Ransom (20 page)

“They are so precious,” said Christobel as she worked away, running the rods into the smooth curtains that Mother had. “They make the home so much more dear.”

“Yes, they're fine,” said Maggie, blinking back the tears that would come whenever they talked of the old days. “I mind when yer mommie bought thae curtains. She was that proud o' them, an' she had a red geranium on the winder shelf, an' a hangin' basket wi' wanderin' Jew an' ivy. Oh, it was a pretty room. I mind when we got thae curtains first. I helped her hemmin' them. They was that pretty! That was only six months afore she died. I laundered thae curtains meself an' put 'em away, but I never dared hope I'd be here to see 'em put up again in the same hoose. Oh, yer mommie'd be that glad ta see ye comin' back again!”

One good thing about working hard was that Christobel would be so tired out when she got back to the big house, she would fall asleep in spite of her anxiety and the excitement that seemed to be in the very air the minute they opened the door.

For there were always strangers there, people of all classes come to bring word of having seen a mysterious car, or an unaccountable airplane, or an unidentified coat hanging over their back fence; anything that might possibly be connected with any kind of mystery, just so they might come to the notice of a possible reward. It was pitiable how many poor creatures there were who had come miles to give some trifling bit of information that could have no possible connection with Rannie's disappearance and who professed not to have money enough to get back home again.

At first Rannie's father insisted on giving each one something, but gradually the number increased so alarmingly that it became impossible to reward them all, or to judge rightly which deserved to be rewarded, for each bit of information that was run down proved to be worthless. The informants were carrion crows, each hunting for gain and using the slightest thread of a story to get entrance into the great house.

The third day, Christobel and Maggie started in with the bedrooms, one at a time, cleaning paint and rugs and curtains, and oiling furniture. Christobel had never known before how much work there was to a house, just to put it in order for living, but she loved doing it all. It seemed as if for the first time since her mother died there was really some interest in living. If only Rannie were back! That thought put a blight upon everything she did. Yet she continually bolstered her hope by the thought that she was helping to get ready the house for Rannie's homecoming.

Mrs. Harper came over that third afternoon. She said she had meant to come sooner, but Mr. Harper had been suffering a great deal, and she could not leave him.

Christobel loved her at first sight. She seemed to remember those sweet brown eyes out of her past, though they were tired and somewhat faded looking now. She said to herself that Philip's mother was dear.

Maggie asked questions about “yer gude mon,” as she called Mr. Harper, and told how kind she remembered he always was to “the childer.” And Mrs. Harper seemed relieved to have someone to speak to about him. She said the doctor had been there that day and mentioned a great nerve specialist who was to visit the city in the spring, and said he wished his patient could see him, that he was a man who almost wrought miracles and it might be that he could find a way to cure Mr. Harper.

“But we could never afford a great specialist of course,” sighed Mrs. Harper, “and I suppose I mustn't even think about it. But when I remember what he used to be before he was hurt—” Her kind brown eyes filled with tears.

“Oh, but,” said Maggie, wiping her ever-ready tears with the corner of her apron, “when Mister Phil hears of it, he'll find a way to manage it, I'm thinkin'. Mister Phil is a fine young mon. He's one ta be prood of.”

“Yes,” beamed the mother, “he is. But Phil is already carrying a heavy burden. And now, with his new wonderful position, I don't see how he can manage any more than he is carrying.”

“Oh, there'll be a way!” insisted Maggie. “If only our Mister Rannie would come home, I'm sure there'd be a way. Don't you get downhearted.”

Before Mrs. Harper left she spoke of June and how she was longing to renew her childhood acquaintance with Christobel. The lonely, sorrowful girl's heart warmed with pleasure at the thought of having a girlfriend who was brought up by a mother like this one.

Christobel had girlfriends at school of course, but not intimates. She had been a shy child when she first went away from home and had acquired a habit of reserve. Moreover, she had not liked many of the ways of the modern girls who were in her classes, and so, though she had mingled with them of necessity and taken part in all of the social activities and festivities of the school, she had kept much to herself, and as far as one could do so, she had gone her own ways, shy, grave, wistful, and not at all a real part of the wild, eager, tempestuous youth that swarmed around her. For the truth was that her stepmother's act of sending her away from her home and father had so utterly made her feel like an alien everywhere, that at times her aloofness acted as a protection against the evil influences of the world.

But now, with the old home life again in view, suddenly that inferiority complex that Charmian had imposed upon her was being torn away, and the sweetness of her nature was being revealed. It seemed, too, that since she had found the Lord Jesus and begun to pray, her outlook on life had changed, and what had been blank and uninteresting before, had suddenly become vivid with interest. So that if only Rannie had been at home, she would have felt that her cup of joy was overflowing.

But when they went back to the house that night, they found excitement at the top heat. Two men had been arrested driving a car that bore the serial number of the Kershaw car. They were even now in custody and going through a grilling questioning. Mr. Kershaw was closeted with the detectives, and when he appeared for a moment, he looked so worn and sick that Christobel was frightened.

Christobel and Maggie worked late that night, for Mr. Kershaw had come out long enough to drink a cup of coffee and tell them that the house was sold and the new owners would take possession in five days. Christobel must go through the big house that evening and take anything that she wanted to keep and either pack it with her own personal baggage or put it in her father's bedroom, which would be locked, for tomorrow the new owners were to go through the house again, and it was understood that everything that was left out was to go with the house. He mentioned a few articles, most of them trifles that he had himself purchased, and one or two more rare paintings that he had brought home from a recent trip to Europe that he wished to put away in his room for safekeeping.

If the daughter of the house had had her way, almost nothing would have been carried with them into the new life, but Maggie quite sensibly pointed out a few things in the kitchen and here and there that would save new purchases for the other house, electrical appliances that would greatly reduce their labor and would save much expense in many ways. So Maggie had her way, and several boxes and crates came up from the cellar and were neatly packed, ready for moving.

Charmian's things had already been sent their various ways, and her room was ready in outlandish modern extravagance for its next crazy occupant—black bathtub, taffeta hangings, velvet-carpeted dais, and all.

It was a strange house, so little in it that any of the present occupants seemed to care in the least about. It was not until they went up in the great attic, floored for dancing and arranged with game tables about, that they found in some of the closets a few old trunks and boxes containing possessions that were distinctly Mr. Kershaw's and had nothing to do with his second wife. A good many of the trunks held worn-out clothing, but down beneath the clothing there were rolls of flannel containing Christobel's mother's wedding silver, marked with her mother's maiden name. Not a great deal of it, but lovely and heavy, and worth a great deal to the girl, who unwrapped some of the teaspoons and cried over them and thanked God for saving them for her.

Mr. Kershaw had scarcely time to eat. A letter had arrived bearing another scrap of blue silk purporting to be another bit of Rannie's necktie, the only trouble being that it did not match the first sample sent. The pity of it was that neither Christobel nor her father were familiar enough with Rannie's ties to know whether either of the bits of silk was a part of the tie that he had worn the day he disappeared. His sister had cried over the silk and spent time going over the blue ties in his room, but neither she nor her father nor Maggie, who professed to have noticed every thread the lad had on when she first laid eyes on him, could be sure about it.

The letter, however, had demanded a still larger ransom than the first one, and went into further details as to how it should be delivered, and Rannie's father was in a feverish haste to gather enough money together to have in readiness. Oh, the weary waiting hours! Oh, if Rannie would only come back! Oh, if Philip Harper would come back. It was so much easier when he was around to pray and to believe that God was hearing.

Quite early the next morning a large moving van arrived and took all that was to go to the other house except a few clothes and toilet articles, and when the new owner of the house arrived, the place was ready for inspection and approval, and the bargain was completed. Mr. Kershaw had the check in his possession, and Rannie's ransom was materially increased.

There were still some possessions in various parts of the world that might possibly be disposed of. There were Charmian's jewels to be appraised, and a substantial amount might be raised from many of her other possessions. There was a riding horse expensively housed at a riding club. There were two cars, practically new, that she had bought and tossed aside like toys. There was Mr. Kershaw's own life insurance. He would lose heavily, of course, if he cashed it in, but every penny had to count now, for the ransom must be ready.

And meantime the newspapers and radio were broadcasting enormous hypotheses of the rumored ransom amount.

O
ut of the darkness of a strange new kind of night crept Rannie, back into an odd, numb unconsciousness.

There were strange memories of wheels going around, the humming of a motor, the screeching of brakes, the jarring of his body being bumped up and down, a ringing in his ears, an unpleasant taste in his mouth. His head seemed to belong to somebody else, and his eyes were weighted down. At least, they would not open. Gradually it became clear to him that there was a bandage bound about his eyes, and when he tried to lift his hand and pull it away, he found his hands were so heavy they would not move. In fact they seemed to be made of lead. After what appeared to be eons of thought, he decided that he must be dead, and perhaps buried, which accounted for the thing over his eyes, only he could not understand the strange disturbance under him, like wheels under a car, and ruts under the wheels; there was a bumping and tossing of himself about. Perhaps it was some strange disturbance under the earth.

He felt a chilly draft down his back. His neck felt like ice. He wished he could pull his collar up. If his arms would only work! But people were cold when they were dead, of course. That was natural.

After an unmeasurable interval of blankness again, he began to remember unexplained stoppings of the motion under him, and being lifted somewhere in haste, and roughly—only he couldn't cry out because of an ill-smelling rag in his mouth. Now what could that have to do with the scheme of things? And why did they have to move him so often? Could it be that they were just having the funeral? After all this time? Where were they burying him, anyway? Away off up in England, where his grandmother and grandfather were buried? Gee! Would he have a stone like theirs, all moss covered and tippy, with “Randall Robin Kershaw, born—” He began to feel all choked up thinking about it. Good night! He didn't know people could think and feel this way after they were dead!

A little while later it occurred to him to wonder how it was that he had died? He hadn't been sick. Why, the last thing he could remember was bringing Maggie home and carrying in her suitcase. Then what did he do? Oh, drove around to the garage to put the car away. Had there been an accident on the way, had some other car run into him and smashed everything up? Say, that was awful, for Dad to have to go through a thing like that, lose his car, maybe. But of course, he would have it insured. No, he distinctly remembered now, having turned into the drive behind the house, and there had been no other car ahead of him. He could see the long streaks of brightness in the lane from the car lights. He remembered driving into the garage and stopping the car. He was sure he could. He could even remember getting out of the car, and then a sudden remembrance of that dull thud on his head and everything ended. Blinked out! Black obliteration!

What had he done? Stooped over and hit his head against something? It began to hurt his head to think about it, and another blackness came blessedly over him again.

But the next time he came out of it, he knew. Sandbagged, that was the word. It figured in lots of mystery stories. Some thug had hit him over the head! But what for? He hadn't a thing about him to steal except his watch.

And then he heard voices, low and rough. Gee! Could you hear people talk when you were dead? That was going to make it interesting. He hadn't expected that.

“ 'Bout time for the kid ta wake up,” one voice said. “Guess it'll be safe ta take that stuffin' outta his mouth sometime soon. We don't want 'im ta croak, not just yet anyhow, an' he's ben a long time that way. We're two good hours inta the woods now. No chance of any spies around here this time o' year.”

“He ain't a-goin' ta croak that easy,” said a harder voice firmly. “Wait till we're over the ridge of the mountain an' can carry him inta the shelter. We don't want no hollerin' till we get him outta sight. You can never tell what's around in the woods, even deep woods like these, an' we ain't takin' no chances, see?”