Kerry by Grace Livingston Hill
That night she lay awake long hours trying to plan some way to make her mother see reason and awoke with dark circles under her eyes and a wan, drawn look on her face. She had determined to finish the manuscript as soon as possible. She felt that it was imperative that she get her mother away from Sam Morgan. With the book really done and ready to present to the publishers perhaps Mrs. Kavanaugh would begin to have some faith in it, and get interested in going back to America to have it published. For it was with an American publisher that her father’s past dealings had been, and to whom he had promised the publication of his greatest work.
But Kerry was not left to a quiet day of work as she had hoped. Instead her mother was up bright and early and hurried away on an errand. Kerry surmised that she was going as she threatened after the fifty dollars, and she tried to turn her mind away from the thought of it all, and settled down to her important task. She had not, however, more than got out her papers before she heard her mother coming back and calling her.
Mrs. Kavanaugh had on her new hat and a fresh bunch of violets. She was excited, and her eyes were sparkling. She began to speak rapidly, vivaciously, as soon as Kerry appeared in the doorway.
“Get yourself dressed up, darling. Put on that little green silk dress that your father always liked so much, and my hat with the chic brim, the green felt. I’ll lend you some gloves, too, and you must wear my fur neck piece. We’re going out!”
Kerry’s face suddenly took on a suspicious, stony look.
“Going where?” she asked dully.
“Why, we’re going out, dear. Come, quick!”
“Just you and I alone, Mother?” There was a wistful ring to the girl’s voice.
“Well no, darling, Sam is going, too! You see he is taking us.”
“No!” said Kerry, drawing back into her room. “I can never go with him!”
“Well, but you must, precious; I say you must, and I’m your mother, you know. Don’t you remember what your father always used to say? He always said I was your only little beautiful—”
“Stop!” cried Kerry. “You’re not that when you go with that man. You’re not being my mother when you would do a thing like that! I will never go with that man anywhere!”
“But, Kerry, darling, listen!” said Mrs. Kavanaugh, putting on her sweetest smile. “You simply must this time. I suppose I’ll have to tell you, though I meant it for a surprise when we get there, but we’re going out to get married, darling child. Mother’s baby wouldn’t desert her on her wedding morning, would she?” The tone was sweet and wheedling, one that had never before failed to touch the sensitive daughter’s sense of duty.
But Kerry stood unmoved, looked stonily at her silly parent.
“Mother! You couldn’t do that! You wouldn’t do that! You wouldn’t do that to my father!” she kept repeating in a toneless voice.
“Watch me! See if I won’t!”
Mrs. Kavanaugh flashed angry eyes at her child, and turning pranced out the room, down the hall out of sight, and Kerry was left alone with her horror.
Chapter 3
Kerry stood for an instant listening to her mother’s retreating footsteps. Then she suddenly sprang to the window and looked down to the street. Yes, there was a cab waiting at the door, and while she looked she saw her mother come out and Sam Morgan help her into the cab. They were going, then, to get married. She felt the inevitable settle down upon her like a great awful weight that would crush her.
Frantically she threw up the window and leaned out, shouting, “Mother! Mother!” but the crowd of the city surged by and her voice was drowned in a myriad of noises. A stray passer-by glanced up, and wondering, watched her waving her hand, but the cab disappeared in traffic.
Lost! Lost! Lost!
Kerry’s beautiful little mother was lost to her!
Even if she dashed down the stairs without waiting for hat or coat and flew down the street after her it was too late to do anything now. She had no idea where they were going! She could never find them in that big city!
She closed the window suddenly and dropped back into a chair to cover her face with her hands and groan aloud. Oh, this was worse, infinitely worse than death. If she could see that lovely face of her little mother lying dead in a coffin over there in the room where her father had so recently lain, she would not feel such sorrow as surged over her now. Such righteous horror and indignation! The man that her father despised, after a few short weeks had taken his wife—had stolen her mother away! But worse than all, she had chosen to go with him of her own free will. The thought was almost more than the young heart could bear. Like one who had received a sickening blow she writhed under the first sharp pain.
But soon there came a prodding thought. What was to come next? Would they return? Here? Soon?
She must not be here when they came! She must get away quickly or it would be too late. She must never be caught in the power of Sam Morgan. She and her father’s book must get safely away where he never could find her.
She shuddered again as she remembered his hateful kiss on her lips, his coarse, flabby face near to hers, his bold pop-eyes looking derisively into hers.
She staggered to her feet and went frantically to her room, half dazed, scarcely knowing what to do first.
Her papers and notes caught her glance, scattered in orderly array over her bed and table. Well, they were the first things to think of. They were like a part of her sensitive father, his work, the child of his brain, to be protected.
Quickly she went to work, telling herself to be calm, to try to think coolly, dashing the unbidden tears away from her face, pushing back her red-gold hair, she gathered the papers, each into its separate envelope as she had been trained. She put them all in the little briefcase in which her father had kept them, locked it securely and dropped the key on its narrow black ribbon around her neck and inside her dress. Swiftly she put the cover on her typewriter and fastened it for carrying. Then she changed into her black dress.
A glance around her room showed very few things that were dear to her—some of her father’s books she cherished and had meant to keep always, especially some few rare bindings and old first editions that he prized, and had told her were very valuable. Now she looked at them with infinite sorrow in her eyes, but went to them steadily and took them in her cold hands. She loved them, but they must be sacrificed. Besides them, she had only five dollars in the world. They must be made to help her in this greatest emergency of her life. They must be turned into money for her immediate necessities.
Swiftly lest her heart should fail her she put them into a big bag of her father’s.
The rest of her packing took scarcely ten minutes.
She drew out the little trunk that had been hers when she was away at school, and which had been small enough to be stored under her bed. Into it she put her meager wardrobe, and the few little possessions that she prized most, all of them trifling gifts from her father at one time or another. There were a few snapshots they had taken when they ran away to the seashore for a day now and then, and one very good one of her father that she had taken with her own small camera. As she was about to close and lock her trunk, she hesitated, then went out into the sitting room and got the large handsome photograph of her mother in its silver frame that stood on the desk. She packed it down beneath her garments. Then she locked her trunk and sat down to write a note. It was not an easy task. Love and indignation still fought in her. The tears streamed down her face and blistered the paper as she wrote.
Dear Beautiful Little Mother, good-bye!
I am going away. You have driven me to do this. I can never be where that man is! You have done a dreadful thing! But oh, I love you, for you were the only little mother I had!
You must not try to find me, for I will never come to be with you and him. But if you ever are in trouble and need me, write to Father’s old lawyer friend in London. When
I know what I am going to do I will let him know how to communicate with me.
<
Kerry
Kerry slipped fearfully into her mother’s room and laid this note on her mother’s bureau. Then she went down and got a man to come up and get her trunk and other baggage. Holding in her lap the precious briefcase containing her father’s book, she rode away in the cab, her trunk behind her, her typewriter at her feet, and the big bag of rare books on the seat beside her.
It was to a railway station she went first, where she checked her trunk and typewriter, and then taking another cab she drove far uptown to a little old bookshop where her father had an old friend. Getting out with her two bags she paid the man, dismissed him, and went fearfully into the shop. Now, if her father’s friend were not in, what should she do next? And if he were not in and would not or could not buy her books, how was she to go any farther?
She opened the door and stepped into the sweet dim twilight of the book-lined shop. In the shadows of the book stalls, she saw three figures—one of the old man whom she had often seen when she came here with her father, the other two younger men. They were standing at opposite sides of the table, each with a book open in his hand. They looked up as she entered.
The old man turned and came out to meet her.
“Well, well, and whom have we here?” he said graciously. “Bless my soul if it isn’t Shannon Kavanaugh’s little lassie. Well, I’m glad to see you, my child, glad to see you! And it’s a sorry day to see you in black! I can’t tell you how my heart aches for you! I miss your father coming in more than you would think. He was my friend for long years.”
Kerry gave him a wistful smile and felt the tears coming to her eyes, but she held them bravely back.
“Oh, thank you, Mr. Peddington,” she said. “I was afraid perhaps you would not remember me.”
“Remember you! Remember you? How could I ever forget that bonnie face? How could I forget those eyes so like your great father’s? Oh, he was a great man! How proud I was to call him my friend! And his wonderful book that he was writing! He told me how you were helping him. Tell me, did he get it finished before he was taken away? Or will the world lose all that knowledge?”
“Yes, it is done, Mr. Peddington,” answered Kerry eagerly. “He had it practically done several weeks before he died. We were going over it making corrections, finishing diagrams and rearranging some chapters, but it was practically just as he wanted it, and he had told me everything he wanted done. I have been copying the last things and getting it ready for publication.”
“And so it will soon come out, will it?” asked the old man eagerly.
“I hope so, Mr. Peddington. I’m planning to go to America to Father’s publisher within a few days now.”
“Oh, you are! How fortunate he was that he had someone to carry out his wishes and finish his work. Is there any way I can help you? I would be only too pleased. Your father was often good to me.”
“Oh, Mr. Peddington! I thank you so much!” said Kerry gratefully. “Father always told me what a friend you were. And so I came to you today. I have here a few of his books that he loved, and he told me they were valuable. He told me if I ever needed funds to sell them, and to come to you to find out how to dispose of them. So now I’ve come. Would you mind looking at them, and telling me if I can get enough out of them to help me to get to America?”
She opened up the bag, and the old man took out the books one by one, handling them as if they were delicate flowers, caressing the old bindings with his slender white fingers.
“Oh, a first edition! Very rare. Yes, I know a man who would buy that for his collection! And this? Ah! That is worth a great deal! Yes, I remember the day he brought that down to show it to me. Someone gave that to him. It is a pity you have to part with it, child. Perhaps I could advance you something on it and keep it for you until you can redeem it.”
“Oh no, Mr. Peddington, that would not be fair to you,” said Kerry wistfully. “It would probably be a long time before I could ever redeem it, and you might have opportunities to make a good sale. I do not want you to be hampered by such a promise.”
So they went on from book to book. Some were of course less valuable than others, but the old man received them all with great eagerness and acted as if they were volumes for which he had been searching long.
In the end Kerry’s big bag was empty and such a sum of money in her shabby little handbag as she had not dreamed could be realized from those dear old books, valuable though she knew them to be.
The two young men at the farther end of the bookshop had gradually edged nearer and nearer to the other customer, watching her furtively. Long slant rays of sunlight touched and haloed her red-gold hair where it broke forth in soft little wavy strands around her face. Such a sweet young customer, with such a sweet low voice, that had nevertheless penetrated to their dim corners!
Shannon Kavanaugh! Ah! A name to conjure with! They both looked up at that. They neglected the volumes in their hands and sidled around, pretending to reach for other volumes nearer to the old proprietor of the shop. The taller of the two, the one with the deep gray eyes and firm, pleasant lips, ventured to walk around in front of the old man and the girl and go to the other side of the book table. As he passed them he turned and looked full in the dark eyes of the girl. But the other young man with the coal-black eyes and the little pointed mustache over his full upper lip, edged nearer and nearer, until at last he stood almost back to back with old man Peddington, where he could overhear every word that was spoken.
Shannon Kavanaugh! Shannon Kavanaugh’s new book of which the world had heard hints now and then in magazines, and scientific articles by great men. Ah!
“How soon do you sail?” asked Peddington as Kerry was about to leave the shop.
“Oh,” gasped Kerry, a shadow of anxiety crossing her face, “I wish I could go today. Now that you have helped me out so wonderfully I’m only anxious to get started. I’ll have to find out about a boat. I don’t know just how to go about it. Father always attended to traveling arrangements.”
“Well, why not start at once?” said the old man kindly. “I’m sure there’s a boat going tomorrow. It would only be a question of whether you could get reservations. Suppose I look up the sailings in the morning paper.”
At this the taller of the two young men, the one with the deep gray eyes, lifted his voice.
“Pardon me, but I could not help overhearing. There is a boat leaving at noon tomorrow from Liverpool, sir,” he said courteously. “I’m sailing on it myself. I don’t know of course if there are any reservations left.”
“Oh, thank you!” said Kerry gratefully. “Could you tell me where to go to find out about it?”
Kerry left the bookshop with full directions about ships and what to do if she could not get accommodations on that boat. She signaled a cab, for she felt that every minute might be precious, and it was important for her to get away from London today if possible. She had a timorous fear that Sam Morgan might turn London upside down to find her. If she lingered she might never be allowed to go. She was not yet quite of age. She was not sure how much power a stepfather would have over her. And there was no one in the wide world to whom she could appeal who would have the right to help her. She longed to put the ocean between herself and the man she feared.
Thinking her frightened thought, she arrived at the office of the steamship company, only to be told there were no reservations left for a lady alone. As she turned away, a woman came rushing up. She was elegantly clad and in a hurry. She wanted to give up her reservation. She had found friends going on another steamer four days later and wished to go with them.
The agent called to Kerry just as she was leaving and she went back, but when she heard the price of the lady’s reservation she gave a little gasp.
“I ought not to pay so much,” she said with a troubled look.
“Oh, very well,” said the agent coldly, and turned away. Troubled and feeling as if she was about to break down and cry, Kerry opened the door and went
She had walked a whole block away from the place and was trying to cross the street when traffic interfered. From the curb where she had been jostled by the crowd she caught a whiff of violets, heavy and lovely, penetrating the myriad smells of a London street. Unconsciously she turned toward the shining limousine from which the perfume came. To her horror she saw that it contained her mother and the man from whom she was fleeing!
For the instant she was too horrified to move, too stunned to even take her eyes from the little scene that was being enacted before her, right there in the open street where anyone might gaze.
Her mother, her beautiful little mother, had drawn the expensive glove from her shapely white hand and was admiring the glitter of the rings on the third finger. And Kerry saw that another had been added to the large white stone that she had worn that morning, a circlet of platinum set with diamonds and sapphires. A wedding ring. Then they were really married! The sight was burned into her soul. For days after she could see those rings whenever she closed her eyes.
There was a kind of finality about the sight that was like another blow. Yet there came a time when she was thankful that she had seen it. For, how else would she have known surely that they were married? That after all she had not run away too soon from a little mother who had grown repentant.
And there before her eyes, that unseeing mother turned toward the big heavy-faced, coarse-featured man, lifted up her pretty lips, apparently in response to his request, and let him kiss her! Before hurrying throngs of people!
Kerry sickened at the sight and almost reeled. Then caught her breath and turned away as the traffic suddenly broke, and the car passed on.
She stood still on the curb watching it pass, unmindful of the crowds that were almost pushing her into the street, unmindful that she had been in haste and this was the time to pass on unless she wished to wait another turn of signals. She watched the shining car threading its way through the London street, as one might watch the pall of a beloved pass. When it was out of sight, she knew such utter loneliness as only a young soul can feel who is entirely alone in the world.