Coming Through the Rye

  It was the first time she had heard the name, the hated name that was connected with her father’s disgrace. She stopped short and listened while the boy cried out once more: “Evan Sherwood shot in de heart!”

  Romayne walked very fast away from him, a sick feeling at her heart. Then he was gone, dead! He would trouble her no more with his officiousness!

  His fine, strong face came back to her clearly as he stood looking down at her that first night, begging her to sit down, assuring her that no harm should come to her personally.

  She tried to conjure his look of superiority when he had told her that the house was under suspicion, and the white anger that had overspread his face when she mocked him and tried to use the telephone, and when she had called him a coward. Oh, he wasn’t a coward! She knew that now. The things that had happened since, the respect he was held in by the officers who had been about their house, all showed her he was not a coward. And he had been right in being angry at the things she had said. They had been contemptible—if she had realized what she was doing.

  But try as she would, she could not remember his face in anything but the expression of kindness when he had offered to help her in any way in his power.

  She had a depressed feeling that it was somehow her fault that he had died—as if her own feeling had been a part of a great unfriendly force that had killed him, and she, though unconsciously, had helped it on. Were things like that in the world? Were there perhaps forces in the air of evil and of good, just as there were sounds lying about stored up in the atmosphere that the radio set free? Was there perhaps some way in which unpleasant enmities combined into a great force that something let loose against a fellow being to down him? What a strange idea! She must not think such things. Perhaps she was losing her mind. Of course, this young man was nothing to her—only—she had asked him never to let her have to see him again—and it seemed now somehow as if that wish of hers had gone into the assassin’s bullet and helped to send it on its way.

  She tried to throw off all thoughts of the young man. It was nothing to her, of course, his death. Her contact with him had been brief and sharp, and at least she need have no more fear of being humiliated by meeting him again. She walked toward the park and tried to be rested by the evening sounds of the little city birds gossiping in the twilight. She sat down on a bench and endeavored to carry out the suggestion of the doctor and nurse and detach herself from her situation, just to rest her mind and body from the awful burden she carried day and night. But there was over her a feeling of catastrophe, of depression that she could not shake off.

  And when she tried to analyze it, she found that it was because she had heard that Evan Sherwood was dead. Why did that make the world seem even a drearier place than it had been before? He was less than nothing to her. Yet the thought of his young face lying dead seemed unspeakably sad; the thought of his strong, true personality gone from the world made it seem less safe than it had been before.

  Had she then been relying half-unconsciously on his promise to help? Why, it had never occurred to her before, since he made it a condition of leaving her that she would call upon him if she ever were in need of his help. Had somehow the vague sense of his being there if stress came helped her any? She could not tell. She only knew that she felt in a sense bereft—as if the world had been robbed of one more thing that had made living possible.

  Well, it was ridiculous! She would go home and sit with her father again. He was her responsibility, her life. The only thing worthwhile living for now was to watch for his eyes to open once more with that look of hungry eagerness.

  Since the nurse had found him with his eyes open, she had scarcely left him, and Romayne had had no further opportunity to repeat the wonderful verses to him again. She somehow felt she must not do it with the nurse in the room. The fact that her father had closed his eyes both times when the nurse came made her feel that she could only communicate with him when he and she were all alone. Perhaps she could coax the nurse off to a nap during the evening, and then she would sit with him once more. It gave her a warm feeling of comfort to think that perhaps her father would open his eyes again and look into hers.

  But when she reached the house and went upstairs, she found the nurse in the lower hall weeping with the evening paper in her hands, and for one awful moment she thought it was all over and her father was dead. She did not stop to realize that her father was nothing to the nurse and she would not be likely to weep if he were dead.

  But before she could cry out or ask, the nurse turned toward her, wiping the tears away.

  “Miss Ransom, would you mind setting with the patient for a while? Mr. Sherwood’s been shot, and I feel I must go and see if there’s anything I can do. His mother was one of the best patients I ever had, and I can’t be content without knowing all about it. I’ll not be gone long, for I promised him I wouldn’t leave you, not without letting him know, leastways, but I can’t keep my thoughts going till I know how it fares with him. I’ll ask the officer to set up in the hall if you should want anything, and he can phone for me if there’s any change—not that there will be, of course.”

  “I’ll be glad to stay,” answered Romayne quickly, “and you needn’t speak to the officer. I’d rather he stayed downstairs. I like to be alone with my father; it comforts me.”

  “Well, I’ll not be long then, for I promised Mr. Evan faithfully I wouldn’t leave you—”

  “You promised who?” ask Romayne surprisedly.

  “Why him! Evan Sherwood. Him that’s shot!” answered the nurse with a suppressed sob. “He was always one fer caring fer other people, and he wanted you should be looked after real constant. He said you was fine as silk.”

  The nurse, with another semblance of a sob in her voice, vanished up the stairs, leaving Romayne with a strange sensation of mingled amazement and pleasure, albeit mingled with irritation. He had presumed then, in spite of all she had said, to keep a guardianship over her. It was kind of him, of course, but unnecessary, and a part of his dominating character probably that could not bear to have anybody else plan anything or do anything without his surveillance.

  Yet—he had said she was fine as silk. And somehow her pride was soothed by that.

  She went upstairs, took off her hat, and went straight to her father’s room. He lay sleeping as usual in that deathlike trance. It was very still in the room after the nurse had shut the front door. She could hear the soft plunk of her rubber heels on the pavement as she hurried long. It seemed to the girl as she stood by the bed and watched her father that he scarcely was breathing at all, and she found herself putting up a prayer that he might waken once more and give her some sign that he was comforted from that terror that had been in his eyes before he fell.

  Softly she began in her quiet voice to repeat again the verses in the order that she had repeated them before—very quietly at first, for she did not wish to arouse the attention of the officer downstairs. On and on, verse after verse, again and again, watching with tense, strained nerves for some sign that she was heard.

  Once it seemed to her that there was a slight fluttering of the eyelids, but it passed and did not come again.

  Yet she stood still in the shadow by the bed, ready if he should open his eyes once more. She repeated the verses until they began to bring a message to her own tired heart, and she began to pray, “Oh God, forgive him!” And then by and by she changed it and said in her heart, Oh, God, forgive us! It was like one of Isaiah’s prayers for his whole household. It was as if she were confessing sin that her household had committed, and pleading for forgiveness for them all, including herself among the guilty.

  While she stood there with bowed head, the door opened, and the nurse came back.

  Romayne could see even by the dim light of the lamp that the nurse had been crying. She motioned to the girl to follow her into the hall.

  “I came back to see if you would mind if I’d get another nurse to take my place just for tonight. There really isn’
t a thing to do but give him his medicine and his nourishment at the right time. I’d fix him all before I left. I wouldn’t ask it, only I promised Evan Sherwood’s mother long ago if he ever took sick I’d nurse him if I had to turn heaven and earth to get away from a case. Of course, his aunt is there, and that makes it different, but she ain’t a trained nurse, and the doctor says he’s pretty serious and a great deal depends on tonight, that he’d try and look around by morning for somebody that would do if he lived that long. But, of course, I wouldn’t leave you if you don’t like it. There’s a little probationary nurse down to the children’s hospital I could get you for tonight—”

  “Then he’s not dead!” exclaimed Romayne with a strange feeling of elation that her soul had a reprieve from a personal crime. “I thought you said he had been killed.”

  “No, he’s living,” sighed the nurse, “but he’s awful bad. The ball just missed the heart, and they had a terrible time getting it out. It was too near the vital parts. It seems he was all run down working so hard with all these raids, and he’s been up nights a lot running the whole gang while the rest of ’em were off on their vacations. He ain’t the kind that takes vacations fer hisself when there’s something needs doing. But I promised him I’d look after you, and I won’t go if you think there’s anything out of the way in my doing it. I could phone that little nurse, you know, and have her here in ten minutes—she said she was off-duty tonight—but it’s just as you say.”

  “Why, of course, go to him. There is no obligation for you to stay here. And you needn’t get the other nurse. I can perfectly well stay with my father tonight. It won’t hurt me in the least to sit up. I want to be with him all I can anyway.”

  “Well, I’m not leaving you alone in the house with a strange man downstairs, anyhow! That’s not the way I keep my promises. I’ll get the nurse! Thank you! I’ll be back in the morning as early as I possibly can. Now I’ll go call up Helen. She said she’d be right by the phone waiting and would be here in fifteen minutes.”

  The nurse disappeared and left Romayne with a strange, deserted feeling. She had not known she would feel that way. She had wanted to be alone with her father and care for him, and now she was, and all sorts of forebodings assailed her.

  She could hear the distant murmur of the nurse calling up her substitute, and presently the front door closed, and silence followed. The house seemed very still. A minute dragged out to a long period of time. She began to wonder what she should do if a crisis arrived. Suppose her father died. Would she know it? She had never been alone with death. It suddenly seemed terrible to have such a weight of responsibility upon her. The thought of Lawrence, far away, somewhere intent on saving his own life, stabbed her like a sword.

  She began to repeat, like an incantation against her fears, the verses she had said the day before. She did not hesitate nor have to think what they were. They seemed to follow in the same logical sequence that they had come to her at first, and the majesty and greatness of their purport, as before, lifted her out of the darkness of earthly fears and made her strong once more.

  She slipped her hand in the clasp of the cold, inert hand of her father and began to pray softly, in a whisper, over and over, “Oh God, forgive my father, and help him to take hold of Thee.” Over and over, her warm hand in the cold one, till little by little the hand seemed to warm to hers. Was it wholly fancy that her handclasp seemed once to be returned gently, feebly? Her heart leaped at the thought, and she lovingly covered the cold hand and went on whispering her prayer.

  By and by the assistant nurse stole in cautiously and signified that the lady might leave everything to her, but Romayne shook her head and whispered with a sad little smile, “I’d rather stay here tonight. I have a fancy he likes it.”

  The nurse brought her a low rocker and arranged pillows so that she could lay her head back, and so she rested, her father’s hand in hers, her head against the pillows, and fell asleep.

  She was still asleep when the morning sun slanted in at the window, while the substitute nurse went deftly around doing all the early morning things that nurses do, no matter what awful thing has happened or is about to happen. She did not waken until the regular nurse returned, somewhat noisily, perhaps, on account of her excitement.

  “Mr. Sherwood’s better,” she announced in a husky whisper. “He come to and knowed me, and sent me piling right back to you. Beats all how he never thinks of hisself. He said I was not to leave you again, not as long as you needed me, not even if he died. He said if he died that was his last will and testament. So I come. I couldn’t do otherwise. Everybody does as he says. But his temperature is down some, and the doctor says he thinks he’ll pull through. He’s got clean blood and good living and a spirit like noon sunshine, and that’s more than two-thirds of any battle in sickness. My soul, child! You’re white as a ghost! You don’t mean to tell me you set there all night! My land, Helen! Why did you let her?”

  Then she stepped nearer to the bed with her professional air and put her finger lightly on the pulse.

  Her face grew grave. She scrutinized the patient more intently.

  “There’s been a change here,” she whispered very low. “Did he open his eyes again?”

  Romayne shook her head, the clutch of fear gripping her heart once more.

  “There’s been a change,” she repeated with a kind of awe in her voice. “Can’t you see yourself, child? His face is more peaceful, not so drawn looking. The twist is going out.”

  Romayne stood up and looked down on her father, and as she drew near, suddenly his eyes opened again, with a look as if he had just awakened and were searching for something. His gaze came to rest upon her, and a relief dawned in his eyes.

  Romayne had hold of his hand, and now she distinctly felt a quiver in the hand she held.

  “Father!” she cried, her voice full of thrill of his knowing her.

  And then there seemed to pass a struggle over the poor father: the lips moved and the eyes still desperately upon her face as if there were something he must say.

  Something told her that now was the time for her to speak. This was the time that Lawrence had begged her to be ready for, but her own voice seemed paralyzed, all her vitality struggling with him to frame the word he was trying to give her.

  The lips had opened and formed a sound!

  She bent nearer and caught its precious meaning: “Forgive!”

  It was mumbled and half-inaudible, but she was sure of it.

  “Yes, Father!” she answered in a clear, triumphant voice. “Forgive! It’s all right!”

  And again the lips struggled, and the hand gave a feeble clutch; the eyes lifted with just a flutter in a significant glance above and back to her face again.

  “F–f–f–r–given!” and he searched her face eagerly to see if she understood.

  “Yes, Father. It’s all forgiven. God forgives. We forgive.”

  The tortured eyes rested on her face for a long moment; a kind of content grew in their expression, and a wistful tenderness. Then slowly there dawned on the white face a look of peace, a straightening of the twisted muscles, a smoothing-out of the care and horror. The eyelids closed. A slight, almost imperceptible moment passed over the whole frame, and he was gone!

  Chapter 15

  It is a terrible moment when one has to turn away from the deathbed of a loved one. But when the nurse gently drew Romayne from her father’s bedside, though there was a smart of tears in her eyes, and a great sense of sudden overwhelming loss, there was in her heart a joyful triumph.

  She had gotten her message across to her father’s poor numbed senses that there was forgiveness for him, and he had been able to grasp the hope held out to him and to give assurance that he did so. What else mattered? That was enough to lift her above the catastrophe of the moment. He was gone from her, but he was gone home! It did not occur to her to think just then of her own desolation. She was rejoicing for her father in that he had found peace.

  The nur
se looked for her to break down in hysterical weeping, but she gave her a little trembling smile and walked quietly away to her own room, coming out again presently, with tears upon her cheeks, it is true, but with a look of calmness and strength about her that made all those with whom she had to do marvel.

  “Of course,” they said with wise looks at one another, “she must know it is better for all concerned that he didn’t get well.”

  Still, that didn’t quite seem to explain the look on her face. The word “exalted” described it better than any other. The nurse was trying to find words in which to give her report to Evan Sherwood. But exalted was not a word with which the nurse had familiar acquaintance. “She looks kind of as if somebody had given her a great unexpected gift and she can’t be thankful enough,” was the way she finally put it.

  It seemed that there were so many appalling questions to settle all at once, details of death that had never entered her consciousness before, and she all alone to settle them! Why had Lawrence gone out of her life in this way? If he had only remained in jail where she could have consulted him! And yet, he had been so filled with his own troubles that he had not seemed to realize about their father. Some word should be sent him, of course, though naturally after the manner of his departure it would be out of the question to expect him to come, or to hope to consult him about arrangements. She felt so helpless and so young. And then the matter of money suddenly loomed before her as a tremendous question. Things must be done right, of course, and she had no idea how much money she had to depend upon. She knew only that her father had put five hundred dollars in the bank to start an account for her the day she went to the house party. She had not touched it yet. It occurred to her that there must have been expenses, and yet no one had come to her for money. Probably the girl in the kitchen had charged whatever she got at the stores, and there would be big bills to pay. She ought to have been watching, but how could she, with her mind so full of trouble? And there would be the nurse to pay, and the doctor—