The Red Book Magazine/Volume 3/Number 4/Emsleigh's Day of Fate

by Carroll Watson Rankin

Emsleigh's Day of Fate

BY CARROLL WATSON RANKIN

Emsleigh, with all kinds of railroad passes in his pocket and a month's vacation before him, boarded the train. The vacation had literally been thrust upon him by the sudden altering of Wendall's plans; and office-worn Emsleigh, with no definite destination in view, was setting forth in a delightfully haphazard manner.

“Where shall you go?” Wendall had asked.

“Oh, any old place as long as it's out of the city. I have no relatives, you know. When I'm tired of riding, I'll just get off wherever it looks most inviting—wherever the grass is greenest. I've been confined to the office so long that any change will be welcome.”

With a mind freed at last from vouchers and way-bills, Emsleigh settled himself comfortably in his chair and fell to surveying his fellow passengers. The only really interesting one, he decided, sat three seats ahead of him. He wondered if her face carried out the promise given by the back of her head—an exceedingly shapely, well-poised head. He liked the way the brown hair, touched with golden lights, rippled up from the white neck. Although undesirous of courting disaster, Emsleigh reflected that in case of accident, she was, of all the passengers, the one that he should find most joy in rescuing.

Perhaps it was with this beneficent aim in view that the young man presently exchanged the seat he was occupying for the vacant one across the aisle. From this vantage point he could see the outline of an oval, rose-tinted cheek and an admirable ear. For a time this satisfied him; but presently his longing to see more of this lovely young person's countenance became acute. She was absorbed in what appeared to be a thoroughly engrossing book—Emsleigh felt discouraged at discovering that the greater part of it was still unread. When the fortunate but unappreciative traveler who had been sitting directly opposite the young woman arose to leave the train, Emsleigh promptly took possession of the vacated seat.

“Gad! What an all-around pretty girl!” said Emsleigh, gazing stealthily over the top of his paper. “She makes me think of apple-blossoms, new-mown hay and all that sort of thing. There's no reason why I shouldn't spend my vacation in her town, wherever that town may be. I'd like to know that girl—she's as sweet as a garden of roses.”

When, nearly two hours later, the girl prepared to leave the train at a small place with a population of perhaps five thousand inhabitants, Emsleigh expeditiously gathered up his belongings and followed her from the coach. Preserving a discreet distance between them, he kept the apple-blossom-like girl in sight until, on the doorstep of a white cottage, she was swallowed up in the motherly embrace of a comfortable, elderly woman, who had apparently been anxiously awaiting her coming.

Satisfied, Emsleigh turned back, found the only hotel that the place afforded, engaged board for a week; and then, as if drawn by an irresistible magnet, strolled again toward the white cottage. He could not have told why, but it seemed at the moment the one thing to do. After his usual, happy-go-lucky fashion he was leaving everything to chance. When, acting on impulse, he walked bravely up the rose-bordered path to ring the doorbell of the white cottage, he had planned nothing beyond the moment; but when the door was opened, as he had hoped it might be, by the apple-blossom girl in person, the name of an almost forgotten college mate flashed across his mind and words came to his rescue.

“Do you know—can you tell me—if Robert Clark lives in this neighborhood?”

The young woman had smiled somewhat graciously on beholding Emsleigh, who was rather attractive in appearance, but at his question the smile vanished and her tone became almost frigid.

“He does—in the corner house two blocks down the street, on the opposite side. Yes, that large brick house.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Emsleigh, decidedly abashed, but still speaking with warm enthusiasm. “I'm greatly obliged. I—I hadn't expected to find him so easily. He's a dear old friend of mine—a regular chum, in fact. Member of my frat at college—all that sort of thing, you know, and I thought I'd look him up.”

“Indeed!” replied the young woman, coldly and with uplifted eyebrows. “You're to be congratulated in your choice of chums. Good morning.”

Emsleigh was plainly dismissed. With no excuse for further lingering, yet with no intention of calling upon his newly acquired old friend—the Bob Clark of his youth having been dead for some years—Emsleigh started down the street toward the corner indicated. He was about to pass the house containing his alleged chum when he happened to glance back toward the white cottage. The apple-blossom girl still stood in the doorway, her face turned in his direction. There was nothing to do but to mount the steps and ring the bell.

When luckless Emsleigh was ushered into the presence of his brand new “dear old friend” he was not surprised at the young woman's abrupt change of manner. Never had Emsleigh met a man whose bloated, bestial countenance wore more unmistakably the marks of dissipation. His was certainly not a friendship to boast of, nor was he at all desirable as a chum.

Enlightened Emsleigh, murmuring something about having made a mistake in the house, hurriedly left the place. He retraced his steps, intending to explain to the apple-blossom girl that his Robert Clark and hers were two entirely different persons; but she was no longer visible. Remembering the disapproval in her glance, he lacked courage to ring her doorbell a second time, but decided to trust chance to give him an opportunity for making an explanation. Surely with an entire month before him he could find some person to properly introduce him. He fell to wishing that this bright thought had occurred to him sooner. If need be, he would cultivate the acquaintance of four hundred and ninety-nine of the inhabitants if that would place him on a proper footing with the five-hundredth, the girl of the cottage.

As he was mounting the steps on his return to the inn, a man standing near the door suddenly sprang forward with outstretched hands.

“Why, Emsleigh! Glad to see you, old man. Whatever brought you here?”'

“Banks! By all that's good. You're the last man I expected to see, and you've saved my life! Do you live in this place? I declare I don't know the name of it!”

“Don't know the name of it!”

“Fact—never thought of its having a name until this moment. But do you, by any lucky chance, happen to live here?”

“Yes—what can I do for you?”

”Have you lived here long? Do you know many of the people?”

“Almost a year—yes, all of them worth knowing.”

“Then, perhaps, you can tell me the name of the prettiest girl in existence. She's like a bunch of pink and white sweet peas, or a field of clover. She lives in a little white cottage about six blocks from here along this same street. She's as sweet a girl——”

“Phew!” whistled Banks, with a shrewd glance at his enthusiastic friend. “I should say I could tell you her name. It's Marian Hale, and she is a sweet girl. I'm fortunate enough to be engaged to her. The cards go out to-morrow, for we're to be married next month. Are you going to be here long?”

“No,” replied Emsleigh, who looked as crestfallen as he felt. “I'm leaving in the morning, unless there's a train to-night.”

“Say,” demanded Banks, ”where did you meet Marian? Is it an old affair? You seem hard hit.”

“Perhaps I am,” confessed Emsleigh, seating himself with a dejected air, on the porch railing. “To tell you the truth, nothing ever caught me in just this way before. You see I've worked almost night and day for two years to get into line for promotion and I haven't had any time for girls. Besides, she's different from the girls one sees in town. When I saw her this morning, someway she took right hold of all that is best in me. She carried me back to the country and made me think of roses and other sweet-smelling things in mother's garden. I haven't been myself since I caught sight of those little soft curls at the back of her neck on the train this morning.”

“Train!” exclaimed Banks. “What train? Why, man, Marian twisted her ankle four days ago and hasn't been out of the house since. It must be her cousin Rose that you're so taken with—she used to live here, and Marian was expecting her. She is a pretty girl, but, of course, she doesn't compare with Marian. I'll take you up after dinner and introduce you properly. If Rose is engaged to anybody, I haven't heard of it.”

“You've saved my life,” breathed Emsleigh, fervently. “I'd rather meet that girl than the Czar of Russia. If I can convince her that my Robert Clark never lived in this town she may be willing, with your recommendation, to believe me at least respectable. If there's anything short of a house and lot that you'd like for a wedding present, I hope you'll mention it. Phew! I've had a lively day.”