Coming Through the Rye (32 page)

Evan Sherwood went to his bed that night with satisfaction, feeling that he had done well to find out the starting of the girl and the name of the people with whom she had gone. But he would not have slept so well if he had known that Kearney Krupper was several hours ahead of him in acquiring that knowledge, and that he was in a position to know where the Whitmans had gone without the trouble of resorting to a detective.

Now, Evan Sherwood believed in a God who guards and guides His own, just as his Aunt Patricia had written to Romayne, and he knew that his duty just now lay here in the city, at least until after that election. But he was not taking any chances so far as his own responsibility for Romayne was concerned. He knew that there were personal dangers for him in the election, and that he might be unable to do anything for her, even if she needed it, after election, because he might not be alive, so while he stayed at his post and worked with all his might, he was ferreting out information and writing down several directions for Chris to follow if anything happened to him. That African mission of his was surely becoming personal.

He called up Aunt Patty one evening on long distance in a chance moment of leisure in the hope that Aunt Martha was better and she might return and somehow get near to Romayne for him. But Aunt Patty talked in a whisper and said that Aunt Martha was lying at death's door and might go at any moment, or she might linger yet for weeks. She had not had a moment to write, as the nurse had been taken sick and had to leave. They had had difficulty in getting another, and Aunt Martha would not let her out of her sight.

So Evan turned away from the telephone, realizing that he must not burden Aunt Patty with Romayne, and the days grew fuller and fuller of work, and nearer and nearer to election. The enemy was hot and heavy on the trail, and the number of abominable lies they had been able to rake out of the pit and bring to the light of day, and actually send masquerading in a cloak of righteousness, would be enough to amaze the angels. Evan Sherwood, sometimes, in his weariness, buried his face in his arms on his desk and wished he had never touched the dirty old wicked city. And then he would get up and go at it again.

He grew white and spent, and his friends urged him to rest. They sought to lure him to their homes for dinner and a ride in the cool evening. But he would not be lured. And nightly he called up Nurse Bronson, where she was on a case at the hospital, to ask if she had heard anything from Romayne. It was beginning to be an obsession with him—what had become of Romayne?

For strange to say, the detective had not been able to discover where the Whitman family had gone. They were booked to sail for Europe, but there was no Ransom among their party. Some of them were announced in the society column as being in Bar Harbor, but an investigation through the proper authorities revealed no social secretary there except a Miss Jones, who had been with them for years, and was old with gray bobbed hair.

A son who had recently graduated from college through polo and football, with a smattering of engineering on the side, was supposed to be in the White Mountains but had not as yet been located. It was rumored that a daughter was visiting college friends in the West, but that had not been verified nor the college friends located.

There were said to be a number of landholdings, with lodgings more or less spacious, in various parts of the United States where these favored people might flit at any moment, but no one seemed to know just where they had flitted this time nor for how long. The detective openly stated he was against it.

“It will depend on how the election goes, whether they come back soon or not,” said Evan Sherwood with narrowed eyes on space.

The next day he went himself to interview Madame and get all the facts.

“Why, I've just had a letter from Miss Gloria Whitman, about a cook,” said Madame, delighted to have something to contribute to the great idol of the people. “It isn't dated and no address, so I expect she means me to write to the city number, but doesn't that postmark look like our state? I don't believe they're far away, for that postmark is dated yesterday. The rest is blurred.”

Evan Sherwood went away with the precious envelope, and in some mysterious way, known only to detectives, they were able with the help of a microscope to discover the lodge in the wilderness where Romayne had been spirited away so mysteriously. No one knows how the detectives work. It is as mysterious as the way a scientist can concoct a whole whale out of an innocent little tooth dropped eons ago, and develop a theory of evolution. But at least in this case it worked, and a lonely woodsman with a canny eye, traveling on foot—to all appearances—and having lost his way, was able to hover around and be fed, and linger with a sore foot until he had laid eyes on Romayne herself, had watched her playing tennis, on a perfect court in a lovely spot above the waterfall, with Jack Whitman, was even able to carry back with him a picture of her with her lovely hair in a long braid down her back and her slim body leaping for the ball with a graceful curve of her racket.

He carried with him somewhere concealed about his shabby garments a tiny camera of wondrous powers, and two days later Evan Sherwood sat him down alone at his desk and was able to see the great house in the forest where Romayne was hidden, to watch her, as it were, sitting on wide balcony framed in its fir trees and mountains, talking to this same Jack Whitman, or walking down a wooded path and looking back smiling, and behind her walked a man whose shoulders looked like Jack Whitman's.

There were a number of these views, all showing Romayne, with different people—some ladies and some more men. Most of them, it is true, showed her demurely keeping to herself. But there were enough with others, and it was this young Whitman that cut the deepest in the question, for Evan Sherwood had met him in the city and knew his face and figure well. He could not be deceived. And Evan Sherwood was not happy.

To all appearances the election was going well, and everything promised a glorious victory for the League, but still he was not happy, and he wished the election was over. He found he did not really care much now how it came out—that is, down in his tired heart he did not care, for he was worked to a thread—he just wished it was over. There was something he wanted to do. He did not know how he was going to work it out yet, because his pride was in the way. But he must do it.

Romayne was beginning to work into the new life beautifully. It was such a relief to be away from the things that had tired her soul, and for all the reminders of her shame and sorrow, that for the first few days she just relaxed and thought of nothing but the beauty of the place.

And because his special girl was not on hand, Jack Whitman did as he always did, took the first pretty girl that was handy. So Romayne was shown around the mountain and the lake, and taken canoeing and tennising and driving.

She could not get away from the fact that she was looked upon as a servant on certain state occasions when guests were by, but for the most part there was an acceptance of her, and they found that she worked in well with the life. In school she had been a champion in tennis more than once and found that her skill easily returned to her now. In the clear mountain air her color returned to her cheeks, and her eyes grew brighter.

“She's a stunning-looking girl,” stated Jack to his sister when they were talking her over. “Where did you pick her up?”

“Now Jack, don't you go to spoiling her, or Mamma will have it in for you when she comes. She must have a secretary this winter, and I want the honor of having provided her. It will make my life a lot more pleasant if she's of my picking. And you let this girl alone, and don't turn her head. She'll be falling in love with you next, and then good-bye secretary, for Mamma won't stand for any of your nonsense with the servants.”

“Might fall in love with worse,” stated Jack languidly. “She's a peach, Glory—really she is. It's a shame to make her into a secretary. I'm half a mind to marry her!”

“You try it,” flashed his sister, “and see what Papa will say! He doesn't intend you to marry that way. There's enough causes for excuses in the family now without marrying any more.”

“There's worse I could hold up to him as an alternative if I wanted to that would make him beg me on his knees to marry her.”

“If you're going to talk that way, Jack Whitman, I'll send her flying down the mountain this minute,” threatened Gloria, “and I mean it!”

“Go to it if you like! I can follow, can't I? That never did work with me. If you keep this up, I will take an interest in her.”

Gloria studied him a minute with thoughtful gaze and knew that he was right.

“Oh, of course I know you're only kidding,” she said politically with a smile. “I was just reminding you, for she is a striking girl and no mistake. I wonder where she got her clothes? She certainly has good taste. I'm going to let her come to the party next Saturday night if Harriet doesn't come, and you may dance with her if you'll promise not to make yourself conspicuous.”

“She doesn't dance,” said Jack glumly. “I asked her. She said her father and mother didn't approve of it.”

“Fancy!” laughed Gloria derisively. “She's about a hundred years behind the times! Or is it more than that? Well, don't worry. I'll make her. I'll tell her it's a part of her duties as social secretary.”

“Don't you bully her, Gloria—I won't have it!”

“No, I won't, Jackie,” laughed his sister. “Trust me. I can work it.”

But Gloria found to her surprise that she could not work it quite so easily. There were some things that Romayne, docile as she was in other ways, simply would not do. Romayne looked at her with her great eyes wide with unshed tears.

“Miss Whitman, I can't do it,” she said. “My father has just died, and I've been through a great deal of trouble, and even if I knew how or cared to dance, I wouldn't feel like doing it. I did not know that a secretary's duties involved such things, and if you feel that it does, I would rather go back to the city and let you get someone else, for I do not feel I can do it. I would much rather not be downstairs at the party.”

Gloria Whitman looked at her curiously, searching for a reason.

“You certainly are a strange girl!” she laughed. “Well, have it your own way.”

Yet when Gloria came to think about it, she was almost glad that Romayne's decision had been to keep out of the social affairs, for Romayne was too attractive for a mere secretary, and more than once Gloria had caught the glances of the young man who was supposed to be her own special property just then, stealing toward Romayne. Gloria Whitman liked her all the better that she did not try to be a rival.

The clear mountain days passed, and the sweet air and sunshine stole into Romayne's heart, healing the hurt and helping her to lay aside the fear and the burdens she had been bearing so many days.

She began to think about writing to her friends back in the city and letting them know how she fared. Not that she thought it mattered much to anybody except Chris. Poor Chris! She had forgotten him entirely, and he had been so faithful! She must let him know she was safe now and he need not worry over her anymore.

There really was only one thing about her new position that troubled her, and that at times was very hard for her to endure. She found that it was almost unbearable to have so much drinking going on around her. Not only because it was something she had been trained to feel was both common and wrong, but because it kept constantly before her mind the shame through which she had been passing. These people were the kind who had helped her father to sin and dragged her brother into what she could not help feeling was degradation. They drank partly to assert their right to do so, against the law of the land and the protest of a few fanatics—as they called them—who were trying to force everybody to do as they did. They drank on all occasions. Highballs and cocktails were ever being passed. Flasks were the order of the day upon all rides and picnics. It was everywhere, and apparently all their kind used it. They drank when they were hot and when they were cold, when they were gray and when they were sad. Sometimes their high, excited voices and flushed faces made Romayne turn sadly away and feel that she could not possibly spend her days among people who were so utterly different from what she wanted to be.

They laughed at her good-naturedly when she continued to decline it, called her “Miss Volstead,” with a covert sneer in the end of the tone, but always pleasantly. It did not matter to them what their social secretary thought, of course. She was just odd—that was all. They let her go her way.

She usually went to her room after dinner and avoided the evenings of merry-making, but sometimes even at dinner she felt uncomfortable at the intimate edge Jack Whitman gave to the tone of his conversation, and wished she were anywhere else as the tongues were loosened with the frequent glasses and stories were told that went over the line of decency and good breeding as she had been taught to consider it. Always when this happened, she drew aloof from everybody and slipped away as soon as she could.

Aside from these things, her life was pleasant.

Mrs. Whitman had not yet appeared on the scene, though it was rumored she was coming the following week.

There was just enough work to keep her pleasantly busy without being strenuous. A large packet of mail to be attended to under the direction of Gloria, several big boxes of envelopes to be addressed and filled with the engraved invitations for certain social functions. Boxes and boxes stood in the little office where she worked.

“Mother wants to get all this out of the way so that your time will be free in the fall when the rush will begin,” explained Gloria. “Of course these won't be sent out until near the time for them. Mother is on a lot of boards and committees of clubs and things, of course, and she couldn't begin to keep up with them unless she got ahead in the summer. These are regular dates for every year, so there's no danger of their changing: the hospital reception, the Science and Art Exhibit, and those series of Friday-night dinners and Thursday teas.”