The Girl at Central

  III

  For two days it had been raining, heavy straight rain. From my window atGalway's I could see the fields round the village full of pools andzigzags of water as if they'd been covered with a shiny gray veil thatwas suddenly pulled off and had caught in the stubble and been torn torags. Saturday morning the weather broke. But the sky was still overcastand the air had that sort of warm, muggy breathlessness that comes afterrain. That was November the twentieth.

  It was eleven o'clock and I was sitting at the switchboard looking outat the streets, all puddles and ruts, when I got a call from theDalzells'--a place near the Junction--for Mapleshade.

  Now you needn't get preachy and tell me it's against the rules tolisten--suspension and maybe discharge. I know that better than most.Didn't the roof over my head and the food in my mouth depend on me doingmy work according to orders? But the fact is that at this time I waskeyed up so high I'd got past being cautious. When a call came forMapleshade I _listened_, listened hard, with all my ears. What did Iexpect to hear? I don't know exactly. It might have been Jack Reddy andit might have been Sylvia--oh, never mind what it was--just say I wascurious and let it go at that.

  So I lifted up the cam and took in the conversation.

  It was a woman's voice--Mrs. Dalzell's, I knew it well--and Dr.Fowler's. Hers was trembly and excited:

  "Oh, Dr. Fowler, is that you? It's Mrs. Dalzell, yes, near the Junction.My husband's very sick. We've had Dr. Graham and he says it'sappendicitis and there ought to be an operation--now, as soon aspossible. _Do_ you hear me?"

  Then Dr. Fowler, very calm and polite:

  "Perfectly, madam."

  "Oh, I'm so glad--I've been so _terribly_ worried. It's so unexpected.Mr. Dalzell's never had so much as a _cramp_ before and now----"

  "Just wait a minute, Mrs. Dalzell," came the Doctor. "Let me understand.Graham recommends an operation, you say?"

  "Yes, Dr. Fowler, as soon as possible; something awful may happen ifit's not done. And Dr. Graham suggested you if you'd be so kind. I knowit's a favor but I _must_ have the best for my husband. _Won't_ youcome? Please, to oblige me."

  Dr. Fowler asked some questions which I needn't put down and said he'dcome and if necessary operate. Then they talked about the best way forhim to get there, the Doctor wanting to know if the main line to theJunction wouldn't be the quickest. But Mrs. Dalzell said she'd beenconsulting the time tables and there'd be no train from Longwood to theJunction before two and if he wouldn't mind and would come in his autoby the Firehill Road he'd get there several hours sooner. He agreed tothat and it wasn't fifteen minutes after he'd hung up that I saw himswing past my window in his car, driving himself.

  Later on in the afternoon I got another call from the Dalzells' forMapleshade and heard the Doctor tell Mrs. Fowler that the operation hadbeen a serious one and that he would stay there for the night andprobably all the next day.

  Before that second call, about two hours after the first one, there cameanother message for Mapleshade that before a week was out was in mostevery paper in the country and that lifted me right into the middle ofthe Hesketh mystery.

  It was near one o'clock, an hour when work's slack round Longwood,everybody being either at their dinner or getting ready for it. The callwas from a public pay station and was in a man's voice--a voice I didn'tknow, but that, because of my curiosity, I listened to as sharp as if itwas my lover's asking me to marry him.

  The man wanted to see Miss Sylvia and, after a short wait, I heard heranswer, very gay and cordial and evidently knowing him at once withoutany questions. If she'd said one word to show who he was thingsafterward would have been very different, but there wasn't a singlephrase that you could identify him by--all anyone could have caught wasthat they seemed to know each other very well.

  He began by telling her it was a long time since he'd seen her andwanting to know if she'd come to town on Monday and take lunch with himat Sherry's and afterward go to a concert.

  "Monday," she said very slow and soft, "the day after to-morrow? No, Ican't make any engagement for Monday."

  "Why not?" he asked.

  She didn't answer right off and when she did, though her voice was sosweet, there was something sly and secret about it.

  "I've something else to do."

  "Can't you postpone it?"

  She laughed at that, a little soft laugh that came bubbling through herwords:

  "No, I'm afraid not."

  "Must be something very interesting."

  "Um--maybe so."

  "You're very mysterious--can't I be told what it is?"

  "Why should you be told?"

  That riled him, I could hear it in his voice.

  "As a friend, or if I don't come under that head, as a fellow who's gotthe frosty mit and wants to know why."

  "I don't think that's any reason. I have no engagement with you and Ihave with--someone else."

  "Just tell me one thing--is it a man or a woman?"

  She began to laugh again, and if I'd been the man at the other end ofthe wire that laugh would have made me wild.

  "Which do you think?" she asked.

  "I don't think, I _know_," and _I_ knew that he was mad.

  "Well, if you know," she said as sweet as pie, "I needn't tell you anymore. I'll say good-bye."

  "No," he shouted, "don't hang up--wait. What do you want to torment mefor?" Then he got sort of coaxing, "It isn't kind to treat a fellow thisway. Can't you tell me who it is?"

  "No, that's a secret. You can't know a thing till I choose to tell youand I don't choose now."

  "If I come over Sunday afternoon will you see me?"

  "What time?"

  "Any time you say--I'm your humble slave, as you know."

  "I'm going out about seven."

  "Where?"

  "That's another secret."

  I think a child listening to that conversation would have seen he wasgetting madder every minute and yet he was so afraid she'd cut him offthat he had to keep it under and talk pleasant.

  "Look here," he said, "I've something I want to say to you awfully. If Irun over in my car and get there round six-thirty, can you see me for afew minutes?"

  She didn't answer at once. Then she said slow as if she was undecided:

  "Not at the house."

  "I didn't mean at the house. Say in Maple Lane, by the gate. I won'tkeep you more than five or ten minutes."

  "Six-thirty's rather late."

  "Well, any time you say."

  "Can't you be there exactly at six-fifteen?"

  "If that's a condition."

  "It is. If you're late you won't find me. I'll be gone"--she began tolaugh again--"taking my secret with me."

  "I'll be there on the dot."

  "Very well, then, you can come--at the gate just as the clock marks onequarter after six. And, maybe, if you're good, I'll tell you the secret.Good-bye until then--try not to be too curious. It's a bad habit andI've seen signs of it in you lately. Good-bye."

  Before he could say another word she'd disconnected.

  I leaned back in my chair thinking it over. What was she up to? What wasthe secret? And who was the man? "Run over in his car"--that looked likesomeone from one of the big estates. How many of them _had_ she buzzinground her?

  And then, for all I was so downhearted, I couldn't help smiling to thinkof those two supposing they were talking so secluded and an East Sidetenement girl taking it all in. Little did I guess then that me breakingthe rules that way, instead of destroying me was going to----But thatdoesn't come in here.

  And now I come to Sunday the twenty-first, a date I'll never forget.

  It seemed to me afterward that Nature knew of the tragedy and preparedfor it. The weather was duller and grayer than it had been on Saturday,not a breath of air stirring and the sky all mottled over with clouds,dark and heavy looking. A full moon was due and as I went to theExchange I thought of the sweethearts that had dates to walk out in themoonlight and how disappointed they'd be.

/>   Things weren't cheerful at the Exchange either. I found Minnie Trail,the night operator, as white as a ghost, saying she felt as if one ofher sick headaches was coming on and if it did would I stay on overtime? I knew those headaches--they ran along sometimes till eight ornine. I told her to go right home to bed and I'd hold the fort till shewas able to relieve me. We often did turns like that, one for the other.It's one of the advantages of being in a small country office--no onepicks on you for acting human.

  About ten I had a call from Anne Hennessey. "Have you got anything onfor this evening, Molly?"

  "I have not. This is Longwood, not gay Paree."

  "Then I'll come round to Galways, about seven and we'll go to the GiltEdge for supper. I want to talk to you."

  The Gilt Edge Lunch was where I took my meals, a nice clean little jointclose to the office. But I didn't know when I'd get my supper thatnight, so I called back:

  "That's all right, sister, but come to the Exchange. Minnie's head's onthe blink and I'll stay on here late. Anything up?"

  "Yes. I don't want to talk about it over the wire. There's been anotherrow here--yesterday morning. It's horrible; I can't stand it. I'll tellyou more this evening. So long."

  I put my elbows on the table and sat forward thinking. If you'd asked mea year ago what I wanted most in the world I'd have said money. But I'dlearnt considerable since then. "Money don't do it," I said to myself."Look at the Fowlers with their jewels and their millions scrapping tilleven the housekeeper on a fancy salary with a private bath can't standit."

  And there came up in my mind the memory of the East Side tenement whereI was raised. I thought of my poor father, most killed with work, and mymother eking things out, doing housecleaning and never a hard word toeach other or to me.

  The night settled down early, black, dark and very still. At seven AnneHennessey came in and sat down by the radiator, which was making queernoises with the heat coming up. Supper time's like dinner--few calls--soI turned round in my chair, ready for a good talk, and asked about thetrouble at Mapleshade.

  "Oh, it was another quarrel yesterday morning at breakfast and withHarper, the butler, hearing every word. He said it was the worst they'dever had. He's a self-respecting, high-class servant and was shocked."

  "Sylvia and the Doctor again?"

  "Yes, and poor Mrs. Fowler crying behind the coffee pot."

  "The same old subject?"

  "Oh, of course. It's young Reddy this time. Sylvia's been out a gooddeal this autumn in her car; several times she's been gone nearly thewhole day. When the Doctor questioned her she'd either be evasive orsulky. On Friday someone told him they'd seen her far up on the turnpikewith Jack Reddy in his racer."

  I fired up, I couldn't help it.

  "Why should he be mad about that? Isn't Mr. Reddy good enough for her?"

  "_I_ think he is. I told you before I thought the best thing she coulddo would be to marry him. But----" she looked round to see that no onewas coming in----"don't say a word of what I'm going to tell you. I haveno right to repeat what I hear as an employee but I'm worried and don'tknow what's the best thing to do. Mrs. Fowler has as good as told methat her husband's lost all his money and it's Sylvia's that's runningMapleshade. And what _I_ think is that the Doctor doesn't want her tomarry _anyone_. It isn't her he minds losing; it's thirty thousand ayear."

  "But when she comes of age she can do what she wants and if he makes itso disagreeable she won't want to live there."

  "That's two years off yet. He may recoup himself in that time."

  "Oh, I see. But he can't do any good by fighting with her."

  "Molly, you're a wise little woman. _Of course_ he can't, but he doesn'tknow it. He treats that hot-headed, high-spirited girl like a child offive. Mark my words, there's going to be trouble at Mapleshade."

  I thought of the telephone message I'd overheard the day before and itcame to me suddenly what "the secret" might be. Could Sylvia have beenplanning to run away? I didn't say anything--it's natural to me and youget trained along those lines in the telephone business--and I satturning it over in my mind as Anne went on.

  "I'd leave to-morrow only I'm so sorry for Mrs. Fowler. She's ashelpless as a baby and seems to cling to me. The other day she told meabout her first marriage--how her husband didn't care for her but wascrazy about Sylvia--that's why he left her almost all his money."

  I wasn't listening much, still thinking about "the secret." If she _was_running away was she going alone or with Jack Reddy? My eyes were fixedon the window and I saw, without noticing particular, the down trainfrom the city draw into the station, and then Jim Donahue run along theplatform swinging a lantern. As if I was in a dream I could hear Anne:

  "I call it an unjust will--only two hundred thousand dollars to his wifeand five millions to his daughter. But if Sylvia dies first, all themoney goes back to Mrs. Fowler."

  The train pulled out, snorting like a big animal. Jim disappeared, thenpresently I saw him open the depot door and come slouching across thestreet. I knew he was headed for the Exchange, thinking Minnie Trail wasthere, he being a widower with a crush on Minnie.

  He came in and, after he'd got over the shock of seeing me, turned toAnne and said:

  "I just been putting your young lady on the train."

  Anne gave a start and stared at him.

  "Miss Sylvia?" she said.

  "That's her," said Jim, warming his coat tails at the radiator.

  I could see Anne was awful surprised and was trying to hide it.

  "Who was she with?" she asked.

  "No one. She went up alone and said she was going to be away for a fewdays. Where's she going?"

  Anne gave me a look that said, "Keep your mouth shut," and turned quietand innocent to Jim. "Just for a visit to friends. She's always visitingpeople in New York and Philadelphia."

  Jim stayed round a while gabbing with us, and then went back to thestation. When the door shut on him we stared at each other with our eyesas round as marbles.

  "Oh, Molly," Anne said, almost in a whisper, "it's just what I've beenafraid of."

  "You think she's lighting out?"

  "Yes--don't you see, the Doctor being at the Dalzells' has given her thechance."

  "Where would she go to?"

  "How do I know? Heaven send she hasn't done anything foolish. But thismorning she sent Virginie, that French woman, up to the village forsomething--on Sunday when all the shops are shut. The housemaid told methey'd been trying to find out what it was and Virginie wouldn't tell.Oh, dear, _could_ she have gone off with someone?"

  We were talking it over in low voices when a call came. It was fromMapleshade to the Dalzells'. As I made the connection I whispered toAnne what it was and she whispered back, "Listen."

  I did. It was from Mrs. Fowler, all breathless and almost crying. Sheasked for the Doctor and when he came burst out:

  "Oh, Dan, something's happened--something dreadful. Sylvia's run away."

  I could hear the Doctor's voice, small and distant but quite clear:

  "Go slow now, Connie, it's hard to hear you. Did you say _Sylvia'd runaway_?"

  Then Mrs. Fowler said, trying to speak slower:

  "Yes, with Jack Reddy. We've been hunting for her and we've just found aletter from him in her desk. Do you hear--her desk, in the top drawer?It told her to meet him at seven in the Lane and go with him in his carto Bloomington."

  "Bloomington? That's a hundred and fifty miles off."

  "I can't help how far off it is. That's where the letter said he wasgoing to take her. It said they'd go by the turnpike to Bloomington andbe married there. And we can't find Virginie--they've evidently takenher with them."

  "I see--by the turnpike, did you say?"

  "Yes. Can't you go up there and meet them and bring her back?"

  "Yes--keep cool now, I'll head them off. What time did you say theyleft?"

  "The letter said he'd meet her in the Lane at seven and it's a littleafter eight now. Have you time to get up the
re and catch them?"

  "Time?--to burn. On a night like this Reddy can't get round to the partof the pike where I'll strike it under three and a half to four hours."

  "But can you go--can you leave your case?"

  "Yes--Dalzell's improving. Graham can attend to it. Now don't getexcited, I'll have her back some time to-night. And not a word toanybody. We don't want this to get about. We'll have to shut the mouthof that fool of a French woman, but I'll see to that later. Don't seeanyone. Go to your room and say nothing."

  Just as the message was finished Minnie Trail came in. I made the recordof it and then got up asking her, as natural as you please, how shefelt. Anne did the same and you'd never have thought to hear ussympathizing with her that we were just bursting to get outside.

  When we did we walked slow down the street, me telling her what I'dheard. All the time I was speaking I was thinking of Sylvia and JackReddy tearing away through that still, black night, flying along thepale line of the road, flashing past the lights of farms and countryhouses, swinging down between the rolling hills and out by the openfields, till they'd see the glow of Bloomington low down in the sky.

  It was Anne who brought me back to where I was. She suddenly stoppedshort, staring in front of her and then turned to me:

  "Why, how can she be eloping with Reddy by the turnpike when Jim Donahuesaw her get on the train?"