Crimson roses

by Hill, Grace Livingston, 1865-1947

  When the two young women were ready she went with them across the wide room where now were several couples dancing in a way that Marion felt was not at all nice. She knew very little about dancing herself, but it seemed to her that this was some kind of super-dancing of which no one who was decent could approve.

  She was glad to get across the room» and out on a long glassed-in porch set with small tables, some of which were occupied by people who were being served with food. Marion noted with startled surprise that there were wine bottles on some of the tables, and that one company of four which they passed was very loud and hilarious. One of the men looked up into her face as she went by and said insolently, "Here*s my baby !'* She was glad to escape into the private dining-room at the end of the glass corridor. But just as she was entering, behind the other two girls, someone came roughly out singing in a high key and jostled against her rudely,

  disarranging her dress as he brushed past her. She did not notice till afterward that the deep crimson ribbon rose which she had made for herself that day to brighten up her sombre little dress, had been torn from her shoulder. She was too much engageci otherwise to notice it was gone.

  For the room was blue with cigarette smoke, and as she looked around in amazement, she saw that not only the men but the women also were smoking, and that 'she could not recognize a single face that she had ever seen before.

  There were bottles on this table, too, a long table with about twenty people seated about it. They had begun to eat, or rather to drink, and were very noisy about it.

  "Why, we've gotten into the wrong room," said Marion suddenly clutching at the dress of the girl who stood next her. "Let's get out quick! This is a terrible place!"

  The girl turned and gave her a wise evil leer, and suddenly a man's voice cried out in a thick unsteady voice:

  "Why, there's Marry'n, little Marry'n. Precious Child! Come 'ere an' sit by me, Marry'n, pretty li'l Marry'n. Les' have a drink an' then we'll sing, 'She's my baby ! Marry'n's my baby !' " His voice trailed off drunkenly, as a door at the far end of

  the room opened and someone came in. Marion turned wild eyes of hope toward her . She was clad in an inadequate sheathing of cloth of gold and her gold hair was bound about her forehead with a green jewelled serpent. She came steadily on toward Marion with a cold hard look in her eyes, and suddenly Marion saw that it was Isabel.

  "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

  ihat ye are able. God is faithful! 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 which

  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 boarding house about the time he thought she would reach there from the store. He had even meditated 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 fur. 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 that 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 the 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 road house 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 farther 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 to-night, 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.

  "ril just go up. Want to see him in a hurry.*'

  "First ro
om 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 14

  water :here 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 a» 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 back seat and drove like mad toward the city.

  Half-way 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 have 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 curving 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.

  With 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 costumes 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.

  Softly she trod the deep carpet of the hallway, and went down the steps to her chair, and there, yes, there lay two roses Two wonderful great crimson buds! There had never been two before.

  She looked hurriedly around. There was no one on that floor yet, and no one in the audience-room 214

  that she could see from where she stood, except a man up in the top box next the stage. He was almost hidden by the heavy crimson hangings of the box, and he seemed to be studying the fresco work of the ceiling through an opera glass. He seemed as far away from her as a man in Mars migiit be. She stooped and caught the rosebuds to her face, and kissed them and whispered: "Oh, you dear things! You dear things! You lasted all the way through, didn't you?"

  With a quick glance behind her to be sure no one had come in yet, and with the roses still caught to her heart, she made a tiny graceful curtsey and a wave of her free hand toward the great empty room, whispering softly: "I thank you! I thank you !" It seemed as if her full heart must give some expression to her feelings; and, as she knew no one to thank, she threw her little grateful rejoicing out into the wide universe, trusting that it would somehow be brought home to its rightful owner.

  Then she nestled down quietly in her seat, with the roses fastened in her dress. They seemed to soothe away all the pain of the past weeks with their soft, cool fragrance, and make her happy again. At least she would forget all her perplexities for this one night and enjoy everything to the full. She had ceased to wonder where they came from. They

  were the more beautiful that they were a mystery. She shrank from the thought of finding out their donor, most lest it should bring her disappointment of some kind.

  She sat in a dream of joy as one by one the people stole in and the orchestra began to tune their instruments. It seemed to her as if this too were a part of the beauty of the evening, as if these magicians of harmonies were calling together one by one each note and theme and melody, like sweet, reluctant spirits that together were presently to bring forth divine harmonies.

  She took little notice of anyone around her that night. The roses and the music were enough. She wanted to take it all in and seal it up for memory's serving in the days
of music-famine that were almost upon her.

  With the little black hat in her lap, and the deep burning roses nestling at her breast, where their glow was reflected upon the whiteness of her sweet face, she sat with closed eyes and shapely dark head covered with shining ripples, leaning back against the crimson of the high-backed chair. She listened as if she were out in a tide of melody, floating, floating with the melody where it would, her soul palpitating, quivering, feeling every suggestion the music

  conveyed, seeing every fair picture that it carried on its breath.

  Down in a box below sat Isabel Cresson attired in a costly gown, several diamonds much in evidence. She was gazing through an exquisitely mounted pair of opera glasses. She was cross with all the people who sat about her, for she had searched every spot in the floor and lower balcony for a certain man, and found him not; and then she had turned her attention reluctantly to the rest of the house and found him not, because a broad woman with a towering hat completely hid him from her view. But she found with her powerful lenses the vision of a sweet face leaning back and listening with closed eyes, above two exquisite crimson rosebuds. Rosebuds which she knew could be found only at the best florists It vexed her beyond endurance, and she heard not a note of that whole wonderful concert. Perhaps, however, she had not come to listen. For she had been most uneasy in her mind ever since the road house episode. Just how much did Jefferson Lyman see in that inner room? Did he know she had been there? She would have given her best diamond to find out.

  The last sweet note died away, and the musicians had stolen out one by one before Marion put on her

  hat with a happy sigh and turned to go, taking a deep breath of her roses as she bent her head.