Out of the Storm

by Grace Livingston Hill

  The wrinkled hand of the old lady laid gently on his head made Clinton Benedict start and look up with a haggard face. But when she advised bed and told him nothing could be done until morning and he must have some rest or he would be worn out and could do nothing then, he stumbled to his feet and promised to go and lie down. It was then they discovered the letter addressed to the doctor.

  "I will see him the first thing in the morning," said Benedict sadly. "It may be he will have some idea where she has gone, but it scarcely looks like it, or she would not have written a letter."

  Corinne patted his arm as he went by her into the bedroom and explained that she had put hot-water bottles into his bed, and he must look out and not get burned. He tried to smile and thank her, but the effort faded on his lips.

  The household settled into quiet, but there was no sleep for anyone. Corinne, on her bed in the back chamber, and Mrs. Battin vainly endeavoring to sleep, lay and thought about the sweet girl who had that morning been among them and now was gone, where? Would they ever find her again? What was the reason she had gone? Had the two young people had a difference of opinion, and was it final? Tears had their way, and both pillows were wet. Neither remembered the day when they stood on the rain-wet porch and disputed whether the girl should be allowed to bring her unconscious charge to the house. They only remembered the days of sunshine and joy she had brought them and the beautiful love story they thought they had been watching through all these weeks. And now, was it over forever? And the young man, how would he bear it? Would it put him back into invalidism again when he was just beginning to get strong?

  Finally worn out with excitement, they fell asleep.

  The man downstairs could not stay in his bed. Tired as he was, he rose and walked the room. He sat down in the chair she had used and laid his hand caressingly on the Bible that lay where she had placed it the night before. As if he thought he might draw some consolation from it, he drew it toward him and opened it where it would. His eye fell upon the words she had read but a few evenings before:

  "He shall call upon me, and I will answer him: I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honour him."

  He closed the book sharply. He could hear her sweet voice speaking the words, and it wrung anguish from his very soul. He softly pushed open the long window and stepped out upon the porch. The night was crisp and cold, and a sharp wind stung his forehead. He shivered as he stepped into the night.

  The tide was out, and the long stretch of beach gleamed wet and lonely in the dim starlight. The ocean tossed like a mad thing chained for the moment and harmless. Phantom lights gleamed fitfully at sea and toppled out of sight. The surf had the air of being busy otherwise for a while.

  Benedict stepped down upon the sand and walked along the beach, his hands gripped behind his back, his face lifted up to the sky.

  "O God," he cried in a voice that it seemed could only be heard by heaven, so set apart the time and place seemed to be. "O God, take care of her! Help me to find her! I love her! O God, help me!" And falling upon his knees, the strong man bowed, praying, perhaps for the first time in his life.

  How long he knelt he did not know. It was all very still, and the tide was away and busy. He was kneeling in the very spot where last they had sat together.

  After a time, he got up and went back to his room. The candle was still burning fitfully with weird shadows across the wall. He saw the white gleam of Gail's handkerchief where she had dropped it by her chair, and stooping, picked it up and laid his lips upon it. He knelt for a moment beside her chair with his head bowed against the faded flowered cushion on the back, and then he got up and went to his bed, as if he had heard her voice telling him to do so. Vague sentences from her letter floated to him through his tired thoughts, and he lay down with her handkerchief against his cheek and slept.

  It was dawn when he awoke, and with his first breath he was conscious that she was gone. It seemed as if he had borne the burden of the knowledge of this fact for ages and might for ages yet to come.

  He started to his feet almost at once, aware that he must be up and doing. It had come to him in the night watches that he must see the doctor first and then go to Washington and hunt for Gail. Surely she would be in Washington, and what were detectives for if not to find people when they were lost? She was no common girl--it surely would not be impossible to find her--and so hope stirred within him, and he rose and prepared to steal away without troubling his kind hostess and her weary handmaid.

  Corinne however was already on the alert and had his breakfast steaming hot and ready for him.

  "De fish boy jes' gone home fer his brekfus'," she whispered confidentially so that she would not waken the old lady. "He say he'll come back an' tote you ober to mainland in half an hour. Yoh ain't gwine find no folks up sooner'n 'at, so yoh kin jes' set down an' eat yoh brekfus' good an' right. Yoh can't go without eatin', an' yoh gotta keep up fer dat chile's sake. She's only a gal, yoh know. 'Pears like gals was borned to hab to be allus runnin' away when dey'd a heap rather stay behin', but yoh's a man an' yoh gotta fin' her, Mist' Clinton. Don't yoh nebber gib up till yoh fin' her. She's some'rs waitin' foh yoh to fin' her, so don't yoh get 'scouraged! She's breakin' her heart till yoh comes."

  "You think that, Corinne? I wish I could," he said with a half smile and sighed. "What did she run away for if she wanted to stay?"

  "Cyan't yoh see dat, Mist' Clint'n? Why, yoh's mighty blind. Dat's plain ez de nose on yoh face. She's jes' natchally 'bliged t' run kase she's a gal, and yoh's a man an' has de pribilege of runnin' arter ef yoh likes."

  "But she's left no trace behind her. If she had wanted me to find her, wouldn't she have left her address?"

  "No, sah. Dat wouldn't hab ben runnin' 'way, dat would hab ben leabin' a trail behin' heh. No, sah, it's up to yoh, sah; ef yoh wants heh, yoh hez to fin' heh!"

  "Thank you, Corinne. I'll find her if it takes a lifetime," he said, throwing back his head with that high look he had worn on the deck of the ship; and rising, he took his hat and coat and started, promising to send word the minute he had a hint of news and also to keep in touch with them daily.

  Chapter 13

  When the doctor opened his letter, Benedict was startled and thoughtful as he saw the money that fell out. Fifty dollars! He could distinctly see five ten-dollar bills. What did it mean?

  In a moment more, Doctor Phelps handed over the letter with a questioning look:

  Dear Doctor:

  I have to leave the shore quite suddenly without waiting to see you. I do not know what your bill is that I became responsible for, but I am enclosing fifty dollars, which is all I can spare just now, but later when I have secured a position I hope to get, I will write you and find out how much I owe you.

  It is a great disappointment to me not to be able to thank you personally for your kind attention during these weeks. You have been more than a physician; you have been friend to a couple of strangers in a strange place, and there are no words to tell you adequately how grateful we are to you. I know that God will bless you for it, and we shall never forget it.

  With grateful thoughts,

  Gail Desmond

  "Do you mean to tell me that Miss Desmond became responsible for my bills during my illness?" asked Benedict, looking up suddenly, his eyes bright with mingled emotions.

  "She did," said the doctor, bowing gravely, "but I didn't intend to take it myself. I was obliged to accept the fee for the specialist because I wasn't in a financial position to take care of it myself, and she insisted on taking no chances with your life. But I had no idea of accepting a cent from her on my own account, and if you will give me her present address I will return this money at once. It was a pleasure to be associated with a girl like that, and I count it an honor to have served you both in your time of need."

  "I'm sure I wish I could give you her address," said Benedict fervently, "but I don't know it yet, and I'm not sure that I ever shall know it. She has gone and left no trace
behind her. She has been like an angel to me, and her disappearance is almost as an angel's might be."

  The doctor looked keenly at the young man, noted the haggard face and heavy eyes, and laid his hand upon the other's knee.

  "Tell me about it."

  With bowed head, Benedict told him.

  "Well, well, well!" said the doctor huskily, getting out his handkerchief. "She's a great little girl! She's the greatest little girl I ever saw."

  "But about this money," said Benedict, suddenly roused to a thing that was in his mind of secondary consideration. "You say she paid the specialist? How much was it, do you know? And weren't there other things she paid for? I've heard them talk about a nurse, although she isn't very clear to my mind. I guess I was about over the border there for a while."

  "You certainly were," said the doctor with tears in his eyes. "You had only the one chance, and that was the operation. Of course, we didn't know that when we sent for the specialist. I thought you might pull through, you looked so strong. I was going to take the chance, for I hadn't the money to do anything else, and I didn't know whether you had."

  "I have plenty," said Benedict quietly, as though it meant little to him, having always had it.

  "Well, I didn't know, of course; and then there was the responsibility of an operation. Somebody had to take that, and you were a stranger. We could find nothing but initials. The little girl took the chance for you."

  "I guess I owe her about everything I have," said the young man, deeply stirred. "She saved my life."

  "I guess she felt it was a matter of a life for a life on both sides," said the doctor.

  "Well, I owe her everything, and I don't know where she is. I have plenty, and from what little she had told me of herself, she hasn't much of anything. Now what am I to do?"

  "Oh, you'll find her. The world isn't so large as you think. Keep up your courage. But you'll have to take good care of yourself. No more sleepless nights like last night or you'll go down like a rush in the wind, and then who's to carry on your search? Now, of course she may imagine she owes me something more and write to me for a bill by and by, but from her letter I shouldn't expect that to be very soon, so of course we can't wait for that. Have you any idea where her former connections were? Would she be likely to go back? She mentioned two places, did she? Well, why not telegraph a minister or a doctor or some town official in those places and see if they know her present address. Telephone? Oh, yes, of course that would be quicker, but long-distance phoning adds up, you know. Well, I'm glad you have plenty of money, young man; you'll get what you want all the sooner, of course. Money does make things move easier, there's no doubt about it. Have you any idea she's gone to Washington? It might be well to put a good detective to work. By the way, we'd better go right over to the station and see if they know what train she took. And who brought her over from the Point? The grocery boy? Let's look him up at once. You have an hour before the Washington train leaves. Time enough to do a good deal of phoning. Meantime, while you call up that grocery boy and get all the information you can out of him, I'll fix you some medicine. I don't like the look of your eyes. You haven't strength enough to go through all this yet. That little girl needs a trouncing. She ought to have put aside everything and waited until you were stronger."

  "She thought I had gone to my friends, you know."

  "Yes, well, she ought to have been sure before she took any such decided steps. Girls do get skittish now and then, the best of them, I know, and kick the traces unexpectedly. Well, she's the best girl I ever came across, and you're to be congratulated on finding her out of a whole universe full of silly shallow-pated creatures. Now you take this chair and call 191W, that's Kaylor's grocery, and ask for the boy who takes the afternoon order to the Point."

  The grocery boy didn't know anything about the young lady he had brought over to the mainland. He had gone directly to the store, and she had left him where he landed. He hadn't noticed which way she went. She walked slowly down the street behind him. He guessed she went to the station, but he didn't know.

  The station agent remembered her. He was sure she was the lady to whom he had sold a ticket to Washington for the afternoon train. She was the only lady who bought a ticket that afternoon, and he remembered her particularly because he had never seen her before. She wore a dark blue dress and a dark hat, and had big blue eyes and lots of hair.

  Benedict drew a long breath, and hope began to rise. Of course, he hadn't found out much yet, for one would naturally go to Washington first, unless one were going farther south. It was the nearest large city.

  Next, he called up Information and asked for connection with a minister in both of the cities that she had mentioned in her casual talk of home. As her father had been a clergyman, it seemed likely that another one of the same denomination might at least have heard of her and know someone who knew her. At least he would leave no stone unturned that might lead to a clue of her.

  After much delay, they finally succeeded in getting someone in one place who answered, but he declared at once that the young lady in question was drowned in the recent disaster of the Baltic, and when Benedict said he knew that she was not, they said her name had been in all the papers, and there had been much sadness over it because of her father's past connection with that place.

  The other call had not answered when Benedict had to leave for his train, but as he said a hurried good-bye he left in the doctor's hand a check that he told him he was to use in paying for the phoning, the remainder to supplement Miss Desmond's fifty dollars.

  When the doctor looked at the check, he saw that it was made out to himself for two hundred dollars, and he sat down in his office chair and put his hands over his dazed eyes for a minute to get his breath. Fees like that didn't come his way often. In fact, he was having the time of his life, though he had to confess that he would give it all to know where that sweet-faced little runaway girl was at this minute.

  In Washington, Benedict of course knew just what to do. In half an hour after his arrival, he had a consultation with his lawyer and one of the best detectives in the country, and before two hours had passed, the most elaborate and scientific system in the country had been set to work to find out Gail Desmond and bring her back to her friends. Not a thing that could be thought of was left undone, and no trouble or expense was spared to make the search as thorough as possible.

  While Gail Desmond was trudging through the rain in New York hunting for her place in the world, that place was waiting for her. Literally hundreds of eager people were busy at work trying to find her and bring her to it; and yet God had His plan to work out, and this was all a part of it, for the finding of Gail Desmond affected more lives than her own, and all is not lost that seems to be; neither are we at any time out of the sight and care of God who attends the sparrows on their way.

  After he had set in motion every possible force to find Gail Desmond, one of the first things that Clinton Benedict did was to buy a Bible.

  He had never owned a Bible in his life. Somehow his early upbringing had been completed without that acquisition. He had gone to church when he liked and had done very much as he pleased in most of the choices of life, and though Sunday school had been a part of his childhood routine, he had never earned a Bible for reciting verses nor had a religiously inclined relative ever given him a copy. He had read the Bible, of course, occasionally in church or had heard it read, but never until Gail began to read it to him did it have a living, vital place in his soul.

  He had a strange feeling about that Bible when he went to buy it, an almost shamed feeling, as if it were a strange thing for a man to do to buy a Bible. He almost felt as if it were a sort of drug that he had come to depend upon that had suddenly been taken away from him, and he found he could not do without. Perhaps it was not so much for the Word itself as for the memory of the sweet voice that used to read it that he wanted it now; though the great thoughts had found pleasant entrance in his mind, and many passages had set hi
m thinking in new lines. Moreover, he felt that he would be nearer to the girl he loved if he had that book; for he might be reading some of the same words at the same time she read them, and it was comforting to think of it. At least it was loving the same things she loved.

  As he stood shyly at the counter waiting for his Bible to be brought, he was surprised to find other people--sensible, well-dressed, thoughtful people--buying Bibles and acting as if it were an everyday thing to buy a Bible, like getting a hairbrush. It had always seemed to him that Bibles were property that one acquired at church or that were indigenous to the home, and that getting them any other way was a sort of declaration of weakness.

  One thing was sure, a Bible he must have, and so he bought one and went away with his precious parcel, feeling suddenly very rich.

  As he was walking away from the bookstore, an automobile slowed up and a lady leaned out, bowing and smiling so noticeably that pedestrians turned and looked after the favored gentleman. Benedict looked up, recognized Dorothy Stanford, and lifted his hat, but his thoughts were so thoroughly engrossed that it did not occur to him to stop. He greeted her as he would have greeted any other acquaintance and passed on his way. But the car turned and whirled up to the curb at his side.

  "Won't you get in and ride, Clinton?" called the girl, leaning over with the sweetest of smiles.

  Benedict stopped, annoyed to be interrupted.

  "Thank you, no," he smiled pleasantly. "I've only a few steps to go; I'll walk." And lifting his hat, he went on.

  The girl bit her lips in vexation and ordered her car away, but in her eyes there came a look that meant trouble. She thought she had seen in that haggard face and that haughty look the real truth--that Benedict was eating his heart out for her, and satisfaction filled her silly little self. It had piqued her to have him refuse that kiss she had offered. As she watched his tall shoulders disappear around the next corner, she was nearer to loving him than ever in her life. Just give her a man who was hard to win and Dorothy Stanford was in her element. For the time being, she adored him. And she thought she had seen that he was pining for her, and therefore she set herself to break his haughty indifference and bring him to her side once more. She would find a way even if she had to marry him after all. She wasn't sure, but he would be better than Arthur, anyway.