The Red Signal (Grace Livingston Hill Book) (21 page)

Then, suddenly, like a bomb bursting at her feet, an incident, trifling in itself, occurred, which turned all her sweetness into sorrow and brought a cloud over her bright life.

HILDA had been pouring tea and passing little honey cakes made of corn and barley flour, and had not been noticing a newcomer who fluttered among them at a late hour and had not as yet been introduced to her. She was a girl about Hilda's own age, with exquisite features highly enhanced by the perfection of tinting and powdering, put on so imperceptibly that only the initiated were sure it was not real. There was something almost startling in the prettiness of her face, the delicate, high-arched eyebrows, the long dark eyelashes, the faint shadows under the beautiful wide eyes, the rosebud mouth that could dimple or droop pathetically. Her dress was in the extreme of style, her frock cut a little lower at the neck, a little higher at the hem, a little scanter in the skirt than other girls wore, a daring little hat, perched giddily, that would have looked wicked but for the innocent, appealing rosebud mouth. Her little high French heels clicked when she walked, and her hands flashed with jewels. She was almost the first one of Mrs. Stevens's friends who had made Hilda feel utterly out of place. She glanced at Hilda with a careless stare, and a mere excuse of an inclination of her head backward when they were introduced, a stare that made Hilda feel herself considered a servant by the haughty beauty. She sported a priceless fur slung sideways on her shoulders with all the insolence of some queen of the forest, and she slouched into the latest curves of fashion with an almost dissolute ease.

“I’ll take another lump of sugar in my tea!” she announced to Hilda peremptorily, and then turned to Mrs. Stevens who had just come up:

“Oh, mother dear, when have you heard from Dannie! I'm just as worried as I can be! It's ages since I've had a letter. He hasn't answered the last one I wrote him.”

Consternation filled the soul of Hilda. The tray trembled in her hand, and, regardless of the request for more sugar, she turned away and slipped softly into the shadow of a rich portiere. “Mother!” “Dannie!” Who was this unspeakable creature who claimed them both as if she owned them? A mad rush of jealousy seized her, threatening to fill her eyes with tears and her throat with sobs. Her heart seemed to be freezing in her bosom, and a sinking feeling came upon her. She knew only one thing, and that was that she must get away at once from them all like a hunted thing that has been wounded and. wishes to bide its hurt. Setting the tray down quickly on a little table in the room beyond, she slid like a wraith through the library door into the hall and sped noiselessly up the stairs to where her wraps were left.

“Please tell Mrs. Stevens that it was getting so late I had to go. I did not want to interrupt her to say goodby,” she said to the maid she met on the landing. Then she slipped away without being seen in the big room where they were all talking and clinking the teacups. The calendar said that it was almost springtime, but the weather as yet had given no sign. As Hilda came out into the dusky street a chill struck to her heart. She glanced back at the great house and felt as though she were saying goodby to it. She seemed never to want to go there again. She wished she might go away from Philadelphia and forget it all. She felt ashamed and bereft all in one. For that girl had suddenly made her realize what she felt she ought to have known all along that she was not one of these people at all. She was an outsider, an intruder, brought there in a kind of sweet charity and allowed to think for a little while that all that beauty and richness and joyous life were hers as much as theirs; and now, here it was standing out in a clear light in all its ugliness! She was just a poor girl whom Mrs. Stevens had chosen to patronize for a while. This girl, this intimate beauty who dared to call her friend “mother” had come, and with one look, one sweep of her jewelled hand, one uplift of her painted eyebrows, had shown her exactly how Mrs. Stevens's friends regarded her, as a mere protégé, with whom she exercised the sweet virtue of charity for the time being. And she, Hilda Lessing, had so far forgotten her portion in life as to bask in this precious friendliness, call it hers, and imagine it would last forever! Well, it was good that this girl of the world, the Stevens's world, had come this afternoon and cut away the mists, showing her the truth in all its ugly nakedness, so that she would be no longer under a delusion.

She excused herself from eating her supper on the plea of having eaten at Mrs. Stevens's, and then slipped away to her studies. But her mind was engrossed by deeper problems than any set by the university to prepare for the morrow, and when she finally closed her books in despair and lay down to toss for hours on the pretty white bed she was by no means ready for her classes. She thought that after a good night's sleep she would be able to concentrate her mind, and decided to get up early and finish her studying. But sleep would not come to her bruised spirit. When she closed her eyes she saw the haughty beauty, felt the withering of her slanted glance from half-shut eyes, and knew just how she, Hilda, appeared to the stranger as well as if she had carried a photograph she had just taken of her and turned it to her full view.

Even the little white bed and the silken curtain blowing in the moonlight reminded her of her position, warned her that she had been living in a sweet and dangerous dream.

And now, in the darkness, with the bar of silver moonlight across the deep blue of her rug, and the faint gleam of the silver things on her dressing table, she lay and faced the real trouble that she had heretofore kept in the back of her mind, and would not give way to. Daniel Stevens! That was the crux of the whole matter. The young man whom she had come to feel was hers—her friend, of course—but hers in the exclusive sense. His letters had grown to be the big hope of her life, his wishes, his approval, the measure on which she laid out her daily walk. And now here was this strange, painted, unpleasantly beautiful — yes, beautiful, for she would be honest!—girl speaking as if he belonged to her; calling her Mrs. Stevens “mother,” and in every way appropriating, as if by old habit, the place that had come to be so dear to Hilda Lessing! It was horrible! It was unbearable! It was impossible! And yet by all that was dear and sacred she suddenly knew that it was not impossible, that it was quite the natural thing; and that she, the little school girl with the quiet, unfashionable past suddenly dropped down into society trying to be a fine lady was the impossible one. She had no business there and she must get out. It was all very lovely for these dear Stevens people to pick her up and help her to get an education, and be kind to her now and then by inviting her to a tea or a Red Cross meeting just to break the monotony of her hardwork; but, of course, they had no notion of continuing this indefinitely. They knew she did not belong in their social set. They would not expect her to presume to stay there long. And she, how had she overstepped the bounds that her heart should have set? Her face burned red in the darkness, and she covered her eyes with her hands and groaned into her pillow. For the terrible truth had been forced upon her now, she was caring more than she had any right to care for the young soldier who had been so kind to her and written her such wonderful letters! And now, just when her heart was so filled with anxiety about him, and almost her every hour had been a prayer for his safety, had fallen this terrible blow upon her! She had no right to care this way! She was perhaps presuming even to pray in that possessive way! Her sensitive soul writhed in the torture of her self-accusing thoughts, even while her spirit sank aghast at the sacrifice that lay before her. He was not hers, he did not belong to her and never could! He probably belonged to this other girl who was of his world, and who would resent even a distant friendship with such as she; who would scorn and scourge her, and burn it in upon her that she had no right, just because she had done a simple duty and saved his life, to hang about his friendship for the rest of his life.

Ah! But that should never be! She would draw away within herself. She would show him when he came home—if he came home! A shivering sob went through her throat. She would show him that she had not taken his beautiful kindness for anything but a passing blessing. She would keep out of his world and walk her own way. It was going to be a little hard at first to gently and sweetly refuse the kindnesses his mother offered, but she must. Never again could she go and be one of that pleasant company. Her eyes had been opened. She had eaten of the fruit of the tree of knowledge, and it had had a bitter taste, but she would not overstep the bounds again. The girl might have her field to herself and welcome! She would never have occasion to cast that slanting, slithering glance again at Hilda's naked soul, for Hilda would take good care not to be about to receive it!

Some time toward morning she fell asleep and dreamed a troubled dream, but awoke with a start to hear her mother calling and to realize that she had only a half hour to dress, eat her breakfast and make her car for the university.

The morning was too filled with hard work to give her much time for thought, but she went about with a burden upon her heart and a cloud upon her spirits. Every time she lifted her mind to the experience of the night before a sharp pang warned her to keep back her thoughts.

She drew a sigh of relief as she came out of the last class and realized that there was nothing more for her to do for a little while and she might creep away home and try to rest her bruised spirit. Then as she came out upon the street she remembered that her mother had asked her to do some errands for her at Wanamaker's and she hailed a coming car, realizing that she was glad after all not to have to go back to the apartment yet where she would have to face all the pleasant things that Mrs. Stevens had done for her, as well as the big photograph of Daniel in his uniform that he had given her before he went to France. That, of course, she would have to put away now, where his handsome eyes could not watch her and smile to her as she sat at her desk studying or went about the room. How hard that was going to be! But she must do it, of course. She would make her heart understand that there must be no more dreaming. She had looked things in the face and she would not allow herself any toying with a fate that was not hers. Of course, it was not Dan's fault. He would have no idea how silly a girl could be about caring for him. He was not the least bit conceited, and he wouldn't think that she could dare presume to care the way she had. She dropped her eyes away from the crowding multitude in the car, and was glad they could not see into her heart and know what a fool she had been. “Oh, God!” she cried in her heart with her eyes closed and the car rattling along to the next corner. “Forgive me for being a blind little fool, and help me to be sensible and get over this so I won't trouble mother!”

She bought the gloves and stockings and a few necessaries that her mother wanted, and stopped at the post-office department to buy some stamps and a package of Government envelopes. There were other things she ought to buy, but somehow she hadn't the heart to-day. She wanted to go home and lie down. She wanted to put that picture away and get it over with. It was going to be a hard wrench and she must get it out of sight before her mother came home. She put the envelopes and stamps in her coat pocket and turned away from the stamp window, going out toward the left to avoid the crowd, but as she lifted her eyes she caught the glance of familiar cold blue eyes. Her heart stopped dead still and then leaped on with a horrible bound. It was the airman, just drawing his hand away from the post box where he had dropped a letter! Even while she looked aghast he dived behind a pillar and melted into the throng, leaving the swift impression behind him that he had both seen and recognized her!

IT took but an instant for her scattered faculties to get to work again. All her heavy-heartedness was forgotten and she was on the alert. This was her job for the Government and for freedom. It had not been finished when she left Platt's Crossing. The enemies of the Government were still at large, and their absence was holding up a good many things that ought to be done. Here it was again; work, good hard work presented to her hand, and just when she was needing it to make her forget herself. Her spirit leaped to meet the need. Like an old trained spy, she slid behind the pillar and rose to her tiptoes. Was that his hat over by the silk bargain counter? Yes? No? She slipped around the marble pillar and up the white stone steps to the gallery, where she commanded a view of the seething aisles below, and leaning over she saw the flash of his eyes once more as they were lifted in a furtive glance that swept the gallery. But she, with senses keen, had the quickness to throw her gaze out over the multitude as if looking for someone else, and turn away, though all the time managing to keep him in view. She slipped behind a telephone booth and watched, and he went on down the aisle. She hurried past the telephone exchange and around to the other stairs, halting behind another phone booth just in time to see him pass the foot of the stairs going toward the Chestnut Street door. She kept herself out of sight until he had gone well on, then slipped quickly down the stairs and followed him, frantic now lest he should be lost in the crowd before she reached the street. It came to her that this was the great crisis of her life, the thing perhaps for which she had been born, to catch this spy and have him put where he could do no harm. She must follow at a distance and find out where he went, and then go and telephone the police, or Mr. Stevens or somebody. She could not think now, she must concentrate all her attention on keeping him in sight and finding out his hiding-place. Then she could slip back and notify the right people, and he would never know he had been followed, that is, if she did her work well. Of course, there was always the possibility that he might turn and see her again, and that would spoil it all, for if he thought he was being followed he would probably lead to a false trail. She must look out most carefully not to be seen.