Ransom (2 page)

And Christobel, with a great wonder and a growing contempt and a secret dread, went. Out of shame for Charmian, Christobel had gone and held the hand of the dying cook, patting her cold wet brow, holding up the hand that had tried to make the sign of the cross at the last moment.

Now, as Christobel looked about the great grotesque room, forcing herself to walk softly, as if still in the presence of the dead, entering the little inner room that had been Charmian's special sanctum, she was summing up all her impressions of her stepmother and wondering what there could be for her in that other life to which she had gone—if there really was another life.

White velvet here in this inner room, white velvet lining to the silver draperies, white velvet rug, marble and onyx in the floor and tables; white-shaded, white-pedestaled lamps of alabaster, wildly lovely, with a glow like hidden fire in their white, white depths; white velvet draperies at the windows about a frostwork of handmade lace. Could anything be more exquisite, pure, simple, lovely, like driven snow? Crystal flowers in great costly sprays of well-placed mirrors, voluptuous bits of statuary, modern to the last degree, the only bit of color a lank slim devil of a doll in sumptuous taffeta of palest green and rose, lolling with abandoned air over a white velvet chair. The room might have been a lone iceberg at the North Pole, with a faint tinge of sunset in the sky, so white and lonesome it looked.

Yet in all that whiteness there was not a suggestion of purity or holiness. It rather seemed like something lovely gone astray, dishonored, put to wrong use.

Christobel shivered and wondered at her vague thoughts. She could not reason out all these things—she was too young and inexperienced, yet she felt them, like balls of ice against her young consciousness, and tears stung her eyes and made a lump in her throat.

Charmian had surrounded herself with all this, for herself to enjoy. And suddenly, without warning, just a sharp pain in the night, some power rushed her out of it all, rushed her to the hospital in terror, through a frantic operation that was too late, and herself, her little petted self, had been snatched away from the white velvet life she had planned. Planned, not because she liked things white and pure and sweet, but because she delighted to take a precious costly thing and desecrate it for herself. This was the great thought that hovered crushingly over Christobel's overstrained consciousness. Where, where,
where
had Charmian gone? Almost she felt a passing pity for the woman she knew had hated her.

Sudden distant voices in the other part of the house brought Christobel back to the present. She turned swiftly and moved noiselessly over the deep priceless rugs, back to shelter of the heavy draperies and into the wide hall. Those were the servants' voices, and she did not wish to get caught here looking into Charmian's personal sanctum as if she were curious.

The voices came from the dining room, diagonally across the wide hall, but the silent, empty house carried words clearly. Indeed, the voices were not hushed. It was evident from the clinking sounds that silver and crystal were being placed upon the table and sideboard. Probably the dinner table was being prepared for the evening meal.

Christobel was not very well acquainted with the servants in the house. She had arrived only the day before, and all were new since her last homecoming. Charmian had a way of changing her minions often.

“Well, and now I wonder what'll be next?” said a voice with a decided Irish accent. Christobel wondered if it might be the cook, only what would a cook be doing in the dining room? Her province was the kitchen. It must be the parlormaid.

Then it sounded as if the someone else entered and put something down on the sideboard.

“Oh,
now
,” giggled the parlormaid, “I suppose we'll have to have a spell of Mrs. Romayne.”

“What's Mrs. Romayne got to do with it?” asked the lofty voice of the butler, who was new in the house and had not gotten the way of things yet.

“Oh, you don't know Mrs. Romayne yet, do you, Hawkins?” giggled the parlormaid knowingly. “Wait till you see. She'll have very much to do. She's come back from Florida especially to look after things. She called up this morning when they were all out and said she'd be in this afternoon after the service. Oh, you'll find out. She'll meddle in every blessed thing. She's that kind. You ought to have heard her nosy questions this morning.”

“But who is she?” demanded the butler.

“Oh, she's a pretty widow lady that's crazy about the master,” responded the parlormaid. “Wait till you see. Honey on her tongue, and a laugh like a young bird.”

“Is the master fond of her?” asked the butler.

“Who can tell?” chirped the parlormaid. “What difference would that make, anyway?”

“All the difference in the world,” said the butler wisely.

“Ah, but you don't know the lady, Hawkins,” giggled the girl. “She's clever, that woman is. She knows what she wants and she gets it. I've seen her work before.”

“Well, it's not likely I've met her before. I'll look her over. If I don't like her, I'm leaving,” announced the butler.

“Shh! There's Marie comin' in from the funeral,” warned the cook. “Better not talk in front of her. She's a sneak. She'd likely tell the master, if what she heard served her own interests. They certainly had a long service. I hope the proud lady is well buried and deep.”

Christobel, in her shelter of the silver draperies, shivered. There was something uncannily harsh in the tone of the woman. She felt as if she ought to rebuke her, yet what would she say? She shrank from having anything to do with them. She could wait a moment until they all went back to the kitchen. They evidently did not know she had come in. She had no position in her father's house yet. The spirit of Charmian still lingered in those grotesque rooms.

“Hi, there, Marie!” challenged the parlormaid. “Have a pleasant funeral? What was she like? Was there a lot of flowers?”

“Oh, sure,” said the lady's maid loftily, “a grand funeral. And she looked as lovely as life.”

“Say, Marie,” asked the furtive voice of the cook. “What come o' them fur coats she bought the day she was took sick? Did she keep 'em?”

“Sure she kept 'em. She was just crazy about 'em. I'm goin' up now an' try on that sable wrap. If there's time before the family gets back, I'll come down an' show ya.”

There was a sound of the swinging door into the butler's pantry.

“Do that,” encouraged the cook. Evidently the butler and parlormaid had gone out. “An' say, Marie, if ya happen ta come across that there string of purple beads she useta wear, just bring 'em along. I'd like 'em as a souvenir! You do that fer me, an' I'll say nothin' about what I know! See?”

“All right,” agreed Charmian's maid. “I s'pose you know those beads are real amethyst. They're worth a lot. But I ain't goin' ta do a thing till after Miss Christobel goes back ta school. She's got eyes like a cat, that girl. She'll likely go back tanight ur tamorra, and then I got clear sailin'. The master'll leave it ta me to put things in order. He doesn't know what she had. He'll never miss anything.”

“But there'll be the bills!”

“Naw, he won't pay any attention now. He'll just pay 'em and be done. It's only women would know. An' if Miss Christobel is gone, who's goin' ta know?”

“There's another woman hankerin' ta get in our missis' shoes,” warned the cook. “That Romayne lady is come up from Palm Beach. She called this mornin'. What you do you better do quick.”

“My land!” said Marie in dismay. “Has she come? Well I'll stay in tanight and get things well outta site. Then let her snoop!”

“Well, if you're goin' ta show us that fur wrap, you better get a hustle on. They'll likely be comin' back from the funeral right soon an' you don't want ta be masqueradin' round in no dead lady's clothes.”

“All right! I'll hurry!” said Marie and turned toward the back stairs.

But Christobel had flown, stealthy as a cat, up the velvet-shod front stairs, up the hall away from her own room, to the spacious apartment that had belonged to Charmian.

She opened the door and slipped her hand inside, taking the key out and fitting it into the outside lock of the door. While she did so she cast one frightened glance into the rooms that had been her stepmother's. All soft pinks and blues in satin and luxury, a bedroom beyond in lettuce green, and the door wide open into the strange weird bathroom, where all the fixtures, even the bathtub, were done in black, with the floor in black and crimson tiles.

Christobel shut the door softly and after locking it, removed the key and fled swiftly to her own room, just in time to escape Marie as she came from the back stairs.

She heard Marie go forward to her mistress's apartment, try the door, even rattle it, stand in wonder a moment, and then turn away and go swiftly past her door and down the back stairs again. She could hear suppressed excited voices downstairs when she opened her own door, but that was all.

Christobel stood an instant trembling in her room, wondering what she should do next. She did not feel at home anywhere in that house. She did not even feel at home with her own father, for always, even when he had come to the school to visit her in these later years, she had seemed to feel the presence of Charmian with him, as if she were so much a part of him that she would somehow know just what had passed between father and daughter. She had long ago sensed that Charmian was jealous of every word, every kiss, every look even that passed between her husband and his children. And now as she stood clasping that key in her cold hand, she could not be sure whether she had done right or not, whether perhaps she had not been meddling in something where her father would want her to interfere. Still, it had been all too evident that those servants were planning to steal her stepmother's possessions, and surely she had been right in stopping everything by a locked door until her father came to say what should be done.

Softly she stole to her door again and tried to listen, but the voices that had been rather loud and startled, as if the four downstairs had been accusing one another, suddenly hushed as another sound broke, the rattle of a key in the front door. There was a soft scuttling back into the kitchen, replaced by the quiet of a gentlemen's well-ordered household as someone entered the front hall.

Christobel slipped out into the hall and looked cautiously over the banister, hoping her father had come, but a sudden rush of heavy young feet brought the knowledge that it was only Randall, her younger brother. She drew back into her own doorway till he reached the upper floor and then met him face-to-face on the way to his own room, which was at the back end of the hall and next to her own.

“Oh, hello, Chris, is that you? Where's Dad? In his own room? I've gotta see him right away. I gotta take the next train back ta school. We got a big game tamorra an' I gotta be there. I'm cheerleader.”

Christobel was aware of the soft opening of a door at the foot of the back stairs, for the door squeaked a little on its hinges. She drew her brother cautiously into her own room and closed the door.

“Rand, you can't do that! You can't go right away, without taking time to see Father. That wouldn't be decent.”

“Aw, whaddaya mean decent? Dad couldn't expect me ta stay. I got my school duties, see?”

“No, Rand, you can't go off like that. We've got to be here when Father gets back. You can't go off! I tell you, you
can't
! Somebody else can take your duties. Tomorrow is Saturday. They wouldn't expect you to be back yet. It would be only respectable to wait until Monday.”

“Aw—Chris! Whadda
you
havta say about it anyway? The funeral's over, isn't it? Gosh, I'm glad it's over. I don't see what they have such terrible things for anyway. All that bunk, reading and praying and yammering, and all keeping still so long. When you're dead, you're dead, aren't ya? What good did that funeral do Charmian? A lot she ever cared about such bunk! I don't want any yammering over me when I die.”

“Don't, Rannie!” said Christobel, putting her hands over her eyes and shuddering. “Don't talk about dying.”

“Aw, well, I'm not goin' ta croak yet awhile. Say, kid, got any money? Lend me ten or fifteen? I'm dead broke, and I been over my allowance so many times lately, I don't like ta ask Dad fer any just now.”

“What do you do with all your money, Rand? Dad gives you a much bigger allowance than most boys get. I know, because the girls at school tell me what their brothers get, and it's rarely half as much as yours.”

“Aw, well, that's my business, isn't it? If yer goin' ta preach, I'm done. I havta take it from Dad, but not from you. Are ya goin' ta lend me twenty-five or not? I ask ya.”

“I haven't got it, Rand, honestly,” said Christobel, looking even more troubled at the increased demand. “I had to get a present for our principal on her birthday. All the girls were in it, and they wanted to get something really nice. It took all I had. I had to ask the office to lend me money for my carfare here.”

“Good night!” said Randall. “Then I'll havta pawn my watch, and I hate like the dickens to do it. Dad's been awfully nice about getting me a new one when I smashed the last one, and I don't want him ta notice it's gone.”

“Look here, Rand, you'd better tell Father everything. You'll just get into a mess if you don't. Dad would rather have you come across with the truth, I'm sure. And you oughtn't to trouble him with this just now, when he is going through all this.”

“All this?” said the boy wonderingly. “You don't think he
cares
, do ya? Why, she never cared anything about him! She just bled him fer money all the time. I know fer a fact. I saw a few things that time I was home with a broken leg. You can't tell me!”