Crimson Roses (20 page)

“Get her good and drunk, boys!” cried out Isabel in a tone like a scimitar. “Nothing short of drunk will do. We’ve got to teach her a few lessons.”

And suddenly Marion felt she was surrounded by these strange, hilarious men, each with a glass in his hand, and she stood at bay, her back against the wall, her lips moving soundlessly. The words they were speaking, without her conscious volition were:

“God is faithful, who will not suffer you above that ye are able. God is faithful! Oh, God! Come! Help me!” and mid the wild screams of laughter at her last words, which had been audible, she sank white and still to the floor.

“Yes, God’ll help her a lot! She’ll find out!” said Isabel, cool and steady and sneering. “Dan, hand me that glass. Did you mix it the way you said first? Now, hold up her head. I’ll make her drink it. Ted, you pry open her teeth. No, lift her head higher. That’s right!”

Jefferson Lyman had found the two books that he had promised Marion he would lend her. That was one of the things he had said Sunday night, which she had not taken in because she was so distraught. If she had realized that he was coming to bring her some books, she would have been more worried than ever and have felt that she must plan something more decisive than merely to be out.

But he had thought to forestall missing her by going to her boardinghouse about the time he thought she would reach there from the store. He had even considered asking her to go out to dinner somewhere with him if she seemed in the mood and had nothing else to do.

He reached the house door in his own car, just in time to see another car driving away. He remembered it because he thought he recognized the driver and wondered what he was doing in that neighborhood. As he waited at the door for his ring to be answered, he looked up the street after the car, which was halted for the moment by a traffic light and idly wondered again whose it was.

Mrs. Nash appeared at the door almost instantly, for she had been watching at the parlor window to see Marion go away and had been astonished to see a second car drive up as the first left.

“No, she ain’t here,” she said in answer to his question. “She’s just left this minute. You can catch her if you want to. They can’t be far. Ain’t been gone a minnit! She’s gone to some kind of a Chrishun Dever spread out in the country. They come fur her. Ain’t you one of their crowd? Was she expectin’ you?”

But Lyman, with a sudden intuition, had excused himself and was back in his car before she had finished her sentence. “My land but he’s short!” said Mrs. Nash aloud to herself. “But he’s better lookin’ than the other one. I kinda wisht she’d waited fur this one.”

Lyman sprang into his car and threw in the clutch. The lights had changed, and the car ahead leaped on with a jerk and was rounding the next corner. Lyman dashed after it.

During that long, hard ride in pursuit of the car ahead, Lyman wondered at himself. Why was he doing this? In the first place he wasn’t altogether certain he had followed the right car. In the gathering dusk with the crowded condition of traffic in the city, there had been two or three turnings when he was not sure he was following the right speck of ruby light. And now since they were out on the lonely highway, though he had sprinted forward several times to get a good look at the car, his quarry had also started up madly and torn along at a pace that worried him. The road they were taking as well as the speed they were making perplexed him. And it seemed altogether ridiculous to suppose that quiet little Marion Warren would be riding with people who drove like that. Of course, if it were some young boy who was driving—but somehow his conviction kept him going even against his better sense.

That they should have turned in at the roadhouse where they finally arrived was altogether fitting with Lyman’s instincts for that car; but by this time, he had decided that he was a fool, and that, of course, Marion Warren would not be in that car. She was probably at this minute sitting around some quiet, pleasant table partaking of a homely supper of cold ham and Saratoga potatoes and pickles and cake and canned peaches. It was absurd that he should make such a fool of himself and probably get into a mix-up and maybe see someone that he would rather not have recognize him in a place like this. He would go back. As soon as he had a good look at that car to make sure that his first guess about its owner was right, he would turn around and go back. He would not try to go in on so slender a chance as the mere hunch that he thought he had.

But when he had confirmed his suspicions about the car, some inner light drew him further. Now that he was here, he would be sure. He saw another car on the edge of the parking space that gave him another idea. Drunken men were not to be trusted. At least, if Marion Warren were in such a place and such company of her own free will, he wanted to know the truth before he went any further in his acquaintance. He was going in rather for what he hoped he would not find than for what he would.

So he went inside.

“Got any private dinners on tonight, Jack?” he asked casually of the proprietor, who stood about respectably and eyed him.

“One or two.” He eyed the newcomer up and down and clamped his lips shut.

“Atkins here?” he hazarded.

A knowing gleam responded and a slight lifting of the left eyebrow. “You belong to the crowd?” The proprietor was a bit doubtful.

“I’ll just go up. Want to see him in a hurry.”

“First room beyond the balcony,” murmured the proprietor and turned on his heel. If it wasn’t all right, he didn’t want to know anything about it.

“Is this a practical joke or a case of kidnapping for the police?” asked a cool, incisive voice above the wild babel in the room beyond the glass corridor.

There was instant silence, and a stealthy melting away toward the door at the far end of the room. When Lyman raised his eyes to ask for a glass of water, there was no one else in the room but Marion lying white and still on the floor where she had fallen. Had he seen Isabel Cresson but an instant before in a golden garment that left bare the greater portion of her back—or was it only a figment of his imagination?

He reached for a glass of water from the table and dashed it into the unconscious girl’s face. Then as he saw her eyelids quiver, he gathered her up in his arms and carried her rapidly down the corridor, across the deserted dance floor, and out the door to his car. The tables were strangely free from bottles as he passed them, though he might not have noticed them had there been ten thousand, and all the people who sat about eating were decorously sober. The other rooms were entirely empty, and he did not see the proprietor anywhere about, but he did not stay to hunt for him. He laid Marion gently in the backseat and drove like mad toward the city.

Halfway back she came to herself fully and sat up, more frightened than ever to find herself moving through the darkness at such a rapid rate. Had her tormentors taken her yet further from her home? Was there no help anywhere? Wouldn’t it be better to risk opening the door softly and jumping out, rather than to stay and take what might be ahead? Her nerves were so unstrung that she could not think.

But Lyman became aware of her almost instantly and turning, reassured her.

“Lie still, Marion,” he said gently. He called her Marion and did not know it. She held her breath in wonder. Was she ill, or dreaming? How could he possibly have come here?

“You are perfectly safe. Just close your eyes and try to rest. You are all right. Don’t try to think about anything, yet.”

After a moment of wonder she asked him in a faint voice, “How did you come to be there?”

“I didn’t come to be there,” he answered grimly. “I don’t frequent such places. But I didn’t like the way your driver was swerving all over the road, and I came to find out if you were there. Your landlady told me you were in the car.”

She was silent a moment, and then she said in an awed voice, “Then He did help. He was faithful!”

Lyman considered this a moment before he asked, “Just who are you talking about?”

“God!” said Marion, a ring of triumph in her voice.

“Yes,” said Lyman reverently, “He did. I didn’t know what made me keep going on against my better judgment, but I guess that was it.”

“And I can never thank you!” she exclaimed, remembering how she had planned never to see him again. What if he had not come?

“Don’t try,” he said lightly. “You’ve come through too much, and so have I.”

“But I don’t understand how you knew I was there. Did anyone tell you?”

“No, I just had a hunch, as they say. I went in to make sure you were not there, and when I got to a closed door with a regular fracas going on behind it, I almost turned back. It was this made me open the door, and there you were!”

To her amazement he laid a little crushed satin rose in her lap.

“My rose!” she exclaimed in wonder. “I must have lost it off my dress when that man pushed past me!”

She dropped back wearily on the cushion, looking white and spent. “Don’t talk!” he commanded. “You’ve had a shock. You need a rest!” He was gravely silent, almost tender as he helped her out of the car, but when he left her with the command to go straight to sleep and not think about the affair, she found Mrs. Nash waiting for her in the front hall.

“Well, you came back with the right fella, anyhow,” she said with satisfaction. “I didn’t like that first fella you went off with at all.”

“No,” said Marion decidedly, “I didn’t either, and I shall never go with him again if I can help it.”

“Well, I’m glad this other man found ya. He was powerful disappointed when he found you had gone. You’d oughtta waited fur him. He’s real nice.”

“I didn’t know he was coming,” said Marion softly, looking down at the two books he had left in her hand at parting. But when she went up to her room and sat down to face the situation, her eyes began to fill with horror and her cheeks to burn. It had suddenly occurred to her that perhaps he thought she had gone to that awful place of her own free will. As she recalled his constrained manner, his reserved, almost distant tone, his silence, her agitation grew. Oh, why had she not explained fully? How could she bear to have him think that of her?

She tried to sleep but could not. Perhaps she would never have another opportunity to explain. Sometime in the night she began to pray, “Dear Lord, I put this all in Your hands to straighten out as You see fit. I guess I’ve been an awful fool!” Then peace descended and she slept.

Chapter 12

W
ith all the excitement that had been going on, Marion had almost lost sight of the thrill she usually felt in wondering whether there would be another rose in her chair at the next concert. She went early, however, that last night because she wanted to enjoy every minute from the time the doors were opened. There would be a long summer without these wonderful breaks in the monotony of work, and she must store it all up to help her through the heat and weariness.

Slowly she climbed the stairs, trying not to think it was the last time this year, glancing in as she passed the empty balcony and boxes where the favored great would come later to lend their countenance and clothing to the evening for a little while, and wondering as she had done many times before how it would seem to belong in that velvet grandeur always, instead of up in the highest gallery.