Munsey's Magazine/A Triangular Elopement

ENSON raised himself on his B elbow in the bed, and stared at the doorway.

“Hello, Cupid!” he said. “Where are your clothes?”

The youngster grinned, and wiped away a little stream of water that was trickling down from his sopping head.

“I'm hidin',” he said coolly. “I jumped out of the bath-tub and runned away; an' now I'm hidin'.”

“You need to be hiding,” Benson said severely. “What do you mean, running around without a stitch on your back?”

But Cupid was looking anxiously up the long hotel hall; then, with a squeal, he scrambled into Benson's bed and snuggled up against him.

“She's comin',” he whispered excitedly from under the sheet drawn taut over his head. “I'm a hippotamus, and I've runned away out of my circus-tank!”

Benson looked at the moist spot on the sheet where it covered the youngster's curls. He was conscious, too, of a sensation of dampness where the wet little body touched him. Billy wriggled down under the covers and lay still.

“You'll suffocate and die,” remonstrated Benson. “I've a good notion to kick you out of there!”

“Can't,” came a smothered tone from near the foot of the bed. “You can't; you only got one foot.”

“Indeed?” queried Benson with polite interest. “And where's the other?”

“In the grave,” said Billy sepulchrally from his place of retirement.

Benson chuckled.

“So, that's what they said, eh? Well—”

“Billy! Billy!” some one was calling softly out in the hall.

Billy squirmed, but did not answer. The door stood open, and presently a girl appeared—a very enchanting vision of a girl, with her sleeves tucked up and a big apron almost covering her.

“Billy!” she called again, and glanced through the open door to where Benson sat propped up in bed, with a half-dozen pillows behind him.

“I was looking for Billy,” she said, turning a bright pink. “He got out of the tub and ran while I was getting a towel.” Her eyes suddenly rested on the damp place where Billy's head had been, and went from there, slowly and surely, to the suspicious heap at the foot of the bed. “I—thought he might have run in here.”

“I don't see him,” said Benson, glancing carelessly at the corners of the room.

“Small boys who run away when their aunties are trying to bathe them,” Miss Lecky said firmly, “never have any ice-cream sodas when they go for walks.”

“Certainly ,” said Benson; “nor sailor suits with long trousers on Sundays. I quite agree with you.”

The covers at the foot of the bed were convulsed; there was a struggle, followed by a loud sneeze, and Billy's flushed face appeared.

“Nor not any ride this evening with you and Dicky?”

Billy was very anxious. Benson watched Miss Lecky's face.

“I should think,” he said judicially, “that giving up the ice-cream soda would be enough punishment for to-day. What does auntie think? Dicky's so keen about taking him, too.”

Miss Lecky leaned over, and swathing Billy in a huge towel drew him from his lair.

“Hold it on and run,” she said, and Billy ran with all the energy of his short legs down the hall. “Then she looked at Benson. 'You are certainly recovering,” she said as she moved away. “That remark was quite like your old self!”

“Don't go,” he pleaded. “Stay and scold me, won't you? I'd rather be scolded by you than be made love to by Mrs.”

But she had gone. Benson waited for a moment, hoping she would come back; then he kicked a magazine off the bed and settled his pillows with a vicious punch.

“It's worse than imposition,” Mrs. Anstruther had said one day to a gathering of three in the convalescent's room. “There's the child's mother in town all morning, sleeping and primping all afternoon, and flirting all evening. No one can tell me that Colonel Agnew wasn't holding Mrs. Ware's hand the other night—the night he carried her coffee out on the veranda, Anne.”

“And all the time Rebecca Lecky looking after the boy,” said Miss Smythe, feeling in her stocking-bag for the darning-silk. “Do you know, Dicky has been trying for a month to take her for a drive alone. I must say, he is very much impressed with her, and she's a good, sweet girl; and, of course, he has to marry some time; and every time that selfish sister of hers runs off somewhere, and Rebecca has to take the boy.”

Benson very seldom took any active part in the conversation; it pleased him to lie back in his chair and listen. But now he ventured a remark.

“It's pretty decent of Miss Lecky,” he said.

“She's soft,” Mrs. Anstruther sniffed—“that's the only word for it—soft.”

And that was the general consensus of opinion. One day, when Benson ventured to suggest that they should form a stock company, each person taking so many shares of Billy, and appoint a manager and a board of directors, he was met with frigid silence.

“And we could water the stock a little, you know,” he went on, carried away with the idea. “There's the gardener's boy out there now, doing it with the hose.”

“The child ought to live in a tank,” said Miss Smythe; and seeing that his plan brought no favor, Benson gave it up.

As he grew stronger, most of his days were spent on the wide porch, looking down toward the river. Rebecca Lecky was often there; and so, of course, was Billy. Of Mrs. Ware he saw comparatively little, except in the evenings, when she appeared, cool and demure, with a little court of admirers around her. Benson never joined the circle; mentally he was always seeing Rebecca in the hot room up-stairs, undressing a restless child, listening to his “Now I lay me,” which Billy generally sang to some popular air; and when he was finally ready for the night, sitting and waiting for the sleep god to come to the tossing figure in the little bed.

Rebecca looked white and tired those days. Benson met her in the hall one day and stopped her imperiously.

“Look here,” he said, “are you going to do this thing all your life—shouldering other people's burdens? It's idiocy—that's all! If you're going to insist on looking after somebody, I know an orphan—a good, obedient orphan, tame, eat out of your hand—”

The girl's eyes filled unexpectedly with tears.

“There, I'm sorry,” he said penitently. “You won't let me say things seriously, so I have to joke. And I heard you say you couldn't go for a drive with the Johnsons because Billy was asleep. Now, put me under an everlasting obligation, won't you, by going, and letting me look after Billy?”

“I could be back in an hour,” she said doubtfully, “and he isn't likely to waken before that. I—perhaps I ought to go.”

So she went. It was a sunny afternoon, and after peeping into Billy's room to assure himself that all was well, Benson went down on the  porch. There, in a shady angle, he tilted his chair back and dozed off. He was awakened by the pounding of an automobile-engine. He opened his eyes, yawned, and sat up. Just below the rail of the porch was a red touring-car. There were four people in it. Benson recognized Hendricks, the Lieutenant-Governor of the State, and his wife. There were two young ladies in the tonneau.



He got his feet down quickly, and went over to the rail.

“Going to get out?” he said affably.

One of the young ladies grew very red. The lieutenant-governor looked at him, grinned, and pointed to the end of the porch. Benson followed the finger and gasped.

On the rail was Billy—Billy in dishabille, Billy with moist little curls plastered close to his head, his only garment a diminutive pair of night-drawers. They were short for him; there had once been feet, but they had been ruthlessly split through their cotton soles, and a pair of small legs stuck out.

Benson jumped forward, overturning a chair.

“Billy!” he called sternly.

Billy turned and saw him. He stopped trying to slip a rubber band over one of his toes, and hopped to his feet on the rail.

“I'm an angel,” he said, flapping his arms in lieu of wings. Benson's face was purple.

“Billy!” he called again.

This time Billy recognized that the moment was not auspicious for angels. He turned and fled—along the rail. Benson went in pursuit, caught the fugitive, and, tucking him under his arm, carried him past the automobile.

“I was gettin' cool,” Billy protested. “I was all hot, and I was gettin' cool.”

“I'll cool you!” threatened Benson, and hustled him up the stairs.

That night Benson met Rebecca as she came languidly out to the porch after Billy had finally gone to sleep.

“You ought to have me around all the time,” he said complacently. “I had a little trouble washing his ears, but the clothes went on slick as grease.”

“It was good of you,” Rebecca said, dropping into a chair; “even if the things were all buttoned up the front instead of the back. He couldn't sit down very well—but he doesn't sit much, anyhow, so it didn't really matter.”

Mrs. Ware came up just then, her hand slipped through Colonel Agnew's arm, and paused in the twilight before them.

“Oh,” she said, “it's you, Becky! Is Billy asleep?”

“Yes,” answered her sister wearily.

“Now do take a rest.” Mrs. Ware's solicitude was a bit tardy. “And if you're going to be here, you might listen for him. 'The colonel and I are going to take a little walk. I'm so deadly weary of this stupid place!”

Benson watched the two figures go down the steps and into the dew-laden fragrance of the night. It was starlight, and: from his perch on the rail he could see the dim white oval of the girl's face.

“You're a goose,” he said after a minute's silence—“a dear, unselfish, motherly little goose. Why don't you take walks and do the things that other girls do?” When she did not answer, he slipped off the rail, drew a chair close beside her, and gently possessed himself of her hand. “Poor tired little hand!” he said softly, and quite reverently he bent over and kissed it on the soft palm. “I want you to get away from all this,” he said, with her hand between both of his. “I want you to give me the right to take you away, Rebecca.”

“Listen!” She sat up suddenly and glanced around. From somewhere upstairs came a persistent, shrill sound, a cry whose depth of volume and penetrating quality were unmistakable. Rebecca was at the door before Benson's slower faculties recognized the origin of the sound.

“It's Billy,” she called back over her shoulder.

“Oh, confound Billy!” he muttered as he sank back in his chair.

did not come back, and she did not appear at breakfast the next morning. When Benson came from town late in the afternoon, he found Mrs. Anstruther and Miss Smythe with their heads together on the porch. Benson sauntered over.

“What's up?” he asked genially. “Has the chambermaid been wearing somebody's clothes, or is it a death?”

“It isn't funny,” said Miss Smythe, with dignity. “What with the end of the hall shut off and not enough bathrooms on that floor, anyhow —and the only breeze we get through that window, too—and with wet sheets hung in the doorways and dishes being brought from the room and washed with the other dishes—”

“Billy Ware has the measles,” said Mrs. Anstruther, with a vindictive jerk at her sewing.

“The measles! Why, it's only yesterday—” Then, abruptly: “Who's taking care of him?”

Miss Smythe sniffed.

“Who? Why, Rebecca, of course, shut up there with him, sitting in a dark room so his eyes won't be hurt, and his mother in hysterics in the parlor, with the doctor holding her hand.”

Benson strode furiously into the house and up the stairs. But the door into the infected wing was shut and locked, and before it hung a forbidding length of white muslin, smelling strongly of carbolic acid. But in the long, shady hotel parlor, opening upon a side veranda, he found Mrs. Ware. Colonel Agnew sat beside her, and the doctor was pouring some medicine into a glass. Benson paused in the doorway.

“What's this about Billy?” he asked, much less fiercely than he had intended.

Mrs. Ware looked undeniably appealing—almost pathetic—as she leaned back in her big chair.

“Isn't it too dreadful?” she said. “And to think I went to a picnic yesterday! Oh, I have been a very bad mother—don't say no, colonel, I know I have!”

“Nonsense,” said the colonel gruffly.

“I am going to turn over a new leaf the minute he is better,” she declared, raising her handkerchief to her eyes.

“Never too late to mend,” Benson said cheerfully. “He'll be mightily pleased to have you take care of him.”

The doctor and the colonel both turned and looked at him.

“Mrs. Ware is not in physical condition to nurse a sick child,” the doctor said stiffly, stirring up the contents of the glass with a spoon, “and the boy is well looked after. Miss Rebecca is entirely capable.”

“Billy won't have a trained nurse near him,” the stricken mother explained. “Oh, don't go, Mr. Benson—I am going to ask you the most tremendous favor, and please don't look like that—be a nice boy and say yes!”

“Not until I hear the request,” Benson said doggedly.

“Well, it isn't so much, after all,” she said prettily. “But you see before you a homeless, forlorn creature, without a place to lay her head to-night. Would you—oh, please, Mr. Benson—move over with Dicky Smythe and let me have your room?”

When Benson could speak he made the concession with such grace as he could summon. Then he turned and fled, routed.

At the end of a week Benson had an inspiration; he called Rebecca over Mrs. Ware's private telephone, and had the bliss of hearing her voice.

“Do you remember what I said to you that last evening?” he asked when he had learned the particulars of Billy's condition.

“Y-e-s,” doubtfully.

“You know I meant it, every word, and more, don't you?”

“There may be some one on the line, listening!”

“I hope so; I'm not ashamed of loving—oh, well, I won't, then. But remember, the instant this is over you and I—what?”

“It's impossible—the whole thing,” she said unsteadily. “The—the mother of—of a certain person—do you know whom I mean? Well, she and—and a certain gentleman—oh, dear! Some one may hear. Well, then, Alice and Colonel Agnew are to be married in six weeks, and they're going to Europe. And I'm going to take care of Billy.”

“Well, you just are not!” Benson said doggedly, and was rewarded by hearing her hang up the receiver.

Dicky made the escape of the two prisoners from their germ-proof jail the occasion of a celebration. There was a wonderful cake with “Welcome” on the top, and the candles were stuck in the necks of medicine-bottles.

The party was a great success, but Benson, try as he might, failed to get a word alone with Rebecca. The “office” had drawn him into its clutches again; once more he ate his breakfast with his watch on the table before him. And the evenings were growing shorter now; the twilight came early, and the cozy isolation of the dusky verandas was exchanged for bridge in the lighted parlor. Mrs. Ware was much away, and rumors of a trousseau began to circulate.

And then Billy lost himself. He disappeared immediately after his bread-and-milk supper. The search, at first, was a cursory affair, for Billy was fond of wandering off and falling asleep under the piano or in somebody's bed; but when darkness came, and no Billy, things looked more serious.

Mrs. Ware was going to the theater, and was distinctly anxious—about being late.

“I'll wait for the next train,” she said at last, resignedly. “But I'm not really alarmed. He always turns up. Rebecca, see if the hooks on my shoulder are fastened, will you?”

Mrs. Ware went. At nine o'clock Billy had not been found, and the men in the hotel started out in earnest with lanterns. Benson and Rebecca had already gone over the grounds without success.

“It's such a terrible place for him to be lost,” Rebecca sobbed, when there was no sign of the child at eleven o'clock. “That dreadful river so close, and the track—why, we haven't looked in those freight-cars!”

“Why, of course! That's the very place we'll find him, too.” Benson spoke more confidently than he felt. “We can break through the hedge and go straight to the siding.”

They stumbled on in the darkness, Benson with a lantern, Rebecca carrying a tiny red jacket with brass buttons. She got some pebbles in her low shoe, and, after limping along for a time, she sat down and emptied it. Benson saw then that she was crying.

“Poor little girl!” he said tenderly, as he helped her to her feet; but that was all—it was not a time for love-making.

They hurried on in silence. Before they got to the track, the train began to move. It was a long train, and no one heard Benson's shouts. As it slowly got under way, in the doorway of a yellow car there appeared a small white figure, rubbing its eyes sleepily.

It was Billy. The child seemed bewildered for a moment; then, in an access of terror, he darted back into the depths of the car. Benson had reached the track, and was loping along beside the car.

“Jump, Billy!” he shouted; but there was no response, only a suppressed sob from the blackness.

And then Rebecca spoke from behind him.

“Lift me in,” she gasped, and with a mighty heave he tumbled her into the car, more dead than alive, and scrambled in after her.

The train, off the siding now, had put on a fresh burst of speed, and went jogging along merrily; and on the floor of the dusty box car Rebecca hugged a tear-stained, subdued Billy, and cared not at all that they were being rapidly carried toward another State.

“I wants my supper!” Billy wailed, when the novelty of the situation wore off—which was about three minutes. “I wants my supper—I wants pickles and ice-cream, and bread and butter and chocolate mints!”

“He's having an orgy of the imagination,” Benson remarked. “I wish I had an imagination like that. I'd try to imagine a few chairs. It's funny how it palls on me—sitting with my feet straight out like this.”

Rebecca laughed. With Billy recovered, nothing else seemed to matter; and from her corner, with Billy's head on her shoulder, she watched the glowing end of Benson's cigar and smiled to herself.

train jolted on. They talked a little, but more often they were silent. After a while Benson looked at his watch.

“Doesn't stop as soon as I expected,” he said. “Doesn't even hesitate; seems to know its own mind, don't it?”

Rebecca sat up. “You don't mean,” she asked nervously, “that it isn't going to stop soon?”

“Well, it can't go on forever,” Benson said comfortingly. “They'll have to stop for water and—things,” he added vaguely. “It looks now as if we might be going to Youngsville.”

“Youngsville!”

“That wouldn't be so bad,” Benson argued. “You could take Billy to a hotel, and come back on the express to-morrow.”

“Oh, what in the world shall we do? Why, I haven't even a hat!” Rebecca's sleeping sense of propriety was suddenly rousing. “And—and—I'll never go back home after this—never! What will they say? Why, Youngsville is a hundred miles away!”

“What can they say,” Benson said stoutly, “except that they're glad we found the boy? Anyhow, who cares what those old frumps say?”

“They'll never believe we couldn't have jumped off.” Rebecca's tone carried conviction. “And Mrs. Anstruther is so horrid, and they'll laugh and whisper. Oh, it's dreadful!”

Billy had dropped to sleep again, and she put him down out of her aching arms. Benson found some empty sacks, and with his red coat thrown over him, the child slept quietly. And still the freight bumped along.

“Won't you come over to the doorway and sit down?” Benson called, after an interval. “The moon's up, and it's a fine night. That's it; put your feet over the edge. Now, isn't it great?”

“It would be beautiful,” Rebecca conceded, “if it was proper; but I keep thinking about Alice, and Miss Smythe, and all the rest of them.”

“Forget them,” said Benson. “Just think of being carried along like this, and not even having to pay one's fare!” He moved over a little toward her. “It's our world,” he said softly. “Just yours and mine. Just the two of us together, dear. That's our moon, up there, and—”

Billy stirred uneasily and sat up.

“Aunt Webecca!” he called.

Benson set his teeth and held her hand. “Just sit still,” he said, doggedly. “I'm going to finish this time, Billy or no Billy. Rebecca, you know I love you, but you'll never know how much. I'm nothing much to offer a girl, but I want you—want you. Rebecca—”

“Aunt Webecca!”

“I want you to marry me before we go back home,” Benson went on determinedly. “I won't let go your hand until you answer me.”

“I'm firsty!”

“You are heartless,” breathed Rebecca, trying to free her hand.

“Will you?”

“Aunt We-bec-ca!”

“And you don't love me?”

There was silence for a minute.

“It isn't that,” she said, “but I'm not going to be eloped with, like this, without my consent.”

“Oh, as to that, don't you think you are eloping with me? And, anyhow, you love me; you can't deny it. And you're going to marry me in the morning, aren't you?”

There was a pause; then Rebecca murmured something softly, and a big yellow barn, slipping past into the night, saw something it had probably never seen—in a freight-car—before.

“I wants to kiss Aunt Webecca, too,” said Billy, from close at hand.

Benson laughed. “Come on and kiss Aunt Webecca,” he said happily. “And in the morning the three of us will get married and go back and astonish some of the fossils at the Maple Lane. Only—and listen to this, Billy—three people may elope and get married, but there are only two going on my wedding-trip. You”—impressively—“you are going to stay at home with mother.”

“And Dicky?” asked Billy.

“Yes—and Dicky.”

The train jolted solemnly along, not knowing that in the midst of its creaking timbers and rusty metal it carried love and the joy of life—two people, who should have known better, gazing hand in hand at a beautiful world that slipped past; and a drowsy Cupid in a red coat, who cared nothing at all about the beauties of life, and longed ardently for food.

And the next morning, at the Maple Lane Hotel, a mother laughed and cried over a telegram just received, and made a solemn vow that if ever a small, curly headed youngster was restored to her, she would never let him go again.

“And as to going to Europe, colonel, I know I should be horribly seasick, anyhow, and Billy's afraid of the water!”