Tomorrow About This Time (38 page)

Silver-Alice

Silver paused a moment to wipe away the tears that would gather in her eyes as she wrote the words that meant so much to her, then she began another note:

My dear Mr. Bannard:

I am writing in great haste and dismay to let you know that I cannot fulfill my promise to go with you to the orchestra concert in the city tomorrow because I find that I must suddenly go away. It is a deep disappointment to me for I had looked forward to the pleasure eagerly. I cannot tell you what pleasure I have found in our work among the little children on the Flats, nor how disappointed I am that I shall not be able to carry out our plans for this winter. I am not sure how long I shall have to stay. It may be quite awhile. It is hard for me to have to go, and go this suddenly without bidding my new friends good-bye, but I know I am right in going at once
.

I thank you for what your friendship and your sermons have

meant to me while I was here, and I hope that someday I may have the pleasure of seeing you again
.

Very sincerely, Silver Greeves

This letter she sealed, addressed and stamped, and put in her pocket. Then she rose and quickly folded her garments from the closet, laying them in her trunk, opened drawers and boxes and stowed everything away swiftly. There was not very much for she had not brought a great deal when she came. In her little suitcase she put the few things of immediate necessity, locking her trunk, put on her hat and a long silk wrap over her simple dark china silk frock, and taking her suitcase slipped across the hall with her letters. Her father’s she laid on his bureau where he would be sure to see it as soon as he came in, and Athalie’s she slipped softly under her door. It was all still in the hall when she went down. She longed to speak to Anne and Molly before she left but knew she might upset all her plans if she did. So she went swiftly out the door.

“Well, now, where’s she going?” announced Grandma from her window. “A suitcase in her hand, too! And this time of day!”

“Maybe she’s taking her suit down to the cleaners,” suggested Pristina.

“They would send for it if she phoned,” said Harriet.

“Well, she’s pretty independent. She doesn’t take any rich folks’ airs on herself,” said Cornelia. “I wonder why they never go together. They’re not so far apart in age.”

When Silver reached the station she found that the next train to the city did not stop at Silver Sands; being an express, its only stop was at the junction two miles below.

Looking at her watch she found that there was plenty of time to walk it. She knew the way well for she had driven there several times with Mr. Bannard. She mailed her letter to Bannard at the station and took the backstreet for several blocks to avoid the center of the town, as she did not care to be noticed in this sudden flight.

When she came to the last cross street she turned into the main road again and crossed the bridge. She hoped with all her heart that Bannard would not happen to be out in his car and come across her. She felt she could not bear that. But if he did she would just have to tell him how things were. She somehow felt sure she could make him understand.

But nobody came along to disturb the afternoon peace. The white road stretched like a ribbon ahead under arching trees, and the crickets sang under the browning goldenrod, a cicada grated out his raucous voice, the wild asters, white and pink, and blue yellow nodded in the soft breeze with their first opening clusters of stars, and yellow butterflies whirled dreamily, lighting in the dusty grass by the roadside. It was beautiful and still. It looked so dear. She could not believe she was going away from it all, out into the world alone. Her soul cried out to return, to destroy her notes and unlock her trunk and try to make some other finish to this day that had begun so gorgeously and was ending so sorrowfully. But something drove her feet forward, and she passed on around the curve of the road till Silver Sands and the way to the Flats were out of sight and the tears blinding her eyes so that she could not see ahead.

“Good-bye, dear home!” she whispered softly to herself. And then just ahead of her, an old man hurried, hobbling into the road, and waved his hand.

“Oh, lady, lady! I’m so glad you come by. There’s a little child up there in that shanty dying, I’m feered. It fell over the rocks an’ broke its leg, an’ done somepin’ to its insides, I guess, an’ I’m runnin’ to get the doctor. Won’t you just go up there lady and stay with the baby till I git back? I shan’t be five minutes. I just canta bear to leave it all alone.”

Silver looked at her watch and glanced up the hill. There was plenty of time if the man hurried, even if it took him ten minutes, for the train did not leave the junction till ten minutes of five, and it was just as well that she should not get there till train time, lest someone might see her.

“Yes,” she said, “but hurry! I must make my train.” Then she turned and began swiftly to climb the hill while the old man began to run stiffly down the road.

The hill was steeper than she thought and the suitcase heavy, but she managed to reach the little hovel in very good time, and stepping inside, rubbed her eyes to get the sunshine out, for the room seemed very dark. She put down her suitcase and began groping across to find that child, pausing a moment to get used to the dark, when suddenly she felt the door shut behind her with a slam and something like a key turning in a lock.

In horror she rushed back, almost falling over her suitcase, and groped for the knob, but there was none. The door was fast, and when she pounded on it there were only hollow reverberations. It was so still in the little place that it did not seem possible that there could be anyone else in the room, even a dying child. Perhaps it was dead already. She felt so alone. Her heart was beating wildly. She tried to tell herself that of course the door had blown shut, and a night latch had fastened it, but a night latch usually opened from the inside. It must be she would be able to find a knob when she grew calmer and could see better. She groped back to the door and tried once more but with no better success. The door seemed smooth all over and fitted close. There was no crack for light to come in. Was that a step outside? No, she must have been mistaken. And yet—how strange! She had seen the man run down the road! But the child! She ought to be attending to it! Could it be that she had got into the wrong place? Were there two buildings on the hill? Should she cry out for assistance? It was not far from the road. Someone would be passing soon. Surely there was no need for her to be frightened. The old man would soon return with the doctor, and then she would be set free.

She remembered her little pocket flashlight that she always carried in her handbag. She tried to find it and at last located it and touched the switch. The ray of light revealed the bare stone walls, the crude box, and huddled leaves, the empty fireplace, the frying pan and cup, and a crust of dry bread. There was no child anywhere.

She examined the window carefully and found it firmly sealed. There seemed to be no implement with which she might attempt to break it open. She swept the room with the light and saw no possible way to get out. Her heart was fluttering so that her breath was labored.

“Help me, O Christ! Steady me! Show me a way to get out of here before it is too late!” she prayed. Then she advanced to the fireplace and turned the flashlight upward. The rough sooty stones loomed above her in irregular knobs, jogging out here and there, and above them, in the brilliancy of the speck of light, a branch of a tree, thick with leaves, waved backward and forward.

“There is always a way up,” came the words in memory from some famous story or sermon, she could not tell which, but it thrilled her soul. It was not far to the branch. Could she make it, up the slippery, cobbled way? Was the space big enough? Could she get her suitcase out, too? She measured the distance with her eye, noted the stones that stuck out. Would they support her? But how could she climb with a suitcase? Yet she must have it if possible. There was a bolt of blue ribbon in her suitcase, a whole ten yards. Was it strong enough to hold the suitcase if she tied the other end around her waist and then pulled it up after her? And supposing she made the top of the chimney, could she climb down without breaking her neck? Well, it would be better there, out in God’s open, than shut in the dark place where no one could see or hear her, and perhaps she could climb the tree. As for the suitcase she would do her best and then let it go if she had to. But she must get out of here before that man returned if he was the instigator of some intention against her. If it was only some mistake of a dead bolt she must find the child. It even now might be crying with fear. She must work fast in any case.

She hurried back to her suitcase, searched for the ribbon, tied one end firmly to the handle, the other round to her waist. Put her purse inside the neck of her dress, turned her wrap inside out and tied it firmly over her head and shoulders to protect hat and dress as much as possible, and flashlight in hand began her perilous climb. It was a narrow place to squeeze through. She put her suitcase up a couple of feet and rested it on a leg, supporting it with one hand as she climbed, setting a foot here on a projecting stone, putting a hand there in a crevice where the crumbling plaster gave way before her touch. Slowly, painfully, stopping for breath, cautious because one wrong move might undo all, she crept on. Once she missed her footing and the stone rolled down leaving her with only one foot on a loose stone, and once the suitcase slipped off suddenly jerking the ribbon around her waist and almost bringing her down with it, but she caught herself in time and clinging to the wall prayed, “Help me! Help me! O Christ, give me strength! Give me steadiness!”

It was like those dreams that come sometimes, where we find ourselves crawling through an endless tunnel that grows smaller and smaller, and finally our strength gives out, we collapse and are stuck. Two or three times she thought she could not go on and closed her eyes to rest. She couldn’t look up because the dust and soot filled her eyes, so on and on she crept, coming to one place so small she could just get her head through and was sure she couldn’t go farther but finally managed to wriggle through, with the dead weight of the suitcase dangling after, hitting again the wall and bumping, impending her upward way. Perhaps, after all, she would have to cut the ribbon and let it drop.

“Help! Help! O Christ—” and the blessed breath of air struck her face, and light. Real sunlight blinded her eyes. She was out! She caught a firmer hold, and just then the little flashlight slipped away! She caught at it and almost lost her own hold but could not get it. She heard it knock its way to the bottom of the hearth. Well, what did it matter? She would not need it now. Then she pulled herself free from the encasing wall and was out, head and shoulders above the little hut.

She paused to rest and look around. No, there was no sign of any other building. No sound of a crying child. What did it mean? Down below she could see the road, and there was no pedestrian on it. An automobile swept by going very fast, but it was not the doctor’s car. Fear clutched her by the throat. She must get away at once.

She writhed herself up out of the chimney. It proved to be a mere knob above the low-sloping roof. She had a struggle with her suitcase and almost gave it up once but finally brought it out, crushed at one side and badly scratched but still intact, and then it was a comparatively easy thing to slide cautiously down the roof and drop carefully to the ground.

She was free! But she was trembling so that for a moment she could not move. Her hands and face were scratched and sooty, and her arms were bruised and sore. She looked up at the blue sky and her heart said quickly in a burst of joy, “Oh, thank You, Christ!”

Then new strength seemed to come, and breath, and she flew away down the hill on the side where the undergrowth was comparatively light, got into the highway and the sunshine, and saw that she was not pursued, gradually grew steadier, and began to straighten her garments, wipe off the soot, and give more thanks to God. There was a long strip torn out of her crêpe de chine dress from hem to waist, an inch or two wide and left somewhere behind in that chimney, but what did that matter? She was free. Her shoes were scratched and dusty and not fit for a lady to take a journey anywhere in, but that was a small matter. One glove was split from wrist to finger and the other entirely gone, but what were gloves in a lifetime! She was on the road, some road. It did not look familiar and perhaps coming down this side of the hillside had missed her way, but there would be a train sometime, somewhere, and she would find it. God had set her free, and now she knew she had done right in coming away. God had helped her on and not let her be hindered to make a lot of trouble for everybody. She would be able to get to her destination and write back in due time to set her father’s mind at rest. Then all would be well.

Half an hour’s walk brought her to a small hamlet, but it was not the junction. She had missed her way and missed her train, but they told her that a trolley line passed half a mile below, and the cars ran every half hour. They would take her to her destination in less than two hours, and what did it matter? She lifted up her tired head and went forward.

Chapter 29

G
reeves came home an hour earlier than he had planned, with it in mind to take the young people all into town to a concert that he had unexpectedly discovered. He stepped into the pantry and told Anne to have dinner ready by quarter to six if possible and then up to his room to wash his hands and make one or two changes in his attire.

No one seemed to be around though the doors of both the girls’ rooms were closed. They were probably dressing for dinner or resting. There was time enough. He would not disturb them for another half hour. He stepped to his bureau, and there lay Silver’s letter. He read it quickly with a fear at his heart, and then again. Then tearing down to the library wildly he picked up the telephone and called up the station. No, Miss Greeves had not taken a train from there. She had come in and asked about the train, but when she found the next one only stopped at the junction she had gone out again. No, they had not noticed which way she went. They were busy with some freight, and they couldn’t stop to watch every female that came into that station anyhow, they were busy men, they were.