An Unwilling Guest (Romance Classic). Grace Livingston Hill
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The rush of thoughts into Allison's mind was suddenly checked by the sound of the gate clicking and a strong, manly step coming quickly up the walk. She started to her feet and looked down through the shadows. It could not be that any other step could sound just that way, and after poising one instant on the step to make sure, she uttered a smothered "Oh!" and rushed swiftly down the walk.
Miss Rutherford heard the sound of subdued greeting, and knew that the steps lingered while there was the murmur of low-spoken words. Then they came on and a voice that was strangely familiar to her ear said: "Where is mother? Yes, I found I could get away a whole week ahead and I thought I would enjoy giving you a real surprise for once in my life."
The mother's quick ear had caught the sound too, and she was out on the walk before he could reach the door, and had folded the tall form in her arms, saying tenderly, but so that the guest could hear, "Oh, my dear boy!" and Miss Rutherford knew again that she had missed something by having no mother. It made her heart ache with a strange new longing for just an instant, till Allison's clear, cold voice said precisely:
"Miss Rutherford, this is my brother, Dr. Maurice Grey, formerly of Bellevue Hospital."
Dr. Maurice Grey, wondering at the coldness and dignity of his sunny sister's introduction, turned in surprise to face the beautiful girl who stood in a flood of light at the top of the steps in front of the open door.
Was it only the hall light that illumined his face, or did Allison in her keen watch really notice a sudden lighting of his eyes as he smiled and grasped the white hand held out to his, saying, with true pleasure in his tones: "Why, Miss Rutherford! This is a pleasure, indeed, to find you in my own home. How comes it about? My surprise is double, is it not, mother? I have met Miss Rutherford before."
They sat down to talk while Allison, smarting under this cordial greeting to her foe, went to prepare a hasty supper for her brother. Her cheeks were glowing with a heat that did not come from the fire, over which she was making delicate slices of toast. She was covered with shame over the introduction she had given her brother. The instant the words were out of her mouth she had felt the bad taste and the low motive which had prompted her, and moreover, she anticipated her brother's dislike to being introduced in this way. She had felt his questioning look and the surprise in his face as he turned to greet the visitor. She knew he did not like it. She knew he preferred not to have any display made of his title or achievements. But worst of all was the feeling that she had done it in revenge for what her guest had said. She feared she was beginning to hate Miss Rutherford.
There was a verse somewhere in the Bible, she could not remember the exact words, which said you must not be glad when your enemy was brought low. Allison knew she would be very glad if Evelyn Rutherford could be brought very low before her brother so that he would despise her.
The household sat up unusually late that evening. There was much to be talked about, for the son had been away so long, and they could not bear to close their eyes upon the goodly sight of him even for a little while.
Miss Rutherford had the good grace and good breeding to take herself to her room early in the evening. Allison blessed her for this even while she recognized that it would count one with her brother in favor of the instinctive delicacy of their guest. But it was good to have him entirely to themselves, for the first evening at least.
Alone in her room Miss Rutherford lighted the gas, forgetting for once to wonder how people endured it to always have to light their own gas and have no maid to attend to such bothersome details. Then she walked to her mantel and contemplated the boyish face in the cabinet picture that stood there looking with frank eyes into her own, just as the young man downstairs had done to-night—and one other time. She understood now why his face had haunted her and stirred pleasant memories. It was like his present self and yet not enough for her to have recognized him, she decided, as she studied his features closely. She knew now why the faint memories had seemed so pleasant. How strange it was that for the third time she should be among strangers where she did not wish to be and should again meet him. Who was he? Her fate? Her affinity? The prince that every girl waits for, who will sometime come into her life and fill it full of joy forever? She was not a girl who spent much time in dreaming. The eager rush of doing and being and getting pleasure out of life had crowded out the sentimental. There had been little to develop the poetical. But her meeting, or rather meetings, with this young man had been so strange and unexpected that she could but be fascinated by the unusual
She sat down in the low window seat, the picture in her hand, to think it over. Her first meeting with Maurice Grey—she shuddered as she remembered it. Her friend, Jane Bashford, had summoned her cousin from his den to attend her home one evening when nothing had been going on worthwhile and the two had spent the evening together. Jane and she were very close and spent much time at each other's home. It was an understood thing that Jane's cousin, or an old house servant, should see her home whenever she was out late and it was not convenient to send her in the carriage.
Jane's cousin had seemed exceedingly animated as they started out and when they were fairly on the street and away from the house, Evelyn, ignorant as she was in such matters, became aware that she was being escorted by a drunken man. She had not been much frightened at first, for she had known him since they were both children, and the way was short. She thought there would surely be some one passing in a moment to whom she might appeal for help if necessary; but it was later than she realized and when Jane's cousin became affectionate and attempted noisily to put his arm about her and kiss her, she grew alarmed and started to run, not knowing which way she went. She could remember just how her heart was beating and how the houses grim and tall looked down upon her, piling up in dark perspective whichever way she looked. Not a creature seemed abroad, no one to help her. Then suddenly there had been footsteps, a hand placed upon her trembling arm, and a strong manly voice had said:
"Miss Rutherford, can I help you?"
Even in her terror she had not thought to be afraid of this man, his voice seemed so strong and trustworthy. He had led her quickly through the streets to her home, saying with assurance: "Don't be alarmed. He has not control enough over his feet to follow," and had landed her safely at her own door, rung the bell, and waited until she was safely inside the brightly lighted hall with the mere explanation that he had known her brother in college and happened to see her in his company several times. It was all over before she had gathered her wits together to ask any questions. The man was gone and she did not even know his name. The brother, questioned, could not give any clue. He declared that he had a host of friends with strong, trustworthy voices and besides he believed that his sister would have considered almost any voice trustworthy, frightened as she was. She did not seem able to give any lucid description of the man, and so he dropped away from her life again and if it had not been for Jane Bashford's cousin, whom she had occasionally to meet in her world, perhaps she might have forgotten him altogether. She had kept away from Jane's cousin as much as possible, he seeming willing that it should be so. Evelyn doubted if he realized how grave his offense had been. Sometimes, though, the dreadful night experience would come back to her vividly and she would live it over again and then hear that strong, clear voice and see the dim outline of a fine face in the darkness. She knew the face had been handsome, even though it had been too dark a night and she too perturbed to examine carefully. She felt certain she should know it again. She had often wondered why she never met any man who made her think of him and began to think she would not know him after all. Perhaps he walked the streets of New York every day and even passed her house and was kind enough not to embarrass her with having to thank him by ignoring the occurrence altogether.
It had been a year later—she started as she thought of it. It was just about a year ago now. How strange! A year apart each time. A year later she had met him again. She had known him almost at once, even before he spoke.
It was while she was traveling abroad. Her father had left her in care of friends who had a mania for seeing everything that was to be seen, and they had insisted upon dragging her with them. She hated it all They were poky people, who went everywhere with a book and hunted up everything they saw in the book and read about it, and then told each other that it was here such a woman sat, and there such a man walked, and over yonder someone