Chapter XXIX

Greeves came home an hour earlier than he had planned, with it in mind to take the young people all into town to a concert that he had unexpectedly discovered. He stepped into the pantry and told Anne to have dinner ready by quarter to six if possible, and then up to his room to wash his hands and make one or two changes in his toilet.

No one seemed to be about though the doors of both the girls’ rooms were closed. They were probably dressing for dinner or resting. There was time enough. He would not disturb them for another half hour. He stepped to his chiffonier and there lay Silver’s letter. He read it quickly with a fear at his heart, and then again. Then tearing down to the library wildly he took up the telephone and called up the station. No, Miss Greeves had not taken a train from there. She had come in and asked about the train but when she found the next one only stopped at the Junction she had gone out again. No, they hadn’t noticed which way she went. They were busy with some freight and they couldn’t stop to watch every female that came into that station anyhow, they were busy men, they were.

Patterson Greeves slammed the receiver on, and stared at the wall. What was he to do next? She had taken a car to the city probably. He called up the garage. No, they had not even seen her. Bannard? Perhaps Bannard had taken her. He would find out if Aunt Katie knew.

But as he took up the receiver to phone, Bannard himself walked into the room having been let in by Anne, an open letter in his hand, his face white and questioning.

“Has something happened Greeves? I just found this in the post office. Has Sil—has Miss Greeves gone back to her former home? What’s the matter?”

Patterson Greeves turned a white, anxious face to the minister. “Upon my soul, Bannard, I don’t know what’s the matter! I just got this myself,” and he handed over his letter. “I suppose it’s another outbreak of that other devilish child of mine!”

“Perhaps Anne will know.”

He rang and Anne appeared.

“Did Silver say anything about going out, Anne?”

“No, master Pat. I think she’s in her room! I heard her there a little while back.”

“She’s not in her room, Anne. She’s gone!”

“Gone, master Pat! Gone! Oh, that can’t be! Why, it’s not over an hour since she called to me something about a package she’d left in my room, a collar she promised to give me.”

“Well, she’s gone. Did anything happen, Anne? Anything especially out of the way.”

“Miss Athalie,” Anne had her hand over her heart, “I heard her crying and carrying on in one of her tantrums,” she said anxiously.

“That’s it! I thought so! Silver has gone because she thinks Athalie would be happier with her out of the house. She wanted to go once before and I wouldn’t let her. Oh, my God!”

“Oh, master Pat, don’t be a swearin’ now, please. She was that sweet a Christian. Surely she’ll come back.”

“Why certainly,” said Bannard eagerly, “we must find her and bring her back. _I_ will find her. Let me phone for Barry to bring my car. He can take his car too. It can’t surely take long to find her. She can’t have gone far in this short time. What time did you say she spoke to you Anne?”

Suddenly they all became aware of Athalie standing in the door, her face stained with tears and white with recent emotion. A letter in her hand, a frightened look in her eyes.

“Is—Silver—here?” she asked in a scared little voice, as she looked around the room.

Athalie had been growing taller lately, and had really lost a good deal of flesh. And now as she stood and watched them all as if she had heard what had been going on she looked fairly fragile. Her father turned on her with fury in his eyes.

“No, your sister is not here. You have driven her away, you little devil! Get out of my sight. I never want to look on your face again!”

With an awful cry like the rending of soul from body, a continued cry that screeched through the house as the scream of a moving locomotive through the night, Athalie regarded her father for an instant and then turning tore up the stairs screaming as she went. She flung herself with a mighty thud upon her bed and went into raving hysterics, but nobody paid the slightest attention to her. Bannard and Greeves had gone out of the house to meet the car, and Anne Truesdale was doing some telephoning for which the master had left orders, a message to Silver’s lawyer, another to the city station where she was to be paged, a discreet word to the chief of police.

Barry met the two men half a block from the house and waiting only for a brief explanation of what he was wanted to do, went down the street on a dead run after his own car. The Silver house grew silent as the dead everywhere except in Athalie’s room where loud cries and sobs continued to ring out, until grandma called:

“Come here Pristina, don’t you hear something queer? It sounds like some animal in distress.”

Lizette Weldon hurried up the five stairs to her bay window landing and turned her head from side to side to try each ear and identify the voice. An hour later, Aunt Katie, unable to stand it any longer quietly slipped through the hedge with her smelling salts and asked Anne Truesdale who was slamming things around in the dining room with pursed angry lips and streaming eyes, if she might go up.

“Please yerself!” said Anne, jerking a chair into place. “She’s not worth it, the nasty little tyke! Let her cry herself sick if she wants. She and I are two people!”

So Aunt Katie went up with her smelling salts and talked kindly in a low, soothing tone, but Athalie knocked the bottle across the room and took on more wildly than ever, and finally Aunt Katie departed with a sigh, saying to Anne in the kitchen as she went out:

“The poor thing! The poor wilful thing!”

The weeping kept steadily on for an hour longer. Then Anne’s patience gave out and she went up with a glass of ice water and threw it in Athalie’s face, but the girl only strangled and choked and cried on the harder, so Anne went down, half frightened and wondered if she ought not to call the doctor.

But at last the sounds died away, and Lizette and the Vandemeeters were able to get a little rest. It was growing very late but Greeves and Bannard had not returned. Anne sent Molly and Joe to bed, with instructions not to undress, but be ready for any call, and herself put out the lights and took up her watch by the front drawing room window. Once she thought she saw a face peering round the lilac bush, but she knew it must be her eyes after all the excitement so she put the thought away. By and by she dozed off and the town slept.

When the morning dawned and the sun finally penetrated the lilacs and shot into the drawing room window Anne Truesdale sat up and blinked.

“I must have dozed off,” she said shamedly to herself, “I wonder if the master has come. I’ll just slip up and see if that tyke is asleep.”

But when she reached Athalie’s room there was nobody on the bed. With a growing fear she hurried from room to room, thinking perhaps she had changed her bed as once before, but found no sign of her and on the pillow in her father’s room was a little blistered note dramatically left open written large.

“Dear Dad: I’ve gone to find my sister. I won’t come back without her. I’m sorry. Athalie.”

When Greeves read that, a few minutes later, having come in with Bannard after an all night fruitless search, he sank his haggard face in his hands and dropped into the nearest chair.

“My God! What have I done to deserve this?”

“Dearie, dearie,” said Anne to Molly, “he’s swearin’ again. I guess mebbe there’s a pair of ’em. Mebbe she mightn’t to be so much to blame after all, takin’ after him as she does.”

In the library the tray of breakfast that Anne had brought stood untouched.

“What shall I do, Bannard? What shall I do? I have lost them both—!”

“I tell you, man, you must pray! If you ever prayed you must pray now. Get down on your knees quick and tell the Lord you’re a sinner. He’s the only one can straighten this out.”

And Patterson Greeves dropped down on his knees and prayed:

“Lord I have sinned! I have sinned against Thee and against both my children. It is right I should be punished but don’t let them suffer. O Lord, forgive and help and save—!”

And while he prayed, the telephone rang. Bannard answered it.

“Is that you, father?” a sweet voice called that thrilled him with its familiarity.

“Oh, Silver is that you? Are you all right?” said Bannard his whole soul in his voice, and knew not that he had called her by her dear name.

“Yes, your father is here. We have searched all night for you. Your father is quite broken by anxiety. Is Athalie with you? Yes, she’s gone. She apparently went sometime in the night. She left a note saying she had gone to find you and would not come home without you.”

“Oh, the dear child! I’ll come right home. I just got the message father phoned to the lawyer. I’m sorry I’ve caused so much trouble.”

“Where are you now? The city? Good. There’s a train in a few minutes that doesn’t come through. You take it and I’ll meet you at the Junction with the car.”

Barry had come in while the conversation was going on and he turned a startled face to Anne in the doorway.

“Athalie gone?” he asked. “Aw, _gee_!”

Anne handed him the note that Greeves had dropped on the floor. He read it with softening eyes, then turned to Anne and said in a low tone:

“Say, you get me a shoe or something of hers. I’ve got the dog here. He’s good on following a scent. I’ll see what I can do.”

Anne obeyed and Barry departed with instructions for Anne to tell Bannard when he had finished telephoning.

Greeves was still upon his knees, his face buried in his hands. Bannard stepped over and put his hand upon the man’s shoulder.

“Silver is found,” he said gently, “she’s coming right home on the next train. I’m to meet her at the Junction. Will you go with me?”

He had forgotten for the moment that Athalie was gone.

Greeves roused and stood up, his face white and deeply marked. There were tears upon his cheeks.

“I must go and find my other girl,” he said hurriedly, “my poor wronged child!”