Coming Through the Rye

  “No,” said Romayne in a cold little voice that she could hardly hear herself. She felt as if she were freezing inside.

  “Well, you oughtta get Larry to take you sometime,” Frances said blithely. “It’s great! There’s real velvet curtains and lace on the tablecloth, and lady waiters, awful pretty girls. They do say you can’t get in there to wait unless you are awful handsome and Krupper likes you. Well, Krupper, he spends a lot of time in the back room over the place at our corner, and Papa has done one or two things for him, and so he didn’t want Papa talking. So I guess that’s the reason he come hisself and took Papa out. But you see, he took him around to the corner first to talk to him a bit and he treated him while he was there, give him some pretty fierce liquor, I guess, for he come home crazy. He wanted his dinner right away, and Mamma hadn’t a thing in the house to cook. H’d left her without any money, and when he saw the table wasn’t set nor nothing, he shook Mamma till she couldn’t speak and flung her against the wall. He tried to hit me, but I run out the door, and then he went raving upstairs, and he dragged Wilanna right out of bed, yes sir, cast and all, and hit her over the head, and she just screamed and lay there all still.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Romayne, her eyes large with horror. “How terrible! Poor little girl!”

  “Yes, ain’t it?” went on Frances glibly. “Mamma heard her scream, and she went right up and saw him standing looking at Wilanna like he was going to strike her again, and she just took a pitcher of water off the washstand and threw it in his face so hard it dazed him, and he slid down on the floor. He lay there a few minutes while we was getting my sister back onto the bed, but the water kind of sobered him, and after while he got up and looked at Wilanna and began to cry. He’s cryn’ now like a big baby with his head down on the bed. He ain’t all hisself, but he seems to know he done it. He was awful fond of Wilanna when he was hisself.”

  “Did the doctor come?” asked Romayne, wondering why she had to be mixed up with any more horror than had fallen already to her own lot.

  “Oh yes; I run after him, but he can’t do nothing. He says Wilanna is awful bad again, and he don’t think she can live. She’s just screamed for you ever since she got back into bed again.”

  They were nearing the little brick row now, and Romayne began dreading the scene that was before her. How could she go in and talk to that dying child? What was there to say that would help her? And how was she to rise beyond the awful things in her own life and help a little human soul who was passing into eternity? What a terrible thing life was!

  But Frances was talking again.

  “I wouldn’t wonder what I can get Krupper to help Larry out if I watch my chance. He might. You know it was in his tea room that the man that was killed had been drinking. They had a post-mortem, and Krupper, he’s all up in the air. If I tell him Larry and I was in the same car and saw what happened—”

  Romayne turned a ghastly face toward her persecutor and tried to exclaim, but the power of speech seemed to have departed from her ashen lips. Her look almost startled the voluble Frances.

  “Oh, you don’t need to look like that! Nobody don’t know we was there, and I went to the jail this morning to see Larry, and we got it all fixed up. I’m to tell Krupper we got evidence that won’t be very nice for him, but we’ll keep mum if he lets Larry out, otherwise Larry’ll come out with the whole story and get ’em all in Dutch. He wouldn’t really, you know, because that would give him and me away, but they don’t know that, and we don’t intend they shall. I’m just a tellin’ you because you’re his sister, and it’s sort of in the family.…” She giggled consciously. “But you don’t need to worry. Krupper’ll get him out. I’ll see to that.”

  Romayne put out a trembling hand to the girl’s arm.

  “I wish you wouldn’t, please,” she said in what she tried to make a commanding voice. “I wish you would just let things alone. We have a very powerful friend, Judge Freeman, who will probably be home tomorrow, I am told, and when he gets here, everything will be all right. You may only make more trouble if you get this Krupper into it. It is better to leave it to Judge Freeman.”

  “Oh! That’s a good one!” laughed Frances. “Why, Judge Freeman is one of the gang hisself, and Krupper does all his dirty work. Didn’t you know that? That’s why he’s gone away. You won’t see him round these parts for a while now. He’ll leave it all to Krupper. Well, here’s our house, and now you go up to Wilanna’s room, and I’ll just stay down here in the parlor and wait for Krupper to come. Don’t you worry. Leave it all to me.”

  And because she did not know what else to do, Romayne walked bravely up the stairs, her heart beating wildly, and tears struggling with her eyes and throat. She felt as if she had entered a great sewer of filth and could never find her way out of it. She felt as if her life’s happiness was already soiled beyond any hope of redemption, and nothing mattered anymore. Oh life! Life! How terrible to be alive! How had she ever dared to think that to be alive was good? And where had she heard that name, Krupper?

  Then as she was about to enter the shabby little room where the sick child lay moaning on her bare little bed and the father with his unshaven face buried in the sheets and his mop of greasy hair lying over the child’s hands, moaning beside her, it all came back to Romayne.

  “E. A. Krupper, Earnheim Building.”

  It had been the address on one of the bundles that lay in the cellar—those bundles of bottles of liquid poison. And her father, her dear father, had been dealing out this poison, some of which had helped to bring this little child to her deathbed.

  Then, as if a voice had spoken to her, Romayne knew what she meant to say to that father if he ever opened his eyes again and looked at her intelligently. “There is therefore now no condemnation to them which are in Christ Jesus.” That was the message she must get across to him before he went from this world with sin upon his soul.

  Honor, nor riches, nor happiness, nor nothing else mattered, not even whether her brother was exonerated and set free to live his life; none of these mattered, if only her father might have his soul purged from his awful sin that was worse than murder or crime of any sort because it included all crimes, and worse to her because it had been done for her sake.

  And suddenly strong to bear a message to the little passing soul, she entered the death chamber, slipped to her knees beside the bed opposite the half-drunken father, and took the little hot hand of the child in her own.

  “Wilanna,” she said softly, “listen. You needn’t be afraid. Jesus loves you. He died to save you. He said, ‘Suffer little children to come unto Me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.’”

  Wilanna turned her wild fevered eyes on her beloved teacher.

  “Yes, but, Miss Ransom, I’ve been awful bad. I’ve told lies! A lot of them. I used to tell Mother I hadn’t been away from home when she was gone out working. And I had. I’d been lots of places she said not to go to. And our teacher in school says if you told a single lie, you had to go to hell for it. Ain’t that so?”

  “But Jesus took your lie on Himself when He died on the cross, Wilanna. He died for your sin in your place! All He asks now is that you will just give yourself to Him and let Him take care of you. If you are sorry for your sin, He will forgive it. He died for all sin, and your sin is all paid for.”

  Her voice was high-keyed almost to a scream. Romayne tried to quiet her.

  “Listen, Wilanna, aren’t you Jesus’ child? Didn’t you tell me once in Sunday school that you wanted to give yourself to Jesus and do what He wanted you to do?”

  The bright eyes were upon her face, and the child nodded.

  “Yes, but I ain’t done it,” she sobbed.

  “Then do it now,” said the girl’s quiet voice.

  The little girl looked in her face for a moment and then turned her eyes toward the ceiling, speaking in a shrill strange little voice, slightly raised as if she addressed someone at a distance.

  “Jesus, I w
antta be Your child. Won’t You forgive me right now quick, because I’m going to die?”

  “There!” said the child, looking at her teacher, “I done it. Is that all?”

  “Yes, that’s all, if you really meant it, Wilanna. He heard, and He has promised that there is no condemnation to those that are in Christ Jesus. The blood of Jesus Christ cleanses us from all sin.”

  A moan from the man on the other side of the bed broke into her words, but the little weak hand of the child patted his matted hair, and Romayne marveled at the love of the child that could forgive the man who had struck her to death.

  Romayne knelt beside the child’s bed for an hour or more, pointing the way to the little passing soul, and when at last she went down the stairs and out into the bright spring sunshine once more, she found that her own troubles had been strangely lifted from her shrinking shoulders. Nothing seemed to matter save one great thing, to be “in Christ Jesus.” She hurried back to her home with the great thought before her of how she might get the same message to her father, shut in as he was from the world to a living death.

  Her father knew the way, even better than she did. He had lived as if he believed it all his life—and yet he had done this! Well, she must just remind him of the way of life. Her father could not have loved to do this evil that had wrought havoc in so many homes. He had done it from a mistaken sense of love to her. She must show him before he went away how to be clean of his sin, or she never could live out the days that were left to her. And suddenly, as she went up the steps, a new strength came to her, and she was no more a child, but a woman with a great message to give. How she was going to do it she did not know, but there would be a way.

  The nurse was coming down the stairs as she entered the front door.

  “There’s been a lady here to call on you,” she said. “She left her card and said she’d come again. Her name is Sherwood. She’s a very nice lady.”

  “Oh!” said Romayne, shrinking involuntarily. “I don’t want to see her! If she comes again, please tell her I’m not seeing visitors now, not while my father is so sick.”

  “Well, you’re foolish, but I can’t help it. There’s a telegram for you, too. It came over the telephone. I wrote it down. It’s just sympathy, and it’s signed ‘Judge Freeman.’”

  Romayne looked at her a moment with sorrow in her eyes and then walked silently up to her own room and knelt beside her bed. There was only One in all the universe that could offer her sympathy now, and that was God Almighty. All others seemed to have failed.

  Chapter 11

  The sea was calm as a mirror of silver, and the moon shone down with almost the brilliance of high noon as the great ship slid evenly along over the glassy surface.

  It seemed like a fairy world to the girl who sat on the deck beside her father watching the rippled pathway of jeweled light from the ship toward the moon. It was as if that pathway of scintillating gems out there on the water led to her own future that lay awaiting her, the future that had lain so long behind the rosy curtains of her imagination, and to which now she seemed to be fast traveling.

  Isabel Worrell had not been abroad since she was quite a small child. She had been kept in school, and in summer camps, and well out of the way of the social activities of her happy, attractive mother, who did not believe in being hampered with children until they were old enough to make a debut in the world and take care of themselves. It was, therefore, not with jaded appetite of the modern young society girl who has traveled the globe several times before she is out of her teens that Isabel came to the trip that had dropped down into her scheme of living so unexpectedly but the day before, and she was fully prepared to enjoy every moment of it. Her only regret was for the house party that had been so unceremoniously broken in upon—her first house party where she would have had all the responsibility and everything just as she wanted it; for her mother was away in the mountains with a party of friends, and she had been promised full sway, with only an ancient cousin, who didn’t count, for chaperone.

  But what were parties compared with a trip to Europe with her indulgent father, who of late had not seemed to care how much money he spent upon her and was willing to gratify her every whim. She only felt sorry for one girl, that sweet Romayne Ransom, who was so shy and had been so pleased at the invitation. She had a fancy that Romayne and she were destined to be great friends. When she came back home, she would send for her and have her stay with her for several weeks. She was just the kind of girl who would be likely to fit in with all her plans and be willing to take the background when she wanted her to. Besides, she had grown very fond of her during their last term of school together. Romayne was awfully handy when it came near examination time; she always knew just what to study up and what subjects would be likely to come up in the questions. And Romayne really had a lovely disposition. It was a shame she didn’t get the word in time and had all that journey for nothing. Isabel wondered whether, after all, she had really written that note to Romayne when she wrote the others, or had she only promised herself she would write it? She distinctly remembered trying to call her up and failing, and then starting upstairs to write the note, but she wasn’t sure it had ever been written. Well, never mind. The water was a sheet of silver, the gemmed pathway to her vague sweet future was flecked with gold, and the night was perfect. There was music in the cabin, floating out in the most enticing strains, and there were dozens of interesting-looking young people aboard. Presently, when Daddy had his smoke, she would go inside and dance, and then perhaps she and—someone else—who would it be?—would come out for a walk on deck. Why worry about poor little Romayne Ransom? There would be time enough to make it up to her after she returned in the fall. What if she hadn’t written the letter?

  Her father’s secretary came across the deck briskly, as he always came when he approached his chief with a bit of business. How tiresome! Now Daddy would begin another cigar, and she would have to wait until that was finished, for it wouldn’t do to go in alone this first night on board.

  Several young men and girls strolled by, and she watched them eagerly, impatient to be of their number and begin her good times. The jeweled pathway on the water had lost its charm. Her head was turned toward the music and the lights and the moving figures.

  But the low tones of the men beside her went steadily on, and somehow the words drifted to her ears and caught her attention, for the wind was just right for her to hear everything they said.

  “And what about Ransom?” her father was asking. That was what attracted her attention first. Ransom was not a common name.

  “Did they get him? I’m afraid he’s not a man who knows how to act quickly in an emergency. He’s too elegant! He feels his own importance. I felt that from the first.”

  “Ransom had a stroke of apoplexy!” announced the young secretary in a dry, hard tone that was used to dealing out facts that were in themselves nothing to him.

  “You don’t say!” said the elder man, startled. “Did he die?”

  “Judge Freeman thought not. His last message was that the man was still alive but unconscious. Had not rallied at all.”

  “Well, if he dies, we’re safe. Dead men can’t tell any tales,” said Mr. Worrell speculatively. “If he lives, I’m not so sure of him under pressure. His aristocratic ego couldn’t endure humiliation, and he’d be very likely to blab, I’m afraid. It’s best if he dies. A lot will die with him, and things will straighten out a great deal sooner. What of that rat of a son? It was all his fault anyhow, getting mixed up with that gang, and letting us in for a lot of suspicion. That murder was a most unfortunate thing for our plans—”

  Isabel sat listening and trying to piece things together. What could it all mean? Was it Mr. Ransom, Romayne’s father, about whom they were talking? That handsome man with the elegant bearing and the silvery-white hair? She had seen him but once, but had admired him greatly. He seemed to her like a fine old portrait of a southern gentleman. She had been greatly impressed by him
, and by his smile and his courtly ways. And what was this about a murder? And, why, how heartless they were! Saying it was best if the man died! Poor Romayne! But then, of course, it must be somebody else. It couldn’t be Romayne’s father who was stricken. She would ask as soon as they were through with their business talk.

  So Isabel sat watching the silver sea and turning impatient eyes toward the sounds of music and wishing her father would hurry.

  The secretary went away at last, and Isabel turned to her father with questions.

  “Who were you talking about, Daddy? You said ‘Ransom.’ That wasn’t Romayne’s father, was it?”

  “Romayne? Who is Romayne?” asked her father, a trifle annoyed, she thought.

  “Why, Romayne is that lovely new friend of mine that I met last winter at school—the girl you said you thought was so charming, the one that didn’t get the word about the house party and was at lunch with us yesterday.”

  “Oh, why, to be sure! Was her name Ransom? I hadn’t connected the two.”

  “Why yes, Daddy, you told her you knew her father! How tiresome you are sometimes with your old business! Who is her father, and was it he you were talking about? He’s a splendid-looking man, with white hair and gold glasses with a chain.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Worrell, “I’m afraid it’s the same man. Why, yes, we were talking about him. He’s been stricken with apoplexy, Parker tells me. There’s just been a message from Judge Freeman. It’s very sad, of course. I’m sorry for your little friend. It will go hard with her, I’m afraid. You must write her a letter of sympathy.”

  “Oh, how terrible!” said Isabel in a shocked voice. “But, Daddy, what did you have to do with Mr. Ransom? I heard you say it would be a good thing for you if he died. What on earth could you have meant?”

  “You shouldn’t try to get in on business talks,” said the father shortly. “You wouldn’t understand, of course. Mr. Ransom has had an under position with a company in which I am interested. He is too much of a gentleman to be a very good businessman, and I’m afraid he has bungled things badly. He has a son, too, who is a bad egg, I’m afraid. He has made a mess of things and got us misrepresented. I was utterly against taking either of them on, but it seems Judge Freeman was an old friend of the mother, who is dead, and he would have it.”