Coming Through the Rye

by Grace Livingston Hill

  She sat a long time by the window; it seemed hours. The music was rioting downstairs. The voices grew louder in waves and then receded. Now and then some people would go out on the balcony, and laughter and wild singing would float up like stench from a stagnant pool. It seemed that she was watching the effect of what her father had done. These people were scarcely sane. They had all been drinking until they were wild with mirth. They were not caring about life in any true sense. They were killing the true things in their souls and trying to live on froth and forget that there were any grave things in the world, any responsibilities, any punishments.

  And this was the kind of thing her father had been ministering to in the illegal business he had undertaken for her sake—that she, too, might shine in the unreal world of which they all were a part.

  Well, if there was anything in life for her, it suddenly came to her that she must devote her whole existence to trying to undo what her father had helped to do. The thing became a vow to her and entered into her soul.

  She did not think of going to bed. It seemed to her she must just sit perfectly still. She was calmer now, and she felt that somehow God was going to help her. When morning came, she knew now that she must go. It would be better to starve or to work at very menial tasks than to stay in an unwholesome atmosphere like this. She thought it over carefully, whether she should try to steal away alone at dawn, or go openly, and decided on the latter. Probably they would give her protection and transportation to some railway station. She would tell them that she would try to send them someone else in her place. Thinking this out and making her decision gave her more assurance and calmed the wild beating of her heart and the trembling of her lips. She rested her head against the window frame, looking out into the cool, quiet darkness, wishing she dared climb out there and wander off alone. It would be easy to do it. The roof was a long, low sweep down over the lower balcony. A trellis below, where a great trumpet-vine flared, gave easy access to the ground. But out there she would have no protection at all if Kearney Krupper should discover her flight. So she sat with her head resting against the window frame, sadly watching a single great star that burned in the patch of sky she could see between the pines.

  She must have fallen asleep for a few moments, for she was awakened suddenly by the sound of her key rattling in the lock and then falling to the floor. There was someone outside in the hall working at her lock! It was Kearney Krupper, of course, and he must have another key. She could hear it slipping in the lock as if it fitted smoothly. It was turning! She was trapped!

  Without a second’s hesitation, she sprang to the windowsill and clambered out, a sudden strength coming to her aid, and stepped fearlessly out in the dark upon the balcony roof. It was slippery, but she did not hesitate and plunged down to the edge, where the trumpet-vine curled up and ran along the eaves. Back in the room the door had been flung open, and someone had switched on the light. She could see Kearney Krupper’s outline as he stood in the light looking for her. Then she took hold of the trellis and swung over, gripping her shaking hands to the light framework and wondering what it would be like if she fell. He was coming to the window now. She caught one glimpse of him looking out as she reached her foot for a holding below. He had seen her. What would he do? Would he follow and grasp her hands before she would let go? Would it do any good to scream? Would anyone hear her above the jazzy din?

  Then she took another step down, put down her foot for another and missed it, and fell, down, down. It was farther than she had thought, but the branches made no noise at all as she crashed past them. She lay on the ground, stunned and dizzy, and wondered dazedly what she ought to do next. Then she heard steps come out on the balcony, swift steps, and she was stung back to fear again. She struggled to her feet and fled, off into the darkness of the forest, not knowing which direction she was taking, unable to think, only to flee.

  Chris Hollister had a strange-looking upstart of a car that was little more than a skeleton that he had rigged up himself out of an old racing body and an engine that he had made as perfect as an engine could be. He was of a mechanical turn of mind, and this car had been his toy, which he worked over in every spare moment and loved as some men love their horse or dog. It was as perfect a piece of speed as one could find anywhere, and the little boys in the street where Hollister lived called it admiringly “the Humdinger.”

  For several days before election, whenever Chris had a moment of leisure, he had spent it working over this car, oiling it and putting it in absolutely perfect order.

  There was little more to the Humdinger than four wheels, an engine, and a couple of bucket seats. Everything that could possibly be dispensed with in a car was gone. There was nothing to commend it to the eye, no luxury to allure one to ride therein, but it could beat anything on the road, Chris claimed, and no one had ever disputed the fact.

  It was this car that Chris had chosen to ride in the morning of the primary election, instead of his little old roadster in which he usually went about town.

  He had parked it in the area behind the office buildings, quite near to the janitor’s entrance, out of sight, and he had come down early before any of the committee had arrived, before even Sherwood was in the office.

  When Sherwood started out of his office with the declared intention of following Kearney Krupper, Chris was only a step behind him all the way down the three flights of stairs. And at the bottom of the third he touched Sherwood on the shoulder.

  “This way, Chief; I’ve got my racer here.”

  They sped out the back way, and the Humdinger caught its breath with a silken sound and flew out on its way almost silently and out of sight before the committeemen on the fourth floor had begun to realize they must go after the two.

  No one knew the wisest way to worm oneself out of traffic and into the open highway better and quicker than Chris. By the time Johnson was in his car and chasing after a shabby Ford, Chris and Sherwood were well on their way toward the park.

  Out along the smooth ribbon of highway they shot like a rocket going on its way. Travelers saw them approach like a speck in the sunshine, and lo, they were gone! People stopped on the wayside to stare and wonder but found they were staring at space. Cars slowed up and swayed to the curb to let them pass, and children scurried out of the road.

  Before three hours had passed, they got trace of their quarry at a roadside inn, where he had stopped for gas in his car. There could be no mistake. Kearney’s yellow sporting roadster was too noticeable. There were not two cars like that.

  In five hours they saw a speck ahead that they were sure was Krupper, and then suddenly they lost sight of him and could not puzzle it out.

  Chris had a crude map that the detective who took the photographs at the Whitman forest lodge had made for him. He got it out, and they studied over it for some time, going back twice to make sure they had not missed the way, for it was lonely wilderness, and there was no one to ask the way, and their difficulties were increased by the coming of darkness utter and deep and the fact that the moon would not rise until late that night. The forest was all about them, and shadows lay thick like black velvet all along the road.

  “Well, it’s somewhere along this two miles and on the right-hand side,” said Chris at last, turning the flashlight away from the paper in his hand and jabbing it into the inky blackness of the woods. “You stay here a minute, Chief; this road’s gotta be hand-picked.”

  Chris walked away into the darkness. Sherwood could see the flashlight splashing into the night like a sprite, dancing here and there. The lights of the car were turned off, and the engine was stopped. It was very still in the forest, and a single star burned above the chief’s head. He looked at it and wondered if this had been a fool’s errand. Were they going to be balked by a mere trifle like getting lost in the dark? Then he saw the light pause and flicker and blink out. For a long moment it was all darkness. He began to wonder if something had happened to Chris and whether he ought not to start the car and go
after him. Then the light appeared again with a single wink, at intervals, and soon Chris loomed out of the shadows.

  “All right, Chief! Found her!”

  He climbed into the bucket at the wheel and started the car softly. “What’s your idea?” asked Sherwood. “Someone about?”

  “Might be. We’re not far off. Heard music, I thought. Mighta been the wind in the branches.”

  They came to the road, a mere trail into the woods, and no sign but a PRIVATE PROPERTY, No TRESPASSING.

  As they bumped more slowly along the ruts, Chris spoke. They had come thus far from the city almost in silence.

  “Chief, what you figuring to do when you get there?”

  “I’m not figuring. I’m expecting to be led.”

  “Oh!” Chris looked at him furtively with the kind of awe he always felt when the chief spoke that way. It reminded him of what Romayne had said about God wanting her to be in that situation.

  “Well, I brought the warrant we had made out the other day for his arrest, anyhow. I just thought I’d let you know.”

  “I was depending on you for that, Chris.”

  Chris was silent a moment. Then he was supposed to be working out God’s plans, without even being aware of it! Things were strange.

  “You know it’s just this side the borderline of the state; it’ll be legal all right,” he added, embarrassed. “I looked that up. There’s just a half a mile leeway.”

  “That’s good,” said Sherwood. “We might have had to kidnap him and carry him into the state to use it.”

  “How you figuring to carry him home after you’ve got him?” queried Chris after another mile.

  “There’s his car,” suggested Sherwood.

  “I see,” said Chris. “How’ll we handle it? Will we take him in this car or his own?”

  “Better use his own, Chris; then we shan’t be accused of stealing a car,” laughed Sherwood grimly. “Then you’ll have to drive this car, Chief. For I don’t see letting you handle a prisoner with that lame shoulder of yours.”

  “We’ll see how it comes out, kid!” said Sherwood with his arm thrown lovingly around Chris’s shoulder.

  “Yep! We’ll see!” said Chris significantly. “I’ll see!”

  They were silent then till they lurched in sight of the great house in the distance and began to hear the jazzy hum of the music and the strange jangle of voices, with now and then a clear sentence startling whole out of the darkness as voices will sometimes carry in clear distance in the still, open air.

  They parked the car about a mile down the mountain, ran it into the woods behind a thicket, and left it standing, and on foot the two crept stealthily up toward the house.

  “We’ll have to locate that car first,” rumbled Chris softly.

  Sherwood assented silently. They said no more. When they came in sight of the house, they stood in the woods and took a long look.

  It was easy to see from the sounds that proceeded that a revel was in progress. The servants would likely be busy, and there would be little interference with them. There seemed to be no dogs about. Chris laid a loving hand on a little weapon in his belt.

  They made a circuit around the house, getting the lay of the land and cautiously approaching the widespread and deserted garage to which the roadway led. Yes, there was the yellow car, standing out boldly among the others, even in the darkness. They reconnoitered and found the servants were all in the house, eating and drinking on what the masters had left. They were evidently not expecting intruders in that remote place and at that time of night.

  Chris went carefully over the car with a skilled hand. The key was in it, and he found a neat little revolver of the best type. He put both key and weapon in his pocket.

  “Better get this outta here now,” he whispered. Sherwood nodded, and they went to work.

  Fortunately the car was so placed as to be easy to remove. It had not been run into the garage at all but left standing as it had been driven up, in the driveway, and they found little difficulty in pushing it out and down a road that evidently was used for trucks when they brought up supplies. They pushed and dragged and lifted and pried until they got to the downgrade and Chris could get into the car and guide it. Sherwood walked near to search out the way with a flashlight, for they dared not turn on the lights of the car so near to the house. But at last they had it down in the road quite near to the other car, and turned, satisfied, to creep back and await developments.

  “We’ll wait and see if we can locate him first,” said Sherwood softly. “They’ll stop this party sometime before morning, and we may be able to separate him from the rest. If we can’t, we’ll have to march boldly in and make our arrest, but I’d like to avoid publicity if possible. It makes such a mess and might involve Miss Ransom.”

  “Sure!” said Chris.

  So they took up grim watch among the trees, two stalwart sentinels, weary but determined.

  If only Romayne had known they stood there guarding her, how her faith and courage would have blazed forth.

  But the clatter went on and on, and the two men in the quiet wood were beginning to grow sleepy and impatient. Almost they were on the verge of walking up to the house and ending the suspense. Then suddenly they heard a noise in a part of the house that had been dark and still. A movement at the window, a curtain tearing and someone clambering out. A white face, and a strange movement of shadows on the roof of the veranda. Then a light at the window and Kearney Krupper’s face looking out. Something fell with a soft thud to the ground.

  The two men in the forest stood alert and tense, every faculty working. The face at the window disappeared, and in a moment more Kearney Krupper came flying out the lower door and down the steps into the drive.

  Someone sprang up from the ground and flashed away into the darkness of the trees, a girl with a white face and dark dress. They could see the gleam of white arms, one hand held to the throat as she ran. The man was running after her.

  Simultaneously, like two panthers crouching for their prey, Sherwood and Chris stole over toward the two. They could hear the girl gasp as the man caught her and fell with a scream that was instantly smothered. Then they sprang.

  The moon, which had been coming up quietly veiled with a cloud, took that moment to roll out from behind the cloud and shed full radiance into the night, and a soft brilliance penetrated the denseness of the pines where they were and made visible what before had been but a moving blackness against more black. They could see that the man had the girl down and was holding her by the throat.

  They could hear his voice like the hiss of a serpent: “I’ve got you now, Romayne Ransom,” with an oath. “I’ll teach you to sneer at me and think you’re too good for me, and run away! I’ll teach you to lie to me that you haven’t any money! I’ll make you cringe and beg on your knees! I’ll ruin you for life! I’ll—”

  But a great blow on the jaw brought an end to the awful threat, and a heavy hand grasped the man by the collar and lifted him bodily from the ground. Kearney Krupper had revealed himself with all his evil soul exposed there in the darkness when he thought no one was by but the girl, who was at last utterly in his power. And Chris lifted him as he would have lifted a snake and flung him against a tree, where he lay limp and stunned, not knowing what had happened. Then Chris took handcuffs out of his pocket and shackled him hand and foot and put a gag in his mouth. Silently and swiftly he worked, while Sherwood lifted the frightened girl and held her in his arms.

  “Romayne, is it you?” he asked tenderly, not knowing he had called her so. “Are you hurt—dear?” and he put his face close to hers that he might be sure she had not fainted.

  “Oh, is it you?” cried Romayne faintly. “Oh, I am so glad you have come. Please take me away from this awful place!” And she began to cry weakly and hid her face against his shoulder.

  Evan Sherwood’s arms were around her now in earnest and his lips against her forehead softly.

  “My poor little darling!” he
was saying. “My little darling!” over and over again, and holding her close, and she clinging to him.

  Something wonderful had come to them both. They did not understand it; they had never looked for anything like this. It was as if a benediction had fallen upon them, welding them into one, as if they had known and loved one another all their days.

  Chris, surrounded by the darkness, saw, nevertheless, how it was with them and rejoiced. There were sudden tears in his good, kind eyes, but he was glad. Since he could not have her for himself, he was glad his chief had found out the right way. And he fumbled about his prisoner and wondered how long he ought to let things go on. They ought to be getting away before anyone in the house was roused.

  They came to themselves in a moment more and drew apart, half-embarrassed, and then Sherwood deliberately drew Romayne into his arms and kissed her very gently on the forehead as if he were sealing something in a holy way that had just been ratified in heaven.

  “Now, tell me, quickly,” he said as she drew away shyly, though leaving her hand in his in a close grasp, and she told him briefly what had happened.

  “Is there anyone else here who will trouble you if you were to stay in your room until morning?” he asked anxiously.

  “No, oh, no. They have all been quite decent—that is until today. Alida Freeman is here, and she has told them about me. They look down upon me. I must go away.”

  “I see. Of course. But in any case, now, of course. Now we must work fast. It will not look well for you and Krupper to disappear together.”

  “Oh! No! Of course not,” said Romayne with her hand clasped to her heart. “Is he going to disappear?”

  “Yes. We’re arresting him. We have a warrant. Would it be possible for you to get back to your room till morning and then let me come for you? Do any of them know what has happened?”

  “I do not think so,” faltered Romayne. “I suppose you are right. I must go back to my room and wait till morning. But how am I to get up there without anyone seeing me? I have not been downstairs since dinner. They think I have gone to bed.”