. She had not said so, but she had not said she would not. He had
found her once; he might find her again. And he could pray. She had found
comfort in that; so would he. He would learn what her secret was. He would
get acquainted with her "best Friend." Diligently did he study that little
book, and then he went and hunted up the man of God who had written it,
and who had been the one to lead Elizabeth into the path of light by his
earnest preaching every Sabbath, though this fact he did not know.
The days passed, and the Saturday came. Elizabeth, heavy-hearted, stood on
the deck of the Deutschland, and watched her native land disappear from
view. So again George Benedict had lost her from sight.
It struck Elizabeth, as she stood straining her eyes to see the last of
the shore through tears that would burn to the surface and fall down her
white cheeks, that again she was running away from a man, only this time
not of her own free will. She was being taken away. But perhaps it was
better.
Previous Page
| Next Page
|
|