Stranger Within The Gates E-Book

Grace Livingston Hill

• Herausgeber: Reading Essentials
• Kategorie: Religion und Spiritualität
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

Courageous young Sylvia's first love is threatened by her brother's scheming wife.

Leseprobe

Stranger Within The Gates 

by Grace Livingston Hill

First published in 1939

This edition published by Reading Essentials

Victoria, BC Canada with branch offices in the Czech Republic and Germany

[email protected]

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, except in the case of excerpts by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Chapter 1

They were sitting at the breakfast table when the mail was brought in, Mary Garland and her children.

It was three years since Paul Garland had died, and his children had begun to feel it was an event of the dim past. For things went on in much the same gentle, pleasant way that they had when he was alive. But they still missed his bright smile, his keen eyes upon them, and his eager interest in all that they did. He was still a part of themselves, and when any important event occurred, they still in their thoughts turned their eyes to his to get his calm, sane reaction.

Young Paul had been in college a year when his father died so suddenly. And the fortune made out of inherited capital had been sufficient to keep things going just as the father had planned for his young family. Not that they ever thought of themselves as wealthy, just comfortably off. They still lived in the old house their father had inherited from his father. It wasn't the last word in architecture, but it was substantial and handsome and large enough for them all. They loved it.

Young Paul would graduate in the spring. Rex, the second son, two years later. Both boys were attending their father's college, a hundred miles away from home. Sylvia, the oldest daughter, was attending the university in the nearby city, and Fae and Stan were still in high school.

It was Fae who sprang to take the bundle of mail from the housemaid who brought it in.

"Oh, shoot!" she said, twisting her pretty young face into a grimace. "I thought my picture puzzle would come this morning. I sent for it a week ago."

"You did not!" said Stan gravely. "I carried your letter to the mailbox, and it was only last Saturday morning you sent for it."

"Oh, well, that's plenty of time for it to have got here by now," said the positive young sister. "Mother, here's a letter from Rex. He must be sick or something. His letters are scarce as hen's teeth."

She plumped it down beside her mother's plate and went on around distributing the mail.

Sylvia sat with a book propped open beside her plate. She was studying for an examination. She cast only a casual glance at the letter her sister laid beside her plate. Her brother gave her a mocking look. "Remove the debris, Fae," he said, "it must be from the wrong fella. Look at Syl's face."

"It's only a notice of a class meeting," said Sylvia, looking up from her book with a withering glance.

Then there was an exclamation from their mother, who had opened her son's letter and was reading it. They all looked up and saw that her face was white and drawn. Suddenly she bowed her head over the letter and sat there with her shoulders quivering.

Sylvia sprang to her feet and went over by her mother, her searching eyes spying the letter.

"What's the matter, Mother? Is Rex sick?"

One week before Christmas! Was something like that coming to them to spoil Christmas?

Her eyes searched Fae's face.

"Was that letter from Rex, Fae?" she asked under her breath.

Though the question had not been asked of Mary Garland, it was her anguished voice that gasped out, "Yes." Then as Sylvia stooped and gathered her mother's head into her arms and lifted her face from the table, Mary Garland fumbled at the letter and motioned Sylvia to read it.

The letter was brief and to the point:

Dear Mom:

This is just a short note to tell you I was married last week, and I would like to bring my wife home for Christmas! She is a nice girl, and I know you will love her. She hasn't any home, and I'm sure she'll enjoy our Christmas.

Your loving son,

Rex

P. S. I haven't told Paul yet; he is so busy getting ready to graduate in the spring. You can do as you like about telling him.

Stan and Fae had come quickly around the table and were reading over their sister's shoulder to see what had upset Mother. Mother simply never cried, not since their father died. And Mother was crying! Still, slow tears. And something like a suppressed groan whispered from her pale lips.

"Gosh! Can you believe that!" said Stan in a grown-up tone, still staring at the letter. "I thought he had some sense!"

"Oh, I hate him!" uttered Fae between her teeth. "He----he--he's wicked! Doing that to Mother!" And Fae broke into violent sobs and went to the dining room couch, burying her face in the cushions.

"Be still, can't you, children!" said Sylvia, gathering her mother closer in her arms and looking at her brother and sister with angry, stricken eyes. "Get up, Fae, and let Mother lie down!" Her strong arms drew her mother to the couch.

It was only a moment that Mary Garland succumbed to her grief, as the three children sat silently, angrily dismayed, trying to wink the tears back and find some solution for this awful problem suddenly thrust upon them to solve. They were not used to solving problems. Their mother had usually done that for them. And now she quickly roused to her responsibility and sat up in spite of Sylvia's strong, detaining hand.

"No, dear! I'm all right," she said in a hurt, kind voice that was so familiar to their ears. "It--just--got--me--for a minute! But----to think it should have been Rex! Rex, who isn't all grown up yet. Oh, I thought the fact that Paul was there would have restrained him from doing anything--foolish!"

"But he said Paul didn't know it! Maybe it's all right, only he just hasn't got around to telling Paul yet," eagerly suggested fourteen-year-old Fae.

"It couldn't be all right, not at his age!" said Stan in a superior tone. "He's nothing but a kid! He's only three years older than I am. Getting married! Gee! Why, even I would have had better sense than that, no matter how nice the girl was! And she couldn't be nice, not a girl that would marry a fella who wasn't halfway through college yet, could she? No nice girl would do that. Not when she knew his folks didn't know her yet. Not when she must have known they wouldn't like it! Gee! Our Rex!"

"Hush!" said Sylvia sternly. "Can't you see you're making it terribly hard for Mother?"

"Well, but, Syl," urged Fae earnestly, "haven't we got to help Mother decide what to do? Haven't we got to do something about it right away?" Just as if the whole responsibility rested on herself.

"Hush!" said Sylvia. "That's for Mother to decide. You wait till you're asked."

"You dears!" said the mother tenderly and gave them a loving, anguished look.

"Well, there's just one thing, Mother," said Fae. "The rest of us aren't married, and I think this'll be a good lesson for us. I don't think we'll any of us do a fool thing like this. I for one shall never marry!" And Fae suddenly beat a hasty retreat into the wide hall and crumpled down on the old-fashioned haircloth ancestral sofa, hard and uncompromising, pouring her tears down its shiny old covering, weeping her young heart out over the catastrophe that had without warning come upon the house of Garland.

"Aw, heck!" said Stan. Diving his hands deep down into his pockets, he strode over to the window, blinking and gazing out with unseeing eyes.

Suddenly the dining room clock chimed out the hour. One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six! Seven! Eight! Sharply, like an old familiar voice calling them to order. They all looked up and gave attention. Even Fae slid back to the dining room door and looked at the clock in startled meekness, as if it were something that had a right to reprimand them.

For the clock had been almost the last thing that the head of the house of Garland had bought and brought home before he lay down in his final illness and went away from them altogether. And in a way it had come to symbolize to them all the voice of authority, the voice of their dead father yet speaking.

When he had started that clock and they all stood about listening to its solemn ticking, its mellow chiming, Paul Garland had given them a bright little talk about it that they would always remember:

"When you hear that chime, you must always give attention! Always about-face and look up at the first stroke, and ask yourself what duty it is calling to remind you of. It is like a big musical conscience to remind you to work, or to tell you it is a time you may rest or relax, or go to your night's sleep. When it strikes eight on weekdays, it will be reminding you that it is time you started to school. . . ."

His words came back to them all now, and suddenly their several schools took form before their eyes. Their long habit of hurrying away to be on time asserted itself.

They gave one another startled looks, and then their glances melted into consternation as the new catastrophe thrust its memory in ahead of precedent.

"Oh!" quivered Fae. "We don't havta go ta school today, do we, Muvver?"

"Heck! No!" said Stan, whirling about and facing his mother almost defiantly. "Not me! To heck with school! We got other business to attend to. Good night, Moms, what we gonta do?"

Mary Garland lifted startled eyes, eyes that came back suddenly from gazing into the open door to despair, and went swiftly to the clock. For the clock had come to be a monitor to her also, a kind of religious obligation, representing her husband's loving authority.

Slowly--as her eyes took in the hour and her ears recalled its chiming from the faraway seconds since it had struck--that wild, desperate look faded from her eyes and sane common sense took its place. Then her voice quavered forth, growing clearer and more firm with each breath.

"Why, yes, you're going to school! Certainly!" she said decidedly. "What possible good could you do staying at home from school? This is something that has happened! There is nothing you can do to prevent it. It's just a fact that we have to face, and you can't make it any easier to face by sitting around here at home and glooming over it. Especially when you would be leaving duties undone. You know what your father would say. And this is an important day. Every one of you has tests or examinations to be passed, and you must get such good control over your nerves that you will pass them all better than you ever passed a test before. That will help you keep your minds off of the happening that troubles you."

"Happening?" echoed Sylvia in an appalled voice. "I should call it a tragedy!"

"Yes," said the mother, wincing but nevertheless taking a deep breath and going on, "it does look like a tragedy at first sight. There's no point in leaving necessary things undone to make more trouble for ourselves afterward. You know what it will mean to all of you if you don't pass your examinations."

"Afterward!" said Sylvia dejectedly. "It doesn't seem as if there could be any afterward."

"Oh, yes," said Mary Garland with a sad look passing over her face, "there is always an afterward! Now, finish your breakfast, all of you, and then get away to school!"

"I don't want any breakfast," said Sylvia, "and I'm not going to school. I couldn't think of leaving you alone with this thing to face!"

"Nonsense!" said her mother sharply. "I'll be quite all right! At least drink a glass of milk. I can't let you go without eating something. It's a cold morning!"

"But, Mother, you almost fainted away just now. I'd be seeing you that way all the morning," pleaded Sylvia.

"No, you wouldn't. You'd have your mind too full with your examinations. And besides, I've done my fainting, whatever I'm going to do of it, at the first shock. Come, quickly. I want to get a chance to sit down and think this over."

"But, Moms, what are we going to say to people?" asked Stan with a troubled look.

"Say?" said the mother sharply. "Why should you say anything? Just keep your mouths shut about home affairs. There isn't anything to say."

"But suppose someone should ask us?"

"Why would anyone ask you?"

Stan stood perplexed.

"Well, they might ask when the boys were coming home, or if they were coming home," he explained lamely.

"No one would be likely to do that, but if they did, you'd easily say they hadn't written what train. Now go! I don't want to talk any more about it. And don't put on such a hangdog look. You don't want people to ask you what's the matter, do you? For pity's sake, can't you have a little fortitude? Put on a smile and go bravely off."

"Aw gee, Moms, but it's our Rex!"

"Haven't you any sense at all?" said the older sister with an angry glance, and then looking down at the stricken eyes of her mother, she said, "Now, Mother dear, you are going up to lie down and rest. Come. I'm taking you and putting you in bed. That's the only consideration under which I would think of going to my class."

Mary Garland arose and faced her fiery young daughter.

"Sylvia, that'll be quite enough! I'm not yet in my old age! Drink that glass of milk, and then put on your coat and hat and go!"

She finished by giving the table bell a sharp tap, which brought the maid at once. "Hettie, bring the toast and eggs. The children ought to hurry. Now, Fae, go put on your boots, and then come back and eat something."

Hettie brought the eggs, and they were soon all back at the table, well shod for the snowy streets. And though they protested they could not eat, their healthy appetites soon asserted themselves and they ate at least a sketchy breakfast before they left, their minds now turned toward the duties next in hand. For the time being they were diverted from the catastrophe that had come upon them.

Mary Garland watched them off from her window, her face as bright as she could force it to be until they were out of sight. Then she turned with swift steps and went up to her room with her letters in her hand, and locking her door, she sat down to read Rex's missive again. This time the tears fell thick and fast upon the page as she tried to think how her loving Rex could ever have been willing to do this to her and the rest of the children. Rex!

Had she spoiled him? Of course, he was extraordinarily handsome, and they all adored him. Jovial, bright Rex! Always full of fun! But generous and loving. Still, he did like to have his own way.

And he had so longed to go to college, when she had wanted him to wait a year. He was so young, a year younger than Paul had been when he went. Even Paul had been dubious about it. He had felt that Rex should stay at home with her another year. But Rex had been so eager to go. The thought of those days wrung her heart. If she only had him back, just an eager boy of seventeen. He could just as well have waited another year at least and entered college at eighteen. If she only had kept him back, maybe this wouldn't have happened!

Rex had always had more of a social nature than Paul. Paul was graver, more serious, more intent on having a career and getting ready for it.

But she must not waste time in vain regrets. There in her lap was the letter, staring at her with bald, startling facts. Rex was married! Married at eighteen. Poor foolish Rex! She had not thought he could be so weak as to do a thing like that!

She could almost see his handsome eyes looking at her from the hastily scrawled page, the appeal in his eyes, as if he were pleading with her to forgive, to excuse somehow this perfectly inexcusable thing that he had done. That appeal, that memory of the boy's eyes in times past when he had done wrong and had come to her for forgiveness, made it impossible for her to harden her heart now. She had never turned away from an appeal in the eyes of any of her children. Sometimes she had had to deny them, of course, but always they knew that behind that denial there was her warmest sympathy in their desire, even if she felt it was wrong or unwise. There was still a sympathy with the children's desire.

Oh, had it been that quality in herself that had helped to spoil Rex, given him confidence that he could get away with anything if he looked at her with that warmth of appeal? Was she to blame for this? Probably, though she hadn't suspected it till now.

But now what was she to do?

There had never been anything like this before. Always the troubles had been things that could in some way be paid for by money, or an apology, or by some small self-denial required of him, and the would-be crisis averted.

But here was something that could not be paid for by money. She couldn't by paying even a large sum undo this thing and wipe out the memory of it from his life. Not even his most humble self-abnegation could put him where he had been before this happened, with the future still unchanged before him. Of course, the world today might think of divorce in such a situation, but not their family. Not quiet, respectable, Christian people like themselves. Not that they ever made a great point of their Christianity, but they had been fairly regular in church attendance, and such a thing as divorce was scarcely considered decent in their family traditions. With a weight like iron upon her heart, she flung the thought aside and stared at the hopelessness for the situation. Of course, even if the girl was fairly nice, she would feel the same about it. And a girl who would marry a boy not yet out of the teens, not through with his college course, what could she be? No nice girl would do a thing like that. Or would she? Nowadays? Young people did such very different things now, from what they used to do when she was young. But she hadn't yet reached the point of considering the girl, whether or not she was a right girl for Rex. It seemed to be equally terrible for her son, whatever the girl was. Rex! Married at eighteen!

Or was it? Was it conceivable that Rex would write her a letter like that just for a joke? He couldn't be so outrageous, could he? Though Rex was always full of fun, always planning some wild kind of performance to make them all laugh. But he couldn't be so cruel as to do such a thing as this. She thought she had brought her children up to feel that marriage was a sacred thing!

She groaned and dropped her face in her hands, her heart contracting with the utter futility of all she had tried to do, in the face of this sudden catastrophe.

Selma the cook knocked at the door.

"The butcher's down at the door. He says do you want to pay for the order today or let it go till tomorrow?"

"Let it go, Selma," said Mary Garland. "I'm----very busy just now."

She had sprung up and stood facing the closed door, trying to speak in a matter-of-fact voice, a businesslike tone. Selma had seemed to take it that way. There was no question in her voice as she said, "Yes, ma'am."

Mary Garland listened as Selma walked down the stairs and drew a breath of relief. If only she might be able to keep things this way, with their quiet accustomed tread, as if there were nothing ahead to frighten her. But she couldn't. She had to do something. Perhaps, after all, it would be best to call up Rex on the telephone. Treat it as a joke for which she felt she must reprove him.

No, if it should be true, that might antagonize him. After all, he was her son. She must walk carefully. Oh, if she just had his father to advise her. If she had someone!

But she mustn't call in strangers until she knew the worst and had control of herself. Paul would be the one, since his father was not here. Paul was reasonable, and sane, and had good judgment. His father had always said Paul had splendid judgment for a boy. Yes, Paul would be the one. But she could not call up Paul today. This was his important day, his mid-year examination. Or was it his thesis? But anyway, she knew she must not disturb him now. Not till his important classes were over.

And even if she did succeed in getting him, would that be wise? He would be very angry with his brother for having brought such trouble upon them all, especially her. Even if it turned out to be a joke, Paul would be unmercifully sharp and stern. He would precipitate a quarrel, perhaps, that might keep Rex from coming home at all for Christmas. Oh, there were so many sides to this question!

And even yet Mary Garland had not considered the girl in the question except in the most casual way. Just the fact of marriage in connection with her eighteen-year-old son was all she seemed to be able to think of yet.

But she must do something right away.

She looked around the room frantically and met the clear, calm gaze of her husband's eyes, from his picture on the wall, and somehow that glance seemed to steady her. If he were only here! Then Mary Garland dropped upon her knees beside her bed and buried her face in her pillow. Up from her heart there arose a great cry of need. It was not in words; it was just her desperate acknowledgment that she was helpless to face this terrible thing that had come upon her.

If Rex Garland could have seen his little, pitiful mother as she knelt there bowing in her desperation, he might have understood what a terrible thing he had done to her. His little sweet mother whom he adored.

Mary Garland knelt there for several minutes, just bowing before her humiliation and defeat, and then at last she arose, her face almost calm with a kind of deadly quiet upon it. She walked over to her telephone, dropping down upon the little desk chair beside the telephone table. Her hands were trembling, and her lips were trembling, too, when she called long distance and then the number of Rex's college and waited, but there was about her a look of decision that her children knew well.

Oh, she didn't know just yet what she was going to say to Rex, but she knew she was going to say it, whatever it was that came to be said. And she knew she must speak to Rex himself right away.

It seemed interminable, that waiting, till she heard the operator at the college, and then her voice grew strong for her task; she was able to keep her tone quite steady as she spoke.

"Will you please let me speak with Rex Garland? This is his mother."

There was an instant's hesitation at the other end of the wire.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Garland, but everybody's in class just now. We are not supposed to interrupt classes for anything except a matter of life or death."

"Yes?" said Mary Garland firmly. "Well, this is a matter of life and death. I must speak with my son at once."

She could hear a whispered consultation, a little flurry of excitement, and then the young operator was back again.

"It's out of the ordinary ruling, Mrs. Garland, but if it's quite important--"

"It is," said Mary Garland steadily.

"Very well. I'll see what I can do for you. You'll have to wait till I can send word to his class."

"I'll wait," said the mother firmly.

It seemed forever that she sat there with the telephone in her hand. She could hear occasional talking, some student coming in to ask about a letter. A professor to leave a message. The dean to ask a question. She could visualize it all, for she had been in that office and knew pretty well what went on. She drew a brief quivering breath. She thought to herself that it was like the time she waited at the hospital when Stanley had his tonsil operation and wasn't coming out of it as well as they had expected. She had waited what seemed like eons for word to come from the operating room. Life was full of such breathtaking experiences. There was the time when Paul had been hurt in the gymnasium on the high bar and the doctor was going over him carefully. It seemed forever while she waited. And there was the time Fae ran a needle into her foot and the doctor had to cut her foot to get it out. Then there was the time--and just then the operator's clear-cut voice broke in upon her thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Garland, but we can't seem to locate Rex Garland anywhere. He told his roommate he was going down to class, but he isn't there. Do you want me to give him a message if he should return? Or will you call again?"

"I would like you to find my son, wherever he is, and have him call me on the telephone as soon as possible. It is most important."

"Very well, Mrs. Garland. I'll do my best. If I hear anything before noon, I'll give you a ring, shall I?"

"Please," she said and then hung up. Dropping her face down upon her hands, she wept hopelessly.

"This is ridiculous!" said Mary Garland's cool, calm self that had for so many years carried on through storm and calm alike. "It isn't like you to cry about a thing! Get up and wash your face and be ready for the next thing. Likely Rex will call in a few minutes. Get control of yourself!"

It was early yet. Perhaps Rex had gone down to the village to post a letter or buy some fruit or candy. Probably he had been late to breakfast and had gone down to the place they called the "pie shop" to get something to eat before he went to classes. Well, when he came back, they would tell him. He would at least find the message at the desk when he came to the dining hall at noon. But, oh, must she wait so long?

She glanced at the clock. Only ten o'clock. There were innumerable things she ought to do, but could she tear herself away from the telephone long enough to do any of them? The ordering must be done for the day.

She gave a glance at her mirror. Her face was desolate, and there were signs of tears around her eyes. Selma was sharp; she mustn't be given a chance to watch her.

She went to the head of the back stairs and called down.

"Selma, I'm waiting for an important telephone call. You had better give the order to the grocer right away, or things will be late coming up. Get fish for dinner tonight, fillet of sole, the kind the children like, you know. Have chopped creamed potatoes, stewed tomatoes, and an apple and nut salad. Lemon pie for dessert. And for lunch, isn't there enough cold roast beef to go with waffles or pancakes? You know what to get, Selma; call up right away before my call comes in. And don't forget to order that mincemeat, three jars. Hurry, please, Selma. I want the children to have their lunch as soon as they get home."

She went back to her room and stood listening a moment at her door till she heard Selma's steady voice giving the orders. There, she had hung up! Now Rex might call at any minute, and she must make up her mind just what to say to him.

But time went on and the telephone did not ring.

There were many things that demanded her attention--Christmas matters that she must finish, things that had seemed most important only last night. But now she couldn't keep her mind on them. She went over her list, but somehow they all seemed impossible to her just now. If Rex was married, and Christmas was going to be complicated, what did it matter whether the rosettes for Fae's party dress were finished or not? Of course, Fae didn't know she was going to have a new party dress for Christmas. She wouldn't know it was to have had rosettes, even if they didn't get finished.

And there was another thing. That party she had planned during the Christmas holidays. They had already invited some of the guests!

But one couldn't have a party when a thing like this was happening! Why, it wouldn't be possible! Oh, if it were only two years later, and Rex through college, it wouldn't be so bad!

Then suddenly she dropped beside her bed and began to weep bitterly again! It seemed as if her very soul were torn and tortured. She tried to pray, because she told herself that this would be a time for prayer, but her soul was in a perfect frenzy of grief, and for a few minutes it seemed as if the foundations of the great deep in her soul were broken up. Why, she hadn't wept like this even when her beloved husband had been taken from her! Though it had been sudden and sharp, she had felt as if God was behind that and she must trust and be strong. But this--why, this was outrageous! It was something that a laughing, merry boy had done, carelessly, not thinking what disastrous results there would be, and she felt as if she could not stand it! She simply could not stand it!

Then suddenly there came the thought of the other children. They would be coming home to lunch in a little while, and they would see she had been crying. Selma would see. The maid would see. There were footsteps coming up the stairs now! Selma or Hettie coming to ask some question. Oh, there was no time in privacy to weep. One mustn't weep! Not a mother! No matter what happened!

She got up hurriedly and dashed into the bathroom, turning on the cold water and plunging her face into it.

Yes, that was Hettie knocking.

"All right, Hettie!" she called. "I'll be there in a minute."

"It's only a special delivery letter, M's Garland," called the maid. "I'll put it under the door!"

And then she could hear Hettie's solid steps retreating down the stairs.

A letter! A special delivery letter!

Her heart leaped up with quick anticipation. Ah! This would be from Rex, explaining that it was a joke!

It was curious how her mind could fool itself in that one instant and hope for the best!

She grasped a towel and dabbed at her face and then went hurriedly for the letter.

There it lay half under the door, face up!

But the letter was not from Rex. It bore Paul's writing. Hurried writing. Had Paul found out?

And then as she stooped to pick up the letter, her hands trembling so that they could scarcely hold it, the telephone rang, and she tottered over to it and sat down in her chair, one hand reaching for the receiver, her lips trembling so that she felt she would never be able to speak coherently.

Chapter 2

Sylvia, hurrying out into the winter sunshine that morning, had a sharp passing wonder that the sun could be so bright when terrible things were happening. Just as if God didn't care what His creatures had to bear. Probably He felt just as Mother had, that things had to go on, no matter what some of His children had done to spoil everything. How brave Mother had been, thinking those lessons of theirs had to be finished creditably though heaven and earth should fall! Poor Mother! But she had looked just stricken herself! How could Rex have done such a thing!

And then she caught sight of her bus rounding the corner a block beyond the big stone gateway, and she clutched her pile of books a little closer and started to run. She must not miss that bus. Not this morning.

She caught the bus and swung into her seat breathless. Somehow nothing seemed worthwhile anymore. She ought to open her book and make certain of those two pages she was weak on. There would be sure to be a question on those.

She opened the book, but her eyes were dull and communicated no information to her. Some sound out in the street attracted her attention, a schoolchild trying to catch the bus, running across in the very teeth of an oncoming car. She caught her breath at the narrow escape, and her heart was going wildly. Rex had done that once when he had gone to school with her, and how Dad had scolded him afterward! She had felt it was her duty to tell Dad afterward, because Rex had almost been killed. He had fallen down in the road, and only the skill of the driver swerving to the left had saved his life. But Rex had lived, and now he had done this to Mother! Quick tears sprang near to the surface, and she had to turn her head toward the window lest someone would see her cry. Oh, this was terrible! Why had she come to school today? A university student weeping on her way to class! Then as she stared out of the window, she saw Rance Nelius standing by the curb waiting for the bus to stop, and he caught her glance and smiled, lifting his hand.

If it had been yesterday, her heart would have quickened with pleasure. She liked Rance Nelius. He was one of the brightest men in the university, and good-looking, too, in a fine, strong way, with the kind of good looks she liked to see in a man.

But now her heart took a plunge downward, for this sudden sight of him came right into the face of her own quiet resolve that men and girls were fools to get married--look what a lot of trouble it made for everybody! Oh, she didn't want to talk to Rance now; her heart was too heavy about Rex. And what were a few smiles and silly words, anyway? Why should a girl lose her head because an upperclassman had lingered beside her, several times, with a pleasant greeting? Oh yes, she had questioned in her heart whether she wouldn't ask her mother to invite Rance to the Christmas party, though of course, he lived in another part of the city and they didn't know him very well. But he had seemed so worthwhile and sensible, and there was such a light in his eyes when he talked. He could even discuss a dull class and make it sound interesting.

But of course, that was all off, and it would be better not to have to talk to him at all. She could be sure to show her sadness.

She gave a quick glance down the aisle, and she was almost glad when she saw a crowd of people pushing in and filling all the available seats and then crowding down the aisle. He wouldn't be able to get anywhere near her, and that was just as well. With this dark shadow over her life, it was better not to have anything to do with anybody. Anyway, not till all this trouble had been explained or arranged or something, and maybe forgotten. Would they ever be able to forget it? Yet she couldn't keep her eyes down on her book as much as she tried, and twice when she looked up, she found Rance Nelius watching her and giving her a special, quiet smile as if they were very good friends indeed and understood each other. As if just a smile meant a good deal and spoke a special language all its own.

She caught her breath at the thought. She couldn't remember that she had ever felt quite that way with any other young man. True, she hadn't thought much about such things before. She had been very busy studying, and she had taken everybody for granted and smiled on all alike. But now there was something warming and pleasant in Rance's smile, as if he saw that something troubled her and he was heartening her by his glance.

Well, there! That was likely the way Rex felt about whomever he had married. That was probably why he married her. People ought not to allow themselves to think about love and things like that when they were young and studying and had families who expected things of them.

Someone stepped past Rance and intercepted their glances, and Sylvia dropped her eyes to her book and studied hard, though she wasn't just sure that she was remembering what she read. Somehow there seemed to be something back in her mind like a shutter, resolutely fastened against taking in knowledge that morning. She pressed her lips together and fastened her gaze on the words again. She must get that special wording in her mind or she would fail utterly in the coming test that meant so much to her standing. Back went her mind to its duty, and by the time the bus had lurched to a stop at the corner where she got off, she felt sure of the difficult paragraph. Now, if she could escape walking with anybody down the one block she had to go to the building where she must enter, she could glance over the next paragraph, and then she would feel reasonably sure of everything important.

She got out slowly, lingering to be the last, but when she stood by the curb and looked around, she couldn't see Rance Nelius anywhere, and she felt a sudden blank. Had she then been cheating herself, pretending that she didn't want to talk with him? For now when she saw he wasn't there, she was actually disappointed that he hadn't waited. Well, it seemed that she was silly, too, just like Rex. That showed that every young person ought to be careful and watch their steps. Love and foolishness must be waiting around every corner to catch the unwary, and she for one didn't intend to get caught. Didn't intend to bring any more of that kind of sorrow into her mother's life. With that she set her lips firmly and stepped up on the curb. Then suddenly there he was beside her!

"Well, you did decide to get out after all!" he said, smiling down at her from his pleasant height. "I made a dash across the street to the mailbox and mailed a letter while I was waiting for you." He had the friendliness in his voice of a very old acquaintance, as if he had the right to expect to talk with her. And it really hadn't been so long that she had known him. Their first meeting had been quite casual. It was one day in the library, when they were reading at the same table and one of the professors had stopped beside them to tell them of a change of date for a special lecture that was open to all classes. He had quite casually taken it for granted that they knew each other. He had discussed the morning chapel address with them. From that day they had always smiled and spoken as they passed. Occasionally Nelius had walked along with her as they went from one classroom to another, and she had come to think of him shyly as a friend. But now he swung into step beside her with the atmosphere of having a definite purpose in mind.

"What," he said, "are you going to do Saturday evening? Are you free? Because I was wondering how you would like to hear the Messiah with me. I have a couple of tickets and nobody to go with me. You see, I'm sort of a stranger around here and haven't had much time to get acquainted during the term time. I've been carrying a pretty heavy schedule. I thought you looked like the kind of girl who likes music, so I decided to take the chance. Are you free?"

Sylvia caught her breath! The Messiah!

"Oh, I'd love it!" she said, and a soft flush stole up into her cheeks. "But--" And a cloud drifted over the brightness of her face as she remembered what had happened in their household.

"Oh, is there a 'but'?" he asked disappointedly. "I was afraid there might be, this time of year and all, and everybody has their own holiday affairs, of course."

"Well," said Sylvia, looking up wistfully, "there isn't exactly a 'but.' And it might not turn out to be anything after all. It was just that I wasn't quite sure but that I would have to be home that night----Saturday night you said? I would love to go. I've never happened to hear the Messiah. But I couldn't be sure till I see. . ." Her voice trailed off unhappily. "But that wouldn't be fair to you. You can get plenty of people who would just jump at the chance to go with you, I'm sure, and I might not be sure whether I could go till the last minute."

"That's all right by me," he said amusedly. "I'd rather take the chance with you than not. There's nobody I know that I want to take but you, so if it happens at the last minute that you can't go, I'll just give the ticket to the most wistful old musician at the door, standing in line."

Sylvia's laugh rippled out briefly.

"That's a nice thought," she said, "but maybe I'll get worried about the old musician by the door and think I ought to stay home anyway."

He grinned.