CHAPTER XXVIII
AT that moment she heard a distant bell, ringing. It had a high, whining tone, vaguely familiar. Reba listened to it for a minute, searching her memory desultorily. Was it like some bell in the city? Or was it—she had it now. It was like the bell in the Catholic church in Ridgefield.
Reba used to like to hear the Catholic church-bells ringing on a Sunday morning at home. They rang earlier than the other bells—during that quiet, after-breakfast hour, when she was seated in her bedroom reading her Bible—the bedroom furnished with the rose-decorated bed and bureau, marble-topped table, black walnut rocker, and flowered Brussels carpet. How pretty she used to think that carpet was! The sound of this church bell, so like the one at home, recalled to Reba her girlhood room in all its clean orderliness. She saw herself sitting in it, in the low rocker, reading her Bible by the window overlooking the mills. She contemplated the picture for five long minutes, as long as the whining church-bell rang, and afterward she exclaimed softly, "Why, I'll go home!" The very thought of the rigor and sternness of the atmosphere of 89 Chestnut Street acted upon her now as an antidote for the oversweet poison of Chadwick Booth's forbidden caresses. The cold gray house with its granite steps and concrete walks offered a kind of convent peace to Reba. "Yes, I'll go home," she said again.
Her mind leaped to details. Luckily she was provided with money. It was still early in the day. Sunday. True. There were fewer trains on Sunday. Still, there might be a way of getting to Ridgefield before evening; and by some round-about route, too, which avoided Boston. Reba wished to avoid Boston—especially its railroad stations. The time that other girl had failed to come back to her room at the Alliance, all the stations in the city were under constant watch. She was afraid of the very thought of capture. Oh, if once she could reach Ridgefield, if once she could conceal herself deep within the gray impenetrable walls of 89 Chestnut Street, then let them search to their hearts' content, then let them suspect and surmise the worst of her. Once in the little rocking-chair, overlooking the rumbling mills, Reba felt she would be safe from grilling questions, from she knew not what riddling reprimands. Safe, too, from any possible encounter with blue, brown-flecked eyes—hard with displeasure, or gentle with pity, she knew not which.
She got up, ready for action. She was thoroughly aroused and alert now, and she told herself, as she pinned up her hair, put on her shoes, and bathed her face gingerly with a corner of the dampish towel which she dipped into the half-filled water-pitcher, that she must act wisely, not lose her head. She must go downstairs and show no nervousness to the hotel-proprietor, station-agent, or whoever did help her with the puzzling time-tables. Also, she must send some sort of word as soon as possible to the Alliance, explaining her absence. She thought first of calling Mamie immediately by telephone, but what excuse could she give Mamie for her presence here? She must make no such blunder as that! Louise Bartholomew, if on her scent at all, would be sure to take note of the place from which she called Mamie, and its proximity to the resort where she had discovered her last night with Dr. Booth. Better wait until this town, whatever and wherever it was, was well behind her, Reba concluded.
It was after some minutes' careful consideration that she finally decided that a letter to Miss Ellsworth would arouse the least suspicion—a brief, non-committal letter. Reba was always brief and non-committal. They wouldn't wonder at that. It happened that Miss Ellsworth had spoken to her but a week ago, about her vacation, saying she could fill her place without inconvenience just at present. True, Reba had told her she didn't want the vacation, but her mother's illness would be excuse enough to offer for her change of mind, also for the suddenness of her leave-taking.
She must get hold of some blank paper and an envelope downstairs somewhere and write to Miss Ellsworth at once, and if it were possible to reach Ridgefield by evening, her letter bearing the postmark of the home-town would be in Miss Ellsworth's Monday morning mail. Corroborating this letter would be a postcard, mailed also in Ridgefield, to Mamie, asking her to pack her trunk for her and send it along. All these details of procedure presented themselves to Reba before she had left the miserable hotel-room.
When at last she found herself seated on the dark red plush seat of a jerky way-train, zigzagging a crooked course southwest of Boston, she drew in a deep sigh. But it was not a sigh of relief. A day of uncertainties lay before her. There were four changes and four long waits of varying length, in four strange towns along her circuitous route, before she connected finally with the last train, due in Ridgefield at seven thirty-two, that evening. There was a very likely possibility that she might fail to connect with one of the trains. The thought of spending another night in an unknown town made Reba grip hold tight of the nickel-finished seat-arm.
Ten dollars would not last indefinitely! How did one pawn things, if it should come to that? And where? And were pawn-shops open on Sunday? Unbelievable, and yet consistent with all that had gone before, she supposed that she should find herself contemplating such a contingency. She shuddered slightly inside her warm yellow coat. Why did the conductor look at her so sharply when he took her ticket? Why did that man sitting alone three seats ahead keep turning around? And what were the two women in the seat opposite thinking of her when they stared at her crumpled yellow finery, and whispered afterwards? What were they thinking of her back at the Alliance? They, whose opinions she valued so highly, what were they saying? What were they suspicioning?
Nothing very dreadful. Reba could have been spared much of her suffering that Sunday had she known that Mamie had slept over until noon that day, and when she did burst into Reba's room, at about one o'clock, to borrow a safety-pin, had thought nothing of the undisturbed bed. It presented to her eyes its usual Sunday-noon appearance. There was no hectic search at all for Rebecca Jerome at the Women's Alliance. Her absence was not even noted until after breakfast on Monday. But she could not be aware of this, and all day long she flayed and whipped herself with lurid imaginings.
That Sunday journey left an everlasting impression upon Reba. The long forced hours of self-examination, self-condemnation, left tracks upon her soul. It was a hot, wilting sort of day, and the dust and cinders that blew into the open car-windows, her untidy hair (she had had no comb except her fingers), her soiled white shoes, soiled white gloves, added to her inner feeling of moral dilapidation. Her all-day fast, too, interrupted only by a banana from a fruit-store that chanced to be open in the second little town, and a package of pressed figs, and a cake of sweet chocolate from a news-stand in the only station along her route that offered any such luxury, did much toward weakening her spirit, as well as her body.
It was about half-past three in the afternoon, after she had been sitting for a long hour in a corner of a deserted ladies' waiting-room, staring fixedly into a shaft of sunshine, in which a myriad of dust motes scurried aimlessly about in a confused fashion, like the wreckage of her own hopes, she thought, that she roused herself and set out for a walk along the elm-shaded main street of the unfamiliar town. There was a whole hour and a half before her train was due.
She had not walked far when she came upon a little white-steepled church. Its doors were open. A service was taking place within, and its cool dark interior was inviting to Reba. She entered and sat down alone in a back seat. A small assembly was gathered in the church to observe holy communion. Reba recalled now that it was the first Sunday in September.
It had been a long time since she had attended a communion service. She had felt shy about taking part in so intimate a ceremony in the big imposing city churches, and had always withdrawn. She was, however, a member of the Ridgefield Congregational Church, and had been, ever since she was thirteen years old. She never missed a single communion service at home. This little white-steepled, cool-shadowed church, into which Reba had wandered, was of her own denomination, and when the kind-faced, white-haired old deacon offered her the silver plate piled high with holy white bread it seemed more natural to accept a piece of it than to refuse. Reba was instinctively religious, and never before had she been in such need of religion as to-day. Never before had the words of the old familiar hymn, which, here, just as at home in Ridgefield, the church choir sang over the silently-bowed heads of the congregation, "Just as I am, without one plea," been so full of meaning to her. The church with its cool shadows, long silences, interrupted by such sweetly familiar sounds as the silvery gurgle of grape-juice flowing into deep goblets, the repetition of familiar Scriptural passages, the music of old hymns, over-sentimental though they may be, acted like spiritual food upon Reba. And when she emerged again upon the elm-shaded street, she was strangely strengthened and renewed. A peculiar calm took the place of her forebodings, a peculiar feeling of indifference to the conclusions about her back at the Alliance possessed her, a miraculous peace fell upon her, like sleep upon a tired and exhausted traveler.
The congregation had risen at parting, and as usual had sung in unison, "Blest be the tie that binds," and a little later, sitting by the car-window of the last train that was so fast bearing her back to the protection of her people, Reba repeated the words of the first stanza of that hymn, softly to herself. And as she gazed out of the car-window, at the hills drawing in closer and closer to the railroad track, growing more and more familiar with their slanting pasturage, climbing stone-walls, splotches of dark green juniper, and patches of gray rock, breaking through here and there, a wave of love for her rugged home-country, of kindredship for her rugged home-people, rugged home-ideals, never mind how "narrow" according to city standards, swept over Reba Jerome.
When she stepped out at last on the old well-known platform, and Tom, the baggage-master, glanced up and smiled at her, and said casually, "How d'yer do, Miss Reba. This is a surprise, ain't it?" Reba felt a timid desire to take his gnarled, baggage-bruised hands in both hers, and exclaim, "Oh, blest be the tie that binds!"
After slipping her letters to Miss Ellsworth and Mamie into the station mail-box, she proceeded on foot directly to her father's house. It wasn't until she saw the light dimly glowing in the vestibule of the side door of 89 Chestnut Street that she considered the difficulty of explaining her sudden homecoming to her people. But she considered it with no slackening of her step. They would have to take her in. She was theirs—belonged to them by blood. And all that mattered to Reba then was that she was taken in, given a refuge, she cared not how nor in what manner. Let them receive her scornfully, triumphantly, if they wanted to—what did it matter? What did anything matter now?
Cousin Syringa opened the door in answer to her ring.
"My lands!" she exclaimed. "We wan't expecting you!"
Before Reba had a chance to reply, Aunt Augusta appeared on the threshold of her mother's room, peering out into the hall to find out who in the world could be ringing the bell on a Sunday at such an hour.
"Well, of all things!" Reba heard her exclaim, and suddenly two other figures appeared framed in two other door-ways—a stooped old man's, and an egg-shaped woman's. They all stared in silence at the yellow apparition before them.
"Who is it? What's the trouble? Why don't somebody come and tell me what's the matter?" a whining voice complained from the room behind Aunt Augusta.
"It's only I, Mother," called Reba; and she crossed the hall and went into her mother's room, Augusta stepping aside to allow her to pass. She went straight over to her mother's wheel-chair drawn up as usual close to the green-shaded drop-light. "See!" she said.
"You!" exclaimed her mother, blinking up at her. "Why, we didn't know you were coming!"
"We got no letter," announced Aunt Emma. They had all followed Reba into the invalid's room—all but Augusta.
"What's it mean?" she demanded, not stirring from her place by the door.
"Why, just that I've come home," Reba announced quietly. "I didn't write. I decided suddenly. I've come to stay," she added.
"To stay? How long?" gasped the invalid.
"Oh, I don't know. Forever, perhaps. I'm through at the Alliance."
Abruptly Aunt Augusta crossed the room, approached Reba, and placed one hand on her arm, turning her toward the light.
"You been sick, Reba?" she asked.
Reba shook her head. "No, I haven't been sick."
"What does ail you then? What is the trouble?" Aunt Augusta grilled. "And where's your bag? Why are you through down there? That's what I want to know. Looks mighty queer to me."
"It does look queer, I guess," acknowledged Reba. "But I've had enough of it. That's all. You can squeeze me in somewhere in this big house, I guess. You'll have to, anyway, because I'm going to stay. I don't care about having my old room back," Reba assured Aunt Augusta. (Cousin Syringa had occupied Reba's room ever since she had left it empty.) "Nor, seeing I've come home to stay, I wouldn't think of sleeping in the spare-chamber either," she went on. "The 'girl's room' is all right for me."
"It ain't any such thing!" expostulated Cousin Syringa. "You'll have your bedroom back, of course, and I'll go into the 'girl's room.' I don't mind the cold."
"Oh, no, Cousin Syringa;I wouldn't let you do that," objected Reba. "I"
"Look here, you two," broke in Aunt Augusta crisply. "I'll settle that question myself later. You needn't waste breath on that. You had any supper, Reba?" she demanded.
"No." Reba shook her head.
"Set her place, Syringa," Aunt Augusta ordered.
"Oh, please. Don't bother. Just a glass of milk. I can get it myself."
"Set her place," cut in Aunt Augusta. "You better go upstairs, and wash up," she went on to Reba. "It must have been a pretty dirty trip from the looks. You'll find some of your old dresses hanging up fresh and clean in the upstairs hall-closet. You better put on one, and then come down and have a good hot cup of tea."