Coming Through the Rye (31 page)

They stopped a little after six at a suburban town and picked up Miss Whitman's brother, whom they addressed as Jack, and proceeded on their way out smooth highways into the country.

Romayne had had little opportunity for automobiling, and she was enjoying every moment of the way. The sun went down like a fire opal behind the hills, leaving little flecks of coral and gold on the clear sea-blue and amber of the sky, and then darkness fell softly like a perfumed curtain around them, and a single star looked out like an eye that watched and saw them all.

She did not care that they did not introduce her, that she was apart from their fun and noisy laughter in the backseat. She was glad, glad that she might just sit still and fly along this lovely road. It was good to feel the night around her and not have any obligation to talk to anyone. Her troubles and her burdens fell away like a garment and left her soul there to revel in the silence all around, in the little sweet sounds of crickets, rusty-throated, along the edges of the road, the tree toads chirruping down in the valley, the distant lowing of a cow, a long sweet whistle from a boy coming home from his work, happy strains from a victrola in a little house up on the hillside as they passed, the laughter of children at bedtime, male voices droning in a quartette on a dusky front porch at some friendly gathering. They were all like beautiful fragments of a world that was not hers anymore but that rested her just to know it was there again as it used to be before she had suffered so. She wondered why it was that God wanted her to stay here all alone this way and keep on living with this behind her and nothing ahead but pain.

And then she remembered that that sweet Aunt Patty had said that the God who could forgive would also comfort and go with her and guide her, and she put up a little inaudible prayer that she might be remembered.

She began to feel the pangs of hunger by and by when the shadows at the side of the road grew velvet black and deep, and she wondered if she dared try a bite of that delectable sandwich that Grandma Bronson had put in her bag, but decided against it on account of the hawk-eyed James, who drove like a robot, and who all-too-evidently missed nothing that went on. She wished to fade out of the picture as much as possible and not draw attention to herself, so she sat motionless and watched the wonderful night go by and forgot to be hungry.

They got out a flask in the back of the car and grew merry. With sudden friendly impulse, they passed it to her, and, all unthinking, she turned to accept, for she was very thirsty, but she caught the fumes of liquor and drew back with almost a gasp. She had thought in her simpleness that it might be lemonade.

She managed to cover her awkwardness with a gentle “Thank you. No!” and turned back to her scenery again, thirstier than ever, and the Whitman girl drew back with a cold: “Oh, don't you care for it?” and a shrug of her shoulder. But long after the party in the backseat had forgotten the incident, Romayne sat, with white face coming out of the darkness still and sad, and thought about it.

It was as if she had suddenly found her deadliest enemy riding in the seat beside her. The smell of that liquor carried her straight down into the cellar of her home, to the secret room, where she had gone with the officer that early morning and seen the rows of bottles and the machinery for rebottling, and smelled the whiffs of rank alcohol and read the labels and knew her shame to be real. Never again would she smell that odor of fermentation without being carried back to that cellar and the day of her first great sorrow. For now she could look back on her mother's death as a glad thing—rather than with sadness. She was glad that her mother had not lived to suffer all that she was suffering.

And yet
, she thought to herself as they glided into a deep dark woods with the moon glinting palely out between branches overhead,
and yet, if Mother was a sort of ballast for Father—why wasn't I? Oh if I had only understood the need! Oh if I had been taught the evil that was possible all about for anybody to fall into!

About midnight they stopped at an inn for supper. There was dancing, and young Whitman asked Romayne if she would like to dance, but she thanked him and declined. She felt as if she were in a world that she could never be a part of, and she was beginning to be so weary and sleepy that she really did not care whether they liked it or not.

They hurried away after a little, and, revived by food and a cup of coffee, she was able to enjoy the ride once more.

Three hours later they turned into a rough mountain road and for several miles had heavy going, among trees so tall that the sky seemed as far above as the tallest city buildings, and into a wood so dense that it seemed impenetrable. Here and there, like lovely wraiths, thin, white-footed birches stalked, picked out against the dark plumes of the pines, and spicy odors filled the air. The moon was only visible in glimpses now and then, and the way at the side looked like some great primeval forest. Romayne could hardly think that they were only a few hours away from the city.

Then suddenly they came out into a partial clearing, and a great house loomed, built of logs in their bark and rough stone, with verandas ranging all around like balconies, some of them lying against the hillside, and others looking down upon a sheer precipice, with a waterfall below. One could hear the distant sound of the water falling and echoing away into the aisles of the forest as the motor stopped.

A wide oak door was flung open, and lights sprang out along the rustic balconies, where luxurious woven seats of grass and hammocks piled high with cushions invited one to rest.

Beyond the door she could see a fireplace almost big enough to walk into, with logs burning, for the night had grown cool, and Romayne was shivering in her coat, which she had thought almost too heavy to bring with her at that time of the year.

Rustic balconies ran around the room above, and rooms opened in charming vistas beyond. Rich rugs and great skins of beasts were spread around on the floor, and ancient carved oak chests and chairs that might have graced a throne room somewhere in strange lands were everywhere. Curious treasures from the Orient gleamed here and there like touches of great jewels on a lady's gown. It was a house that common mortals may dream about sometimes or see in pictures in an architectural magazine occasionally but seldom get an acquaintance with.

And into this mansion in the forest Romayne was led, and she felt she had entered an enchanted palace. Up the wide oak stairs they took her and gave her a great room, all her own, with a white-tiled bath that might have belonged to an old Roman house, and towels of such thickness and size, embroidered with
Ws
, that she had to stop and examine them to see if they were just towels.

The Whitman girl unbent and visited her for a few brief moments, clad in a gauzy nightrobe of cobwebby embroidery with a wisp of rosy gossamer thrown over it, looking very young and almost sweet with her golden bobbed head and big blue eyes.

She explained to Romayne that the work was not hard—that her mother wanted someone to write a lot of notes and keep up with the mail during her absence, and for the rest she would be needed to fill in when there were not enough girls at a picnic or party.

“There are more of us coming in a few days, of course,” she ended, “and you're so good-looking, I'm sure you can help out very well. Who's to know you are not one of my college friends? I'm quite delighted you're so sophisticated. I think we shall get along very well.”

There was a bit of condescension in the tone, but Romayne told herself she must not mind that.

“Now sleep as late as you want to in the morning,” said the girl on leaving her. “You must be tired after your hurry. Mother may not be here for two weeks or more, though she may drop in anytime after tomorrow. There's no telling what she will do next. But until she comes, your duties won't be very strenuous. Good night!”

Romayne felt better after she had gone. It was not going to be so bad, if they were all as nice as the girl. And the place certainly was wonderful. She hurried into the luxurious bed as fast as she could and was soon drifting off to sleep.

Did she or did she not hear someone calling across the hall—or was it all a dream?

“Say, Jack, when's Kearney coming?”

Kearney! Kearney? Who was that? Was she dreaming?

In the morning she did not remember it at all.

W
ell, she's gone!” said Chris Hollister, bursting in on the chief late that evening.

“Gone?”

“Yes, gone! Just like that!” Chris's face was blank with worry.

“Where?”

“That's the worst of it. I don't know. Nobody knows.”

“But—what
do
you know?”

“Well, not much. Nurse Bronson wasn't at home, you know, and those two old noodles, not a brain between 'em, never asked her. That is, they say she got a job, but they don't know where. She didn't know herself. She was just going blind.”

“But—how did she get it? Didn't they ask that?”

“Why, there seems to have been some kind of an agent, as near as I can make out, and the people who wanted her were going out of town at once, but she wasn't told where. She didn't even leave the name of the folks. Said she would write and send for her trunk.”

“Oh, she didn't take a trunk,” said Evan with a relieved look.

“Then she can't be going for long, or else she'll send for it.”

“Perhaps,” said Chris gloomily. “Thing I can't figure out is why they didn't find out where she was to meet 'em. You can't tell what these rich guys are.”

“You think it may be some of her former friends? Some of the gang?”

“Might. Or—Kearney Krupper. He's running loose, you know. He's a
fox
!”

Evan Sherwood sprang to his telephone.

“Get me the classified book, and find the list of agencies,” he said. Chris was alert at once.

“Why didn't I think of that? Still, she mighta met someone she knew and got the job. The old ladies did say she came back on the train and ran all the way from the second corner.”

“That's something,” said Sherwood. “Begin at the nearest.”

But most of the agencies were closed at that hour, and Evan Sherwood passed a sleepless night worrying about the girl who was “nothing more to him than the place in an African mission where his chance collection envelope went.”

In the early morning he and Chris were at it again and worked all day in relays in between the election business, which was getting more and more strenuous every day. For Sherwood had to write an editorial for the special paper they were publishing in the interest of a clean city, and Chris had to round up reports from the slum district, and there really were only so many hours in a day.

It was almost by chance and in desperation that at last they tried the Quality Employment Agency and were answered by the cool, crisp voice of Madame.

“Can you tell me if a young woman by the name of Romayne Ransom has registered at your office for a situation of any kind?”

Evan Sherwood had his question down to bare facts by this time.

There was a moment's consideration.

“Who is this?” asked Madame coldly.

“This is a friend of Miss Ransom's, who is anxious to locate her. She went away in a great hurry yesterday without leaving her address, and her friends are worried lest something has happened to her.”

Another pause.

“You couldn't give me your name?”

“Why, yes—” said Sherwood. It was the first time he had met with this request in his enquiries. “My name's Sherwood. Of the Citizens' League. Perhaps you've heard of me.”

“Not Mr. Evan Sherwood,” said Madame with a flutter in her voice. “Of course I have, Mr. Sherwood. Say, there's nothing wrong with that girl, is there? She had a reference from Dr. Stephens, and I've sent her to one of my very best customers. She seemed all right, but sometimes even a good reference isn't well-founded. I always try to get good people. That's why I chose the name ‘Quality' for my agency.”

“Nothing wrong at all with the girl,” said Evan Sherwood heartily, “only that she's too fine for any job I know. We were just worried at her disappearance. You know there are foxes around looking for prey all the time, and she is somewhat alone in the world. Who did you say she was with? Whitman? Not the Gregory Whitmans? H'm! And she's gone away from the city. You don't know where? Oh, well, doubtless she will write soon. We just wanted to be sure she was with all right people. Thank you very much.…”

He turned to Chris with an anxious face.

“Those Whitmans are all in the ring, aren't they? You don't suppose the gang has done it for some reason? You don't suppose they think they can find out something from her? Or get at those papers her brother has?”

“It might be, but they wouldn't have known to go after her through an agent, would they?”

“That's so, too. And yet—”

“Yes,” said Chris. “And there's Kearney. But he's still in the city, or was tonight.”

“Kearney won't leave now till after election. He has too much dirty work to do for his father, but watch him when it's over! Chris, have our detective find out where the summer homes of the Whitmans are and, if possible, which they have gone to. The family may be scattered. They've likely run to cover. Find out where they
all
are. Then we shall have something to work from. We can't leave that kid out among the wolves!”

“I should say not!”

Chris hurried away, glad that something definite was going to be done. Now, if Romayne had only been willing to have married him! It was going to be tremendously hard work to take care of her this way. All that about God wanting her to be on her own sounded well enough, but when it came right down to it, Chris meant to be on the job himself, unless he could go one better and get the chief to do it.