Out of the Storm

by Grace Livingston Hill

  Miss Rittenhouse followed him out with adoring eyes and watched him far down the street. Romance was coming her way at last. Today had been full of the unexpected. She went back to her desk, wishing that she had been the one for whom the worried look had come into the eyes of the moving-picture hero.

  Before long, a huge bunch of roses stood beside the bed of the pneumonia patient in the ward. They bore the card of Mr. Archie Charmer, but they had been bought with the company's money after much and stormy discussion between Farley and Bob and Charmer, for business reasons, on neutral ground.

  A humbly expressed wish had been dictated by Farley that Miss Desmond would have a rapid recovery. But the flowers stood unnoticed except by the other patients, who welcomed them with delight, and the card was not read. Gail tossed and moaned, unheeding.

  Benedict got in the New York sleeper and threw himself full length upon the couch in the stateroom. He was weary unto death. This was the third time he had been called to New York since the night he had hurried off, leaving Dorothy and her delighted betrothed in his office. It was always to follow up a faint clue that the detective had got wind of, this time a girl who had gone as a nursery governess with a woman from Washington. She was reported to have left Washington the day that Gail must have reached there.

  He was taking as much pains about it as if he were sure it was the right trail he was following, but in his heart he knew he had lost hope. He had a feeling that all people get who have made mistakes, that he was being punished for his past follies and that nothing happy would ever come his way again. He had been saved from the sea for what? This? Would his life ever be worth anything again if he did not find Gail? Why, oh why had he not told her of his love before he went away from her? Why had she not waited for him? Dorothy Stanford now represented to him all the mistakes of his past life that had clung about him and tried to drag him down from his ideal. His heart was torn with remorse.

  His fitful sleep gave him no real rest. He was continually waking in distress from dreams in which Dorothy contended with Gail for his soul, which seemed a helpless thing and lay on the ground with broken wings, unable to soar up to God.

  In the morning he went to a hotel, made himself ready for his task, and set forth to find the address given him by the detective.

  He had to wait nearly an hour in a miserable little servant's dining room for the young woman he sought to come downstairs, and while he waited, his blood boiled to think what ignominy the royal girl he loved might be enduring while she earned her living. He looked around on the cheerless place and listened to the clanging voices of the servants in the kitchen, and grew more sick of soul.

  At last she came, a little tired creature with sad eyes circled darkly and a drooping pathetic little mouth. She explained that she could not leave a naughty child until its mother came, and she looked wearily perplexed to know why he had come.

  "Are you the young woman who came from Washington with Mrs. V. S. Barker?" he asked, rising deferentially.

  "I am."

  "The one who came to be governess to some children and had come into Washington from the shore only the day before?"

  "I am," she said, and her tone was slightly resentful, as if she questioned his right to make all these inquiries.

  "Then I must ask your pardon for annoying you," he said sadly. "You are not the one I am looking for. I am in search of a dear friend whose whereabouts I do not know, but who came to Washington on that same day in search of a position. I thought I had traced her here. Her name is Miss Desmond."

  The girl sadly shook her head. There was something wistful about her eyes, as if she wished she were the one that splendid-looking man was searching for and that he would take her away from the grind and loneliness of her unpleasant position.

  "There's no such person here," she said. "And I'm sure if you care anything about her you may be glad she didn't find this place. It's no bed of roses, I can tell you." There was something sharp and hard about her young voice in its pain. He wished he might do something to make things happier for her, but of course, he couldn't.

  "I'm sorry," he said pleasantly, "both for myself and for you. If Miss Desmond were here she would not be here long, for I should take her away. I hope you will pardon my intrusion, and I hope things may brighten up for you."

  She thanked him and wistfully watched him go away, but her mood clung about him and depressed him. He felt as if his body were too heavy to carry, and each foot was like lead as he lifted it. What a world of sadness and disappointment it was! Why did it have to be? He wished he might do something to help lift the gloom, but how could one go about it? Gail would know. Gail was sunshine and strength in herself. Why was she created the only woman who knew the secret of a beautiful life? Of course there might be others, but they had not come into his life. If he could but find her! Yet how hopeless it seemed now that he ever would! The world stretched out an endless haystack in which he was searching for the proverbial tiny needle. He had searched so long in vain. Where were his prayers? Ah, he was no pray-er. Probably they were not acceptable to the Most High. Look at the life he had lived, selfish, indulgent. How could he expect anything from God? He knew from the reading that he had already done in the Book that it was the righteous man whose prayers availed much. He had lived for the pleasure of the hour. Why should God answer him?

  And yet, the quiet voice at the evening time in the still, sweet room by the sea had said: "If ye abide in me, and my words abide in you, ye shall ask what ye will, and it shall be done unto you."

  Well, so far as he knew how, he was trying to abide and to find out the words and let them be in his heart for a guide. But he had prayed and prayed, and it had done no good. Yet even as he thought this, his heart was sending forth another anguished cry: O God, let me find her! O God, let me find her! Keep her safely, and let me find her!

  He was walking on and on, he knew not where. It was Broadway, where traffic was crowded. He supposed the next thing to do would be to return to Washington. This trip had been a useless thing as all other efforts had proved.

  He shivered with the cold wind that blew upon him. The day was dark, and heavy clouds were scudding overhead like black ships on hasty, evil business. Great splashes of rain suddenly dashed down and struck him in the face like hailstones. A gust of wind swept up the street and took people's hats from their heads. The river and ocean seemed to have risen from their beds and entered the city, taking possession of the atmosphere. People with umbrellas opened them and closed them as suddenly, lest they turn inside out or vanish from their sight. Something seemed to break in the skies, and a torrent was let loose without warning. Everybody dashed into doorways and crowded against one another to get out of the tempest.

  Benedict with the rest backed into an entryway or vestibule in front of a moving-picture theater. A billboard blew down and just missed striking him as it fell. Women dashed past him to the most sheltered spots, for the rain was driving straight in as if it were chasing its victims. The girl in the ticket stand looked as if she were a mermaid under a fountain, so quickly was her glass case covered with raindrops. People were slinging out nickels and dimes and snatching blue and pink tickets and pushing their way to the door. A burst of uproarious music floated out in jerks each time a new person entered. Benedict saw that it was the only refuge available and that it might soon be gone, for the seats would all be filled. He put down some money, snatched his ticket with the rest, and plunged toward the door.

  In due time he reached it, the back of his neck and shoulders wet from the storm, and standing in the crowded darkness waiting for the usher to take him to a seat, his eyes naturally sought the only lighted spot in the room, the living, brilliant screen.

  A man was stepping into view as if he had just come out on the platform unexpectedly and was looking about impudently on the audience. A man with coarse handsome features and a dissipated look. There was nothing about him to attract a man like Benedict--and all to repel--and yet his gaze was held
. The man on the screen leered about, smiled contemptuously, and winked insolently, took out a cigarette and lighted it, smoked and laughed again. Benedict experienced an intense dislike for him and was glad when he walked away with a flippant wave of his hand and another insolent smile.

  Two pert, made-up girls attired with a view to economy of material and a studied atmosphere of the grotesque about the arrangement of their coiffures came now in turn and looked at the audience with bold, knowing glances and mocking smiles upon their painted lips. They lingered like an ugly thought, but the last was turning to go as an usher came and put him in a seat. An old woman in kitchen garb and soiled face with stringy hair made her fleeting bow, and when he looked up again as he dropped into his seat wearily, a girl stood there that made his heart stand still with wonder.

  It was Gail, her very self, looking from an open window framed in roses, looking far and wistfully as he had seen her look beside the sea--bringing her eyes back and focusing them gravely, earnestly upon the audience, upon his face, yet not as if she knew him, and looking far again. She turned her head away to look behind her, then back with a sad little tender smile as if she missed something and could not find it. Once her hand went swiftly to her throat, and she drew a deep breath as if a heavy burden were upon her that she was bearing bravely. Then she turned back and smiled again, a cheerful little forced smile that would not intrude its troubles upon strangers. Then came that faraway look--that searching of the sea, shading her eyes as if the light hurt them. She turned slightly more toward the audience again and looked them in the eyes with a grave, quiet dignity that sat upon her sweet face graciously, and so smiling, with a slight inclination of her head, she turned and faded into shadow.

  The man in the seat next to Benedict turned and looked at him curiously, his breath came so heavily. He wondered if this stranger, whose sleeves were wet where his hand had touched them, was going into a fit of apoplexy, or if he had asthma? But Benedict did not notice his curious look. He was with difficulty restraining himself from rushing down the aisle after the vision of his dreams before she went away. He had just sense enough left to know that she was a picture and that if he waited he might possibly see her again.

  When he first sank into the seat, he had meant to put his head back and shut his eyes and rest. But now he was all alive to the screen and what would happen next. His breath came fast, and the perspiration stood in beads on his forehead. He clenched the arms of the seat with his hands as if his life depended on it and watched with strained intensity while the first scene passed without her coming. He had nearly persuaded himself that it could not be Gail herself, but some girl who looked strangely like her.

  Presently she came walking rapidly down a city street, looking from side to side at the signs and pausing anxiously before an employment office. She turned as she went in the door and looked toward the front with that little troubled pucker in her brow that he had noticed sometimes when he had not felt so well as usual. He read worry in her eyes. He knew by instinct what trouble she was having finding a job. It was all very real to him. His thoughts had pictured some fears for her like this. He could not doubt it had been true. Once or twice he even began to think it was all a hallucination and rubbing his eyes, looked about on the audience wondering. Were they seeing the same scenes that he thought he saw or had his brain begun to see strange fancies? Was it Gail, indeed, or only someone who looked like her? No, there was the same little dark blue gown she had worn with the white frills at her wrists and neck. He had taken that very sleeve between his thumb and finger once when she sat by his side just because he loved to touch anything that belonged to her. No, there could be no doubt but that the original was Gail, unless his eyes were playing false. He suddenly reached out and touched the man by his side.

  "Say, will you tell me, has that girl got little white ruffles on a dark dress, and is she the same one who came out last in the beginning? I'm a little mixed up."

  The stranger edged away. He evidently thought this neighbor was a bit crazy, but he answered: "Yes, yes, that's her. She's got some white ruffle things on her dress. Yes, that's the last one that come out. She's huntin' a job, you know. Up against it like, I reckon."

  "I see! Thank you," said Benedict, and sat back more calmly. Then he was looking at a real picture unless, indeed, the man and the audience and everyone were fantasies. In that case, what did it matter? Maybe he was not real himself.

  His brain whirled on in a million strange ideas, while his heart was wrung with anguish over the trials of the girl before him. That it was merely acting never really occurred to him while it was going on. His heart knew it must have been true or she never could have looked that way. He walked the pictured streets and went into the pictured houses and offices with her searching for a position, and lived and breathed beside her, agonizing that he could not reach out and draw her to him away from all this trouble into the quiet of his love and protection.

  The scenes reeled rapidly on, unfolding the story bit by bit till it came to that fatal scene where the villain entered her room during her absence and hid behind the screen just as she entered her door with the candle. Benedict gripped the arms of the seat anew and almost sprang up. It seemed that he must go down there and haul that villain out of his hiding place and beat the life out of him. He must protect the girl he loved somehow. His breath came so hard again that the man beside him got up and pushed past, murmuring something about going down nearer to an empty seat where he could see better. But Benedict did not notice. He was holding himself by main force from springing up and running down the aisle. He kept saying to himself, That is only a picture. Whatever happened has happened already, and that beast of a man is not really there at all. I must find out where he is and how to get after him.

  Over and over he told himself that and tried to keep calm, but when she stood there looking about with the candlelight on her sweet tired face, his heart thrilled to go to her. When she fell asleep and the villain stole softly out toward her with the evil smirk on his face, the young man uttered a low threatening sound in his throat and clenched his fists in the dark, his whole strong body trembling with anger and horror.

  With body tense and eyes straining through the dark, he leaned forward as though about to spring when the wretch drew close to the sleeping girl. And then she turned and lifted up her frightened terrified glance, her long hair falling away from her face, her eyes lighting with alarm. She sprang at the man.

  Not only Benedict but the whole audience broke forth into a soft murmur of approval after a breathless moment, and the picture moved on to its finish amid a silence that seldom comes to any audience. Perhaps in all New York there was not a record so amazing as that unconscious acting that Gail Desmond in her real horror and agony had done that second day of her engagement as a moving-picture actress. The audience went fairly wild when she at last vanquished the villain and locked her door upon him. But when she turned and lifted up her hands with the agony still in her white face and prayed her frantic little prayer and then fell upon her knees beside the couch and shook with sobs, the man in the audience who loved her bowed his head upon his hands and groaned, "O God, help her!"

  Some people near him turned and looked back curiously, then smiled and shrugged their shoulders. They thought he must be drunk. But Benedict lifted his head and watched the picture again to the end, unconscious of the curious smiles.

  Not until the story was finished, the villain finally set in his right place and the girl on her way unharmed, did he relax his tension and begin to think. The picture came to an end abruptly and a foolish slapstick act of tricks and juggled farces followed that whirled before his eyes and mind like motes upon a beam of sunshine. He saw nothing more. He had set himself to think what he should do.

  He was not a frequenter of moving-picture shows, but he had been enough to know that if he stayed there long enough, this picture would be repeated and he should again look upon the face he had searched so long to find. His hungry heart
cried out against waiting while processions of endless soldiers marched over reeling streets and crowds of people swarmed to see some notable who passed. Monkeys learned to spell their names, flowers unfolded before his eyes from buds into full-bloom roses, or some family living in the seventh story of an apartment house fell successively through the several ceilings to the street and had to run away, pursued by all the inhabitants of the land on foot and in automobiles. The whole was one terrible jumble.

  It gradually dawned upon him that he might find out the name of this picture when it came on again, and so he watched each separate part till the hour rolled by and the villain stepped forth into the arena once more and smiled his brutish smile. Benedict shut his teeth hard and thrilled to think how his strong, sweet girl had held this beast at bay. Somewhere that man lived and breathed upon this earth and menaced womankind. He felt instinctively as Gail had done that the beast he had acted was his natural self, and that was why he had done it so well. Somewhere he would find him and deal him out the punishment he deserved and put him where he could not do any harm. He had two people now to find, Gail and the man who had dared to look at her, even in a picture, as this man had done.

  Carefully he studied the names at the beginning. "Released by the Ray-See Film Company." He must remember that. He shivered at the thought of Gail's being connected with such a company as that. Where would he find the Ray-See Film Company? Would they be in the telephone book? Would the men in charge of the theater know? How soon could he discover them? Were they located here or in some western state, possibly in Hollywood? Would it be long before he found them? And when he had found them, would she be with them still or would she have drifted away again? Oh, the long, awful strain with its endless vistas of anguish that stretched ahead!

  Chapter 18

  When the picture was finished the second time, Benedict arose and went to interview the doorkeeper. Yes, A Woman's Hand was a Ray-See film. Yes, they had an office somewhere in the city he thought. He would better ask the manager. He'd be in that afternoon about three.