Crimson Roses (19 page)

So she gradually lifted her little head like a lily that had been stricken and was trying hard to revive, and tried to look as if nothing had happened.

The next time she saw Lyman was two days later, Sunday night after church. He had been sitting three seats behind her all the service, but she had not been aware of it.

For a moment her heart beat wildly, and she wondered what to do. But she could not turn and flee in the church with people coming down the aisle. If she waited in her seat, that would only make her more conspicuous, and she could not go up and talk to the minister, for he was down at the front door shaking hands with people. Even Mrs. Stewart was nowhere to be seen. She had no excuse but to walk out and down the aisle as everybody else was doing.

He was waiting for her in his pew with the evident intention of walking by her side, and she did not know how to prevent it. She could not walk by with downcast eyes and pretend not to see him or know him. He had already seen the recognition in her face as their eyes met when she turned to go out of her pew. And after all, why should she not walk down the aisle by his side? Was there anything wrong in that?

At the door they came upon Isabel and her uncle talking with a group of people, and Isabel darted her a meaningful look that pierced her like an arrow. She longed to slip out the open door and run down the street away in the dark. But of course she could not do that.

She was so overwrought that she could not think of a way to dismiss Lyman, and before she realized it, he was helping her down the steps and leading her toward his car, which was parked almost in front of the door.

“Oh, I mustn’t,” she said, shrinking away from him. “I thank you so much, but I mustn’t trouble you any more.”

“But, I don’t understand,” he said, looking at her disappointedly. “Aren’t you going home? Well, it’s right on my way to drop you there, so please don’t suggest trouble. It will be a pleasure.”

She was too embarrassed to know what to do, and only anxious to get out of sight of the people who were streaming out of the church now and looking in their direction. She could see Isabel coming toward the door, too, peering out. She got into the seat quickly and shrank back out of sight only anxious to end the scene, but not before Isabel had spotted her, she feared. She must find some way to let Mr. Lyman know that he could not attend her anymore. She would tell him her humble origin on the way home, and that would end it.

But while she was thinking about it, trying to frame a sentence that would not sound too much as if she were presuming upon his slight attentions, she found herself at her own door, and she merely found words to thank him for the ride and say good night. After all perhaps this was best. She would just stay away from the church and from every other place where he would be likely to be, and he would soon forget her.

As for herself, would anything ever make her forget this taste of another life that she had enjoyed for a brief season? Well, perhaps the time might come when the horror of what she had passed through would blow away like a death-laden fog, and she might have for her own the memory of those interesting talks and the glimpses into travel and literature that he had given her.

Chapter 11

F
rom time to time Monday morning, as she sat and wrought her flower work, Isabel’s glance of hate recurred to her. It seemed a glance that needed thinking about. There had been recrimination in it. Marion had seemingly transgressed again, she supposed, by walking down the aisle with Lyman, although it was perfectly plain that there was nothing else for her to do unless she made a scene out of it and refused to speak to him. But what would Isabel do next? Was it conceivable that she would go to Lyman with some tale about herself? Well, she must endure that, too, perhaps. But what was all this happening to her for? She had always tried to do right. Even in this matter of staying in the city when the others went to the farm, her conscience was clear. It could not be punishment for her selfishness, could it?

Dr. Stewart had once preached about tests. He had said that every Christian had to be tried by fire in some way, just as steel rails were tested before they were put in a railroad, to see if they were strong enough to bear the weight that was to be put upon them. Just as bridges were tested, and steam engines, and all sorts of machinery. God tested us by hard things. Well, if she were sure that was it, she might be able to endure it better. He had promised to be near and help. The words kept coming to her: “God is faithful, who will not suffer you to be tempted above that ye are able; but will with the temptation also make a way to escape, that ye may be able to bear it.” And apparently the way of escape did not mean getting out of the testing entirely when it began to seem too hard, because it said, “that ye may be able to bear it.” Well, if she was being tested, she wanted to come through it in a way that would give God the glory. She didn’t want to be a miserable, weak failure of a Christian.

All that morning as she worked away, the words kept going over in her heart, “God is faithful, God is faithful,” and they comforted her.

“What makes ya so silent this morning, M’rian?” asked Gladys, lingering by her counter. “Ya ain’t worried about that tough egg of a high flyer yet, are ya? She ain’t worth it, M’rian. I give you my word. She can’t touch you.”

But just then there came a call from the velvet-ribbon counter. “Miss Warren was wanted on the ‘phone,” and Marion was relieved that she did not have to reply. When she returned the giddy Gladys would have forgotten all about it.

It was a strange voice on the telephone, a young man. He said he was president of the Christian Endeavor Society in her church, and he gave his name, Dick Struthers. That she knew was the name of the young man who was the present president. But the voice did not sound familiar. However, she had seldom heard Dick Struthers speak. He was a shy, quiet fellow, not inclined to words.

The voice said that there was to be a Christian Endeavor dinner held that evening at a nice, quiet little hotel, some sort of a celebration of something; he seemed vague as to what it was for. He said Mrs. Stewart, the minister’s wife, had asked him to call her up and make a special request that Marion Warren attend. They needed a few of the older young people along to give dignity to the affair, and Mrs. Stewart had especially wanted Marion. She would have called herself, but she was just leaving with Doctor Stewart for New York to attend a wedding and hadn’t time. No, it didn’t cost anything. It was paid for out of the treasury. It was to be a real nice time. Marion would go, wouldn’t she? One of the boys would call for her in a car at half past six. Could she be ready then? Where would she be? At home or at the store? Well, just what was her present address? He had forgotten. No, she didn’t need to go home to dress up; it wasn’t a dress affair. Come right from the store if she wanted to.

When Marion returned to her ribbons, she had a troubled look. She did not want to go to that dinner. She was not in the Christian Endeavor Society now, had not been for several years, not since her mother was taken sick. She did not know the members very well, but they were just boys and girls, of course, from fourteen up. Of course it wasn’t like going among older strangers. She hated to say no when Mrs. Stewart had made it a special request, and now she was committed to it, when she would so much rather have spent the evening studying in her room. She had meant not to have anything more to do with affairs at the church, not for a long time, anyway, till gossip had been forgotten and her reputation was established again—if such a thing were possible.

But this was only boys and girls.

Well, she had promised, anyway, and it was too late to back out.

So she hurried home the minute she was free and donned a fresher dress and smoothed her hair.

She was scarcely ready when Mrs. Nash came up to say her car was at the door. The sad old landlady patted her cheek and told her she was looking real pretty and to have a good time, and Marion went down somehow cheered by her friendliness.

She got into the car before she noticed that there was no one in it whom she knew. There were two young men in the front seat, and she was put into the backseat with two girls in long cloaks, sitting back in the shadow. They merely nodded when they were introduced, and neither of them spoke a word the whole way, except to answer in monosyllables indifferently when Marion suggested that it was a pleasant evening and that this dinner was something she had not heard about until that morning. She began to think they were a grumpy lot. The two boys continually smoked cigarettes, and she could get no responses from any of them. At last she gave up the effort, deciding that they were very young and embarrassed, and she lapsed into silence and her own thoughts.

They had gone a good many miles and had been traveling what she judged must be nearly three quarters of an hour when they finally drew up beside a wide, rambling building set among tall trees, with what looked in the darkness like beautiful grounds around them. There were red-shaded lamps in the windows, and a sound of music and laughter came through the wide-swung door.

The young men helped the girls out, and they all went inside. The look of the place bewildered Marion. It did not seem like a hotel nor yet a home, but they went up a staircase, and there was a room with many comfortable-looking chairs and couches, and a piano. There were red-shaded lamps here, too. A jazz orchestra was playing, and two young people, a man and a girl, were dancing in the middle of the room. Was this the kind of thing she had been sent to guard against? Did Mrs. Stewart want her to see that none of the wild young things whom she was supposed to be chaperoning did anything unseemly for young people belonging to a church organization? Her heart sank, because she felt that she would be most ineffectual in stopping anything that anybody wasn’t to do if many of the society were like the two girls who had ridden with her.

Much troubled in mind, she followed the young people with whom she had come, threw off her wraps in the dressing room, and turned to find the two girls who accompanied her dressed in a most unsuitable manner. They were wearing indecently short dresses of chiffon, and when she saw the girls in the light, they were not young; they had an old, coarse look. She wondered where they came from. Some new members perhaps that the minister’s wife was trying to get hold of.

They paid no attention to Marion but went to the mirror and began to apply cosmetics freely. Marion went and looked out of the window at a wide stretch of dim blue hills and starry sky and wished she had not come. This was the last, the very last social affair of that church that she would ever attend. She would tell Mrs. Stewart all about it, and then she would never go to any more things among the young people again. She felt very unhappy.

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 that 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 that she had made for herself that day to brighten up her somber little dress had been torn from her shoulder. She was too much engaged 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 to 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.