I.Here apart our paths, then, lie:This way you wend, that way I;Speak one word before you go:Do not, do not leave me so!II.What is it that I should say?Tell me quick; I cannot stay;Quick! I am not good at guessing:Night is near, and time is pressing.III.Nay, then, go! But were I you,I will tell you what I'd do:Rather than be baffled so,I would never, never go!
I.
Here apart our paths, then, lie:This way you wend, that way I;Speak one word before you go:Do not, do not leave me so!
II.
What is it that I should say?Tell me quick; I cannot stay;Quick! I am not good at guessing:Night is near, and time is pressing.
III.
Nay, then, go! But were I you,I will tell you what I'd do:Rather than be baffled so,I would never, never go!
As the song ends, Bartlett reappears at the gallery door giving into the parlour, and encounters Constance turning at his tread from the picture on which she has been pensively gazing while he sang. He puts up a hand on either side of the door.
BartlettandConstance.
Bartlett.—"I didn't know you were here."
Constance.—"Neither did I—know you were, till I heard you singing."
Bartlett, smiling ironically.—"Oh, you didn't suppose I sang!"
Constance, confusedly.—"I—I don't know"—
Bartlett.—"Ah, you thought I did! I don't. I was indulging in a sort of modulated howling which I flatter myself is at least one peculiarity that's entirely my own. I was baying the landscape merely for my private amusement, and I'd not have done it, if I'd known you were in hearing. However, if it's helped to settle the fact one way or other, concerning any little idiosyncrasy of mine, I shan't regret it. I hope not to disappoint you in anything, by-and-by."He drops his hands from the door-posts and steps into the room, while Constance, in shrinking abeyance, stands trembling at his harshness.
Constance, in faltering reproach.—"Mr. Bartlett!"
Bartlett.—"Constance!"
Constance, struggling to assert herself, but breaking feebly in her attempt at hauteur.—"Constance? What does this mean, Mr. Bartlett?"
Bartlett, with a sudden burst.—"What does it mean? It means that I'm sick of this nightmare masquerade. It means that I want to be something to you—all the world to you—in and for myself. It means that I can't play another man's part any longer and live. It means that I love you, love you, love you, Constance!" He starts involuntarily toward her with outstretched arms, from which she recoils with a convulsive cry.
Constance.—"You love me?Me?Oh, no, no! How can you be so merciless as to talk to me of love?" She drops her glowing face into her hands.
Bartlett.—"Because I'm a man. Because love is more than mercy—better, higher,wiser. Listen to me, Constance!—yes, I will call you so now if never again: you are so dear to me that I must say it at last if it killed you. If loving you is cruel, I'm pitiless! Give me some hope, tell me to breathe, my girl!"
Constance.—"Oh go, while I can still forgive you."
Bartlett.—"I won't go; I won't have your forgiveness; I will have all or nothing; I want your love!"
Constance, uncovering her face and turning its desolation upon him: "My love? I have no love to give. My heart is dead."
Bartlett.—"No, no! That's part of the ugly trance that we've both been living in so long. Look! You're better now than when you came here; you're stronger, braver, more beautiful. My angel, you're turned a woman again! Oh, you can love me if you will; and you will! Look at me, darling!" He takes her listless right hand in his left, and gently draws her toward him.
Constance, starting away.—"You're wrong; you're all wrong! You don't understand; you don't know— Oh, listen to me!"
Bartlett, still holding her cold hand fast.—"Yes, a thousand years. But you must tell me first that I may love you. That first!"
Constance.—"No! That never! And since you speak to me of love, listen to what it's my right you should hear."
Bartlett, releasing her.—"I don't care to hear. Nothing can ever change me. But if you bid me, I will go!"
Constance.—"You shall not go now till you know what despised and hated and forsaken thing you've offered your love to."
Bartlett, beseechingly.—"Constance, let me go while I can forgive myself. Nothing you can say will make me love you less; remember that; but I implore you to spare yourself. Don't speak, my love."
Constance.—"Spare myself? Not speak? Not speak what has been on my tongue and heart and brain, a burning fire, so long?— Oh, I was a happy girl once! The days were not long enough for my happiness; I woke at night to think of it. I was proud in my happiness and believed myself, poor fool, one to favour those I smiled on; and I had my vain and crazy dreams of being the happinessof some one who should come to ask for—what you ask now. Some one came. At first I didn't care for him, but he knew how to make me. He knew how to make my thoughts of him part of my happiness and pride and vanity till he was all in all, and I had no wish, no hope, no life but him; and then he—left me!" She buries her face in her hands again, and breaks into a low, piteous sobbing.
Bartlett, with a groan of helpless fury and compassion.—"The fool, the sot, the slave! Constance, I knew all this,—I knew it from the first."
Constance, recoiling in wild reproach.—"Youknewit?"
Bartlett, desperately.—"Yes, I knew it—in spite of myself, through my own stubborn fury I knew it, that first day, when I had obliged my friend to tell me what your father had told him, before I would hear reason. I would have given anything not to have known it then, when it was too late, for I had at least the grace to feel the wrong, the outrage of my knowing it. You can never pardon it, I see; but you must feel what a hateful burden I had to bear, when I found that I had somehow purloinedthe presence, the looks, the voice of another man—a man whom I would have joyfully changed myself to any monstrous shapenotto resemble, though I knew that my likeness to him, bewildering you in a continual dream of him, was all that ever made you look at me or think of me. I lived in the hope—Heaven only knows why I should have had the hope!—that I might yet be myself to you; that you might wake from your dream of him and look on me in the daylight, and see that I was at least an honest man, and pity me and may be love me at last, as I loved you at first, from the moment I saw your dear pale face, and heard your dear, sad voice." He follows up her slow retreat and again possesses himself of her hand: "Don't cast me off! It was monstrous, out of all decency, to know your sorrow; but I never tried to know it; I triednotto know it." He keeps fast hold of her hand, while she remains with averted head. "I love you, Constance; I loved you; and when once you had bidden me stay, I was helpless to go away, or I would never be here now to offend you with the confession of that shameful knowledge. Do you think it was no trial to me? It gave me the conscienceof an eavesdropper and a spy; yet all I knew was sacred to me."
Constance, turning and looking steadfastly into his face.—"And you could care for so poor a creature as I—so abject, so obtuse as never to know what had made her intolerable to the man that cast her off?"
Bartlett.—"Man? He wasnoman! He"—
Constance, suddenly.—"Oh, wait! I—I love him yet."
Bartlett, dropping her hand.—"You"—
Constance.—"Yes, yes! As much as I live, I love him! But when he left me, I seemed to die; and now it's as if I were some wretched ghost clinging for all existence to the thought of my lost happiness. If that slips from me, then I cease to be."
Bartlett.—"Why, this is still your dream. But I won't despair. You'll wake yet, and care for me: I know you will."
Constance, tenderly.—"Oh, I'm not dreaming now. I know that you are not he. You are everything that is kind and good; and some day you will be very happy."
Bartlett, desolately.—"I shall never be happy without your love." After a pause: "It will be a barren, bitter comfort, but letme have it if you can: ifIhad met you first, could you have lovedme?"
Constance.—"I might have loved you if—I had—lived." She turns from him again, and moves softly toward the door; his hollow voice arrests her.
Bartlett.—"If you are dead, then I have lived too long. Your loss takes the smile out of life for me." A moment later: "You are cruel, Constance."
Constance, abruptly facing him.—"I cruel? Toyou?"
Bartlett.—"Yes, you have put me to shame before myself. You might have spared me! A treacherous villain is false in time to save you from a life of betrayal, and you say your heart is dead. But that isn't enough. You tell me that you cannot care for me because you love that treacherous villain still. That's my disgrace, that's my humiliation, that's my killing shame. I could have borne all else. You might have cast me off however you would, driven me away with any scorn, whipped me from you with the sharpest rebuke that such presumption as mine could merit; but to drag a decent man's self-respect through such mire as that poor rascal's memory for sixlong weeks, and then tell him that you prefer the mire"—
Constance.—"Oh, hush! I can't let you reproach him! He was pitilessly false to me, but I will be true to him for ever. How do I know—Imustfind some reason for that, or there is no reason in anything!—how do I know that he did not break his word to me at my father's bidding? My father never liked him."
Bartlett, shaking his head with a melancholy smile.—"Ah, Constance, do you thinkIwould break my word to you at your father's bidding?"
Constance, in abject despair.—"Well, then I go back to what I always knew; I was too slight, too foolish, too tiresome for his life-long love. He saw it in time, I don't blame him. You would see it, too."
Bartlett.—"What devil's vantage enabled that infernal scoundrel to blight your spirit with his treason? Constance, is this my last answer?"
Constance.—"Yes, go! I am so sorry for you,—sorrier than I ever thought I could be for anything again."
Bartlett.—"Then if you pity me, give me a little hope that sometime, somehow"—
Constance.—"Oh, I have no hope, for you, for me, for any one. Good-bye, good, kind friend! Try,—you won't have to try hard—to forget me. Unless some miracle should happen to show me that it was all his fault and none of mine, we are parting now for ever. It has been a strange dream, and nothing is so strange as that it should be ending so. Are you the ghost or I, I wonder! It confuses me as it did at first; but if you are he, or only you— Ah, don't look at me so, or I must believe he has never left me, and implore you to stay!"
Bartlett, quietly.—"Thanks. I would not stay a moment longer in his disguise, if you begged me on your knees. I shall always love you, Constance, but if the world is wide enough, please Heaven, I will never see you again. There are some things dearer to me than your presence. No, I won't take your hand; it can't heal the hurt your words have made, and nothing can help me, now I know from your own lips that but for my likeness tohimI should never have been anything to you. Good-bye!"
Constance.—"Oh!" She sinks with a long cry into the arm-chair beside the table,and drops her head into her arms upon it. At the door toward which he turns Bartlett meets General Wyatt, and a moment later Mrs. Wyatt enters by the other. Bartlett recoils under the concentrated reproach and inquiry of their gaze.
General Wyatt,Mrs. Wyatt,Constance,andBartlett.
Mrs. Wyatt, hastening to bow herself over Constance's fallen head.—"Oh, what is it, Constance?" As Constance makes no reply, she lifts her eyes again to Bartlett's face.
General Wyatt, peremptorily.—"Well, sir!"
Bartlett, with bitter desperation.—"Oh, you shall know!"
Constance, interposing.—"I will tell! You shall be spared that, at least." She has risen, and with her face still hidden in her handkerchief, seeks her father with an outstretched hand. He tenderly gathers her to his arms, and she droops a moment upon his shoulder; then, with an electrical revolt against her own weakness, she lifts her head and dries her tears with a passionateenergy. "He—Oh, speakforme!" Her head falls again on her father's shoulder.
Bartlett, with grave irony and self-scorn.—"It's a simple matter, sir; I have been telling Miss Wyatt that I love her, and offering to share with her my obscurity and poverty. I"—
General Wyatt, impatiently.—"Curse your poverty, sir! I'm poor myself. Well!"
Bartlett.—"Oh, that's merely the beginning; I have had the indecency to do this knowing that what alone rendered me sufferable to her it was a cruel shame for me to know, and an atrocity for me to presume upon. I"—
General Wyatt.—"I authorised this knowledge on your part when I spoke to your friend, and before he went away he told me all he had said to you."
Bartlett, in the first stages of petrifaction.—"Cummings?"
General Wyatt.—"Yes."
Bartlett.—"Told you that I knew whom I was like?"
General Wyatt.—"Yes."
Bartlett, very gently.—"Then I think that man will be lost for keeping his consciencetooclean. Cummings has invented a new sin."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"James, James! You told me that Mr. Bartlett didn't know."
General Wyatt, contritely.—"I let you think so, Margaret; I didn't know what else to do."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Oh, James!"
Constance.—"Oh, papa!" She turns with bowed head from her father's arms, and takes refuge in her mother's embrace. General Wyatt, released, fetches a compass round about the parlour, with a face of intense dismay. He pauses in front of his wife.
General Wyatt.—"Margaret, you must know the worst now."
Mrs. Wyatt, in gentle reproach, while she softly caresses Constance's hair.—"Oh, is there anythingworse, James?"
General Wyatt, hopelessly.—"Yes: I'm afraid I have been to blame."
Bartlett.—"General Wyatt, let me retire. I"—
General Wyatt.—"No, sir. This concerns you, too, now. Your destiny has entangled you with our sad fortunes, and now you must know them all."
Constance, from her mother's shoulder.—"Yes, stay,—whatever it is. If you care for me, nothing can hurt you any more, now."
General Wyatt.—"Margaret,—Constance! If I have been mistaken in what I have done, you must try somehow to forgive me; it was my tenderness for you both misled me, if I erred. Sir, let me address my defence to you. You can see the whole matter with clearer eyes than we." At an imploring gesture from Bartlett, he turns again to Mrs. Wyatt. "Perhaps you are right, sir. Margaret, when I had made up my mind that the wretch who had stolen our child's heart was utterly unfit and unworthy"—
Constance, starting away from her mother with a cry.—"Ah, youdiddrive him from me then! I knew, I knew it! And after all these days and weeks and months that seem years and centuries of agony, you tell me that it wasyoubroke my heart! No, no, I neverwillforgive you, father! Where is he? Tell me that! Where is my husband—the husband you robbed me of? Did you kill him, when you chose to crush my life? Is he dead? If he's living I will find him wherever he is. No distance andno danger shall keep me from him. I'll find him and fall down before him, and implorehimto forgive you, for I never can! Was this your tenderness for me—to drive him away, and leave me to the pitiless humiliation of believing myself deserted? Oh, great tenderness!"
General Wyatt, confronting her storm with perfect quiet.—"No, I will give better proof of my tenderness than that." He takes from his pocket-book a folded paper which he hands to his wife: "Margaret, do you know that writing?"
Mrs. Wyatt, glancing at the superscription.—"Oh, too well! This is to you, James."
General Wyatt.—"It's for you now. Read it."
Mrs. Wyatt, wonderingly unfolding the paper and then reading.—"'I confess myself guilty of forging Major Cummings's signature, and in consideration of his and your own forbearance, I promise never to see Miss Wyatt again. I shall always be grateful for your mercy; and'—James, James! It isn't possible!"
Constance, who has crept nearer and nearer while her mother has been reading, as if drawn by a resistless fascination.—"No,it isn't possible! It's false; it's a fraud! Iwillsee it." She swiftly possesses herself of the paper and scans the handwriting for a moment with a fierce intentness. Then she flings it wildly away. "Yes, yes, it's true! It's his hand. It's true, it's the only true thing in this world of lies!" She totters away toward the sofa. Bartlett makes a movement to support her, but she repulses him, and throws herself upon the cushions.
General Wyatt.—"Sir, I am sorry to make you the victim of a scene. It has been your fate, and no part of my intention. Will you look at this paper? You don't know all that is in it yet." He touches it with his foot.
Bartlett, in dull dejection.—"No, I won't look at it. If it were a radiant message from heaven, I don't see how it could help me now."
Mrs. Wyatt.—"I'm afraid you've made a terrible mistake, James."
General Wyatt.—"Margaret! Don't say that!"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"Yes, it would have been better to show us this paper at once,—better than to keep us all these days in this terrible suffering."
General Wyatt.—"I was afraid of greatersuffering for you both. I chose sorrow for Constance rather than the ignominy of knowing that she had set her heart on so base a scoundrel. When he crawled in the dust there before me, and whined for pity, I revolted from telling you or her how vile he was; the thought of it seemed to dishonour you; and I had hoped something, everything, from my girl's self-respect, her obedience, her faith in me. I never dreamed that it must come to this."
Mrs. Wyatt, sadly shaking her head.—"I know how well you meant; but oh, it was a fatal mistake!"
Constance, abandoning her refuge among the cushions, and coming forward to her father.—"No, mother, it was no mistake! I see now how wise and kind and merciful you have been, papa. You can never love me again, I've behaved so badly; but if you'll let me, I will try to live my gratitude for your mercy at a time when the whole truth would have killed me. Oh, papa! What shall I say, what shall I do to show how sorry and ashamed I am? Let me go down on my knees to thank you." Her father catches her to his heart, and fondly kisses her again and again. "I don't deserveit, papa! You ought to hate me, and drive me from you, and never let me see you again." She starts away from him as if to execute upon herself this terrible doom, when her eye falls upon the letter where she had thrown it on the floor. "To think how long I have been the fool, the slave of that—felon!" She stoops upon the paper with a hawk-like fierceness; she tears it into shreds, and strews the fragments about the room. "Oh, if I could only tear out of my heart all thoughts of him, all memory, all likeness!" In her wild scorn she has whirled unheedingly away toward Bartlett, whom, suddenly confronting, she apparently addresses in this aspiration; he opens wide his folded arms.
Bartlett.—"And what would you do, then, with this extraordinary resemblance?" The closing circle of his arms involves her and clasps her to his heart, from which beneficent shelter she presently exiles herself a pace or two, and stands with either hand pressed against his breast while her eyes dwell with rapture on his face.
Constance.—"Oh,you'renot like him, and youneverwere!"
Bartlett, with light irony: "Ah?"
Constance.—"If I had not been blind, blind, blind, I never could have seen the slightest similarity. Likehim? Never!"
Bartlett.—"Ah! Then perhaps the resemblance, which we have noticed from time to time, and which has been the cause of some annoyance and embarrassment all round, was simply a disguise which I had assumed for the time being to accomplish a purpose of my own?"
Constance.—"Oh, don't jest it away! It's your soul that I see now, your true and brave and generous heart; and if you pardoned me for mistaking you a single moment for one who had neither soul nor heart, I could never look you in the face again!"
Bartlett.—"You seem to be taking a good provisional glare at me beforehand, then, Miss Wyatt. I've never been so nearly looked out of countenance in my life. But you needn't be afraid; I shall not pardon your crime." Constance abruptly drops her head upon his breast, and again instantly repels herself.
Constance.—"No, you must not if you could. But you can't—you can't care for me after hearing what I could say to my father"—
Bartlett.—"That was in a moment of great excitement."
Constance.—"After hearing me rave about a man so unworthy of—any one—you cared for. No, your self-respect—everything—demands that you should cast me off."
Bartlett.—"It does. But I am inexorable,—you must have observed the trait before. In this case I will not yield even to my own colossal self-respect." Earnestly: "Ah, Constance, do you think I could love you the less because your heart was too true to swerve even from a traitor till he was proved as false to honour as to you?" Lightly again: "Come, I like your fidelity to worthless people; I'm rather a deep and darkling villain myself."
Constance, devoutly.—"You? Oh, you are as nobly frank and open as—as—as papa!"
Bartlett.—"No, Constance, you are wrong, for once. Hear my dreadful secret; I'm not what I seem,—the light and joyous creature I look,—I'm an emotional wreck. Three short years ago, I was frightfully jilted"—they all turn upon him in surprise—"by a young person who, I'm sorry to say, hasn't yet consoled me by turning out a scamp."
Constance, drifting to his side with a radiant smile.—"Oh, I'msoglad."
Bartlett, with affected dryness.—"Are you? I didn't know it was such a laughing matter. I was always disposed to take those things seriously."
Constance.—"Yes, yes! But don't you see? It places us on more of an equality." She looks at him with a smile of rapture and logic exquisitely compact.
Bartlett.—"Does it? But you're not half as happy as I am."
Constance.—"Oh yes, I am! Twice."
Bartlett.—"Then that makes us just even, for so am I." They stand ridiculously blest, holding each other's hand a moment, and then Constance, still clinging to one of his hands, goes and rests her other arm upon her mother's shoulder.
Constance.—"Mamma, how wretched I have made you, all these months!"
Mrs. Wyatt.—"If your trouble's over now, my child,"—she tenderly kisses her cheek,—"there's no trouble for your mother in the world."
Constance.—"But I'm not happy, mamma. I can't be happy, thinking how wickedly unhappy I've been. No, no! I had bettergo back to the old wretched state again; it's all I'm fit for. I'msoashamed of myself. Send him away!" She renews her hold upon his hand.
Bartlett.—"Nothing of the kind. I was requested to remain here six weeks ago, by a young lady. Besides, this is a public house. Come, I haven't finished the catalogue of my disagreeable qualities yet. I'm jealous. I want you to put that arm onmyshoulder." He gently effects the desired transfer, and then, chancing to look up, he discovers the Rev. Arthur Cummings on the threshold in the act of modestly retreating. He detains him with a great melodramatic start. "Hah! A clergyman! This is indeed ominous!"
THE PARLOUR CAR.A FARCE.
Scene:A Parlour Car on the New York Central Railroad. It is late afternoon in the early autumn, with a cloudy sunset threatening rain. The car is unoccupied save by a gentleman, who sits fronting one of the windows, with his feet in another chair; a newspaper lies across his lap; his hat is drawn down over his eyes, and he is apparently asleep. The rear door of the car opens, and the conductor enters with a young lady, heavily veiled, the porter coming after with her wraps and travelling-bags. The lady's air is of mingled anxiety and desperation, with a certain fierceness of movement. She casts a careless glance over the empty chairs.
Scene:A Parlour Car on the New York Central Railroad. It is late afternoon in the early autumn, with a cloudy sunset threatening rain. The car is unoccupied save by a gentleman, who sits fronting one of the windows, with his feet in another chair; a newspaper lies across his lap; his hat is drawn down over his eyes, and he is apparently asleep. The rear door of the car opens, and the conductor enters with a young lady, heavily veiled, the porter coming after with her wraps and travelling-bags. The lady's air is of mingled anxiety and desperation, with a certain fierceness of movement. She casts a careless glance over the empty chairs.
Conductor.—"Here's your ticket, madam. You can have any of the places you like here, or,"—glancing at the unconscious gentleman, and then at the young lady—"if you prefer,you can go and take that seat in the forward car."
Miss Lucy Galbraith.—"Oh, I can't ride backwards. I'll stay here, please. Thank you." The porter places her things in a chair by a window, across the car from the sleeping gentleman, and she throws herself wearily into the next seat, wheels round in it, and lifting her veil gazes absently out at the landscape. Her face, which is very pretty, with a low forehead shadowed by thick, blonde hair, shows the traces of tears. She makes search in her pocket for her handkerchief, which she presses to her eyes. The conductor, lingering a moment, goes out.
Porter.—"I'll be right here, at de end of de cah, if you should happen to want anything, miss,"—making a feint of arranging the shawls and satchels. "Should you like some dese things hung up? Well, dey'll be jus' as well in de chair. We's pretty late dis afternoon; more 'n four hours behin' time. Ought to been into Albany 'fore dis. Freight train off de track jus' dis side o' Rochester, an' had to wait. Was you goin' to stop at Schenectady, miss?"
Miss G., absently.—"At Schenectady?" After a pause, "Yes."
Porter.—"Well, that's de next station, and den de cahs don't stop ag'in till dey git to Albany. Anything else I can do for you now, miss?"
Miss G.—"No, no, thank you, nothing." The porter hesitates, takes off his cap, and scratches his head with a murmur of embarrassment. Miss Galbraith looks up at him inquiringly, and then suddenly takes out her porte-monnaie and fees him.
Porter.—"Thank you, miss, thank you. If you want anything at all, miss, I'm right dere at de end of de cah." He goes out by the narrow passage-way beside the smaller enclosed parlour. Miss Galbraith looks askance at the sleeping gentleman, and then, rising, goes to the large mirror, to pin her veil, which has become loosened from her hat. She gives a little start at sight of the gentleman in the mirror, but arranges her head-gear, and returning to her place looks out of the window again. After a little while she moves about uneasily in her chair, then leans forward and tries to raise her window; she lifts it partly up, when the catch slips from her fingers and the window falls shut again with a crash.
Miss G.—"Odear, how provoking! I supposeI must call the porter." She rises from her seat, but on attempting to move away she finds that the skirt of her polonaise has been caught in the falling window. She pulls at it, and then tries to lift the window again, but the cloth has wedged it in, and she cannot stir it. "Well, I certainly think this is beyond endurance! Porter! Ah—porter! Oh, he'll never hear me in the racket that these wheels are making! I wish they'd stop—I"—
The gentleman stirs in his chair, lifts his head, listens, takes his feet down from the other seat, rises abruptly, and comes to Miss Galbraith's side.
Mr. Allen Richards.—"Will you allow me to open the window for you?" Starting back, "Miss Galbraith!"
Miss G.—"Al—Mr. Richards!" There is a silence for some moments, in which they remain looking at each other; then,
Mr. Richards.—"Lucy"—
Miss G.—"I forbid you to address me in that way, Mr. Richards."
Mr. R.—"Why, you were just going to call me Allen!"
Miss G.—"That was an accident, you know very well—an impulse."
Mr. R.—"Well, so is this."
Miss G.—"Of which you ought to be ashamed to take advantage. I wonder at your presumption in speaking to me at all. It's quite idle, I can assure you. Everything is at an end between us. It seems that I bore with you too long; but I'm thankful that I had the spirit to act at last, and to act in time. And now that chance has thrown us together, I trust that you will not force your conversation upon me. No gentleman would, and I have always given you credit for thinking yourself a gentleman. I request that you will not speak to me."
Mr. R.—"You've spoken ten words to me for every one of mine to you. But I won't annoy you. I can't believe it, Lucy; I cannotbelieve it. It seems like some rascally dream, and if I had had any sleep since it happened, I should think Ihaddreamed it."
Miss G.—"Oh! You were sleeping soundly enough when I got into the car!"
Mr. R.—"I own it; I was perfectly used up, and Ihaddropped off."
Miss G., scornfully.—"Then perhaps youhavedreamed it."
Mr. R.—"I'll think so till you tell meagain that our engagement is broken; that the faithful love of years is to go for nothing; that you dismiss me with cruel insult, without one word of explanation, without a word of intelligible accusation, even. It's too much! I've been thinking it all over and over, and I can't make head or tail of it. I meant to see you again as soon as we got to town, and implore you to hear me. Come, it's a mighty serious matter, Lucy. I'm not a man to put on heroics and that; butIbelieve it'll play the very deuce with me, Lucy,—that is to say, Miss Galbraith,—I do indeed. It'll give me a low opinion of woman."
Miss G., averting her face.—"Oh, a very high opinion of woman you have had!"
Mr. R., with sentiment.—"Well, there was one woman whom I thought a perfect angel."
Miss G.—"Indeed! May I ask her name?"
Mr. R., with a forlorn smile.—"I shall be obliged to describe her somewhat formally as—Miss Galbraith."
Miss G.—"Mr. Richards!"
Mr. R.—"Why, you've just forbidden me to sayLucy. You must tell me, dearest,what I have done to offend you. The worst criminals are not condemned unheard, and I've always thought you were merciful if not just. And now I only ask you to be just."
Miss G., looking out of the window.—"You know very well what you've done. You can't expect me to humiliate myself by putting your offence into words."
Mr. R.—"Upon my soul, I don't know what you mean! Idon'tknow what I've done. When you came at me, last night, with my ring and presents and other little traps, you might have knocked me down with the lightest of the lot. I was perfectly dazed; I couldn't say anything before you were off, and all I could do was to hope that you'd be more like yourself in the morning. And in the morning, when I came round to Mrs. Phillips's I found you were gone, and I came after you by the next train."
Miss G.—"Mr. Richards, your personal history for the last twenty-four hours is a matter of perfect indifference to me, as it shall be for the next twenty-four hundred years. I see that you are resolved to annoy me, and sinceyouwill not leave the car,Imust do so." She rises haughtily from her seat, but the imprisoned skirt of her polonaisetwitches her abruptly back into her chair. She bursts into tears. "Oh, whatshallI do!"
Mr. R., dryly.—"You shall do whatever you like, Miss Galbraith, when I've set you free; for I see your dress is caught in the window. When it's once out, I'll shut the window, and you can call the porter to raise it." He leans forward over her chair, and while she shrinks back the length of her tether, he tugs at the window-fastening. "I can't get at it. Would you be so good as to stand up,—all you can?" Miss Galbraith stands up, droopingly, and Mr. Richards makes a movement towards her, and then falls back. "No, that won't do. Please sit down again." He goes round her chair and tries to get at the window from that side. "I can't get any purchase on it. Why don't you cut out that piece?" Miss Galbraith stares at him in dumb amazement. "Well, I don't see what we're to do. I'll go and get the porter." He goes to the end of the car, and returns. "I can't find the porter—he must be in one of the other cars. But"—brightening with the fortunate conception—"I've just thought of something. Will it unbutton?"
Miss G.—"Unbutton?"
Mr. R.—"Yes; this garment of yours."
Miss G.—"My polonaise?" Inquiringly: "Yes."
Mr. R.—"Well, then, it's a very simple matter. If you will just take it off I can easily"—
Miss G., faintly.—"I can't. A polonaise isn't like anovercoat"—
Mr. R., with dismay.—"Oh! Well, then"—He remains thinking a moment in hopeless perplexity.
Miss G., with polite ceremony.—"The porter will be back soon. Don't trouble yourself any further about it, please. I shall do very well."
Mr. R., without heeding her.—"If you could kneel on that foot-cushion and face the window"—
Miss G., kneeling promptly.—"So?"
Mr. R.—"Yes, and now"—kneeling beside her—"if you'll allow me to—to get at the window catch,"—he stretches both arms forward; she shrinks from his right into his left, and then back again,—"and pull, while I raise the window"—
Miss G.—"Yes, yes; but do hurry, please. If any one saw us, I don't know what theywould think. It's perfectly ridiculous!"—pulling. "It's caught in the corner of the window, between the frame and the sash, and it won't come! Is my hair troubling you? Is it in your eyes?"
Mr. R.—"It's in my eyes, but it isn't troubling me. Am I inconveniencing you?"
Miss G.—"Oh, not at all."
Mr. R.—"Well, now then, pull hard!" He lifts the window with a great effort; the polonaise comes free with a start, and she strikes violently against him. In supporting the shock he cannot forbear catching her for an instant to his heart. She frees herself, and starts indignantly to her feet.
Miss G.—"Oh, what a cowardly—subterfuge!"
Mr. R.—"Cowardly? You've no idea how much courage it took." Miss Galbraith puts her handkerchief to her face and sobs. "Oh, don't cry! Bless my heart—I'm sorry I did it! But you know how dearly I love you, Lucy, though I do think you've been cruelly unjust. I told you I never should love anyone else, and I never shall. I couldn't help it, upon my soul I couldn't. Nobody could. Don't let it vex you, my"—He approaches her.
Miss G.—"Please not touch me, sir! You have no longer any right whatever to do so."
Mr. R.—"You misinterpret a very inoffensive gesture. I have no idea of touching you, but I hope I may be allowed, as a special favour, to—pick up my hat, which you are in the act of stepping on." Miss Galbraith hastily turns, and strikes the hat with her whirling skirts; it rolls to the other side of the parlour, and Mr. Richards, who goes after it, utters an ironical "Thanks!" He brushes it and puts it on, looking at her where she has again seated herself at the window with her back to him, and continues, "As for any further molestation from me"—
Miss G.—"If youwilltalk to me"—
Mr. R.—"Excuse me, I am not talking to you."
Miss G.—"What were you doing?"
Mr. R.—"I was beginning to think aloud. I—I was soliloquising. I suppose I may be allowed to soliloquise?"
Miss G., very coldly.—"You can do what you like."
Mr. R.—"Unfortunately that's just what I can't do. If I could do as I liked, I should ask you a single question."
Miss G., after a moment.—"Well, sir, you may ask your question." She remains as before, with her chin in her hand, looking tearfully out of the window; her face is turned from Mr. Richards, who hesitates a moment, before he speaks.
Mr. R.—"I wish to ask you just this, Miss Galbraith: if you couldn't ride backwards in the other car, why do you ride backwards in this?"
Miss G., burying her face in her handkerchief, and sobbing.—"Oh, oh, oh! This is too bad!"
Mr. R.—"Oh, come now, Lucy. It breaks my heart to hear you going on so, and all for nothing. Be a little merciful to both of us, and listen to me. I've no doubt I can explain everything if I once understand it, but it's pretty hard explaining a thing if you don't understand it yourself. Do turn round. I know it makes you sick to ride in that way, and if you don't want to face me—there!"—wheeling in his chair so as to turn his back upon her—"you needn't. Though it's rather trying to a fellow's politeness, not to mention his other feelings. Now, what in the name"—
Porter, who at this moment enters withhis step-ladder, and begins to light the lamps.—"Going pretty slow ag'in, sah."
Mr. R.—"Yes; what's the trouble?"
Porter.—"Well, I don't know exactly, sah. Something de matter with de locomotive. We shan't be into Albany much 'fore eight o'clock."
Mr. R.—"What's the next station?"
Porter.—"Schenectady."
Mr. R.—"Is the whole train as empty as this car?"
Porter, laughing.—"Well, no, sah. Fact is,discah don't belong on dis train. It's a Pullman that we hitched on when you got in, and we's taking it along for one of de Eastern roads. We let you in 'cause de Drawing-rooms was all full. Same with de lady"—looking sympathetically at her, as he takes up his steps to go out. "Can I do anything for you now, miss?"
Miss G., plaintively.—"No, thank you; nothing whatever." She has turned while Mr. Richards and the porter have been speaking, and now faces the back of the former, but her veil is drawn closely. The porter goes out.
Mr. R., wheeling round so as to confront her.—"I wish you would speak tome half as kindly as you do to that darky, Lucy."
Miss G.—"Heis a gentleman!"
Mr. R.—"He is an urbane and well-informed nobleman. At any rate, he's a man and a brother. But so am I." Miss Galbraith does not reply, and after a pause Mr. Richards resumes. "Talking of gentlemen: I recollect, once, coming up on the day-boat to Poughkeepsie, there was a poor devil of a tipsy man kept following a young fellow about, and annoying him to death—trying to fight him, as a tipsy man will, and insisting that the young fellow had insulted him. By-and-by he lost his balance, and went overboard, and the other jumped after him and fished him out." Sensation on the part of Miss Galbraith, who stirs uneasily in her chair, looks out of the window, then looks at Mr. Richards, and drops her head. "There was a young lady on board, who had seen the whole thing—a very charming young lady indeed, with pale blonde hair growing very thick over her forehead, and dark eye-lashes to the sweetest blue eyes in the world. Well, this young lady's papa was amongst those who came up to say civil things to the young fellow whenhe got aboard again, and to ask the honour—he said thehonour—of his acquaintance. And when he came out of his state-room in dry clothes, this infatuated old gentleman was waiting for him, and took him and introduced him to his wife and daughter. And the daughter said, with tears in her eyes, and a perfectly intoxicating impulsiveness, that it was the grandest and the most heroic and the noblest thing that she had ever seen, and she should always be a better girl for having seen it. Excuse me, Miss Galbraith, for troubling you with these facts of a personal history which, as you say, is a matter of perfect indifference to you. The young fellow didn't think at the time he had done anything extraordinary; but I don't suppose hedidexpect to live to have the same girl tell him he was no gentleman."
Miss G., wildly.—"Oh, Allen, Allen! YouknowI think you are a gentleman, and I always did!"
Mr. R., languidly.—"Oh, I merely had your word for it, just now, that you didn't." Tenderly.—"Will you hear me, Lucy?"
Miss G., faintly.—"Yes."
Mr. R.—"Well, what is it I've done? Will you tell me if I guess right?"
Miss G., with dignity.—"I am in no humour for jesting, Allen. And I can assure you that though I consent to hear what you have to say, or ask,nothingwill change my determination. All is over between us."
Mr. R.—"Yes, I understand that perfectly. I am now asking merely for general information. I do not expect you to relent, and in fact I should consider it rather frivolous if you did. No. What I have always admired in your character, Lucy, is a firm, logical consistency; a clearness of mental vision that leaves no side of a subject unsearched; and an unwavering constancy of purpose. You may say that these traits are characteristic ofallwomen; but they are pre-eminently characteristic of you, Lucy." Miss Galbraith looks askance at him, to make out whether he is in earnest or not; he continues, with a perfectly serious air. "And I know now that if you're offended with me, it's for no trivial cause." She stirs uncomfortably in her chair. "What I have done I can't imagine, but it must be something monstrous, since it has made life with me appear so impossible that you are ready to fling away your own happiness—for I know youdidlove me, Lucy—and destroy mine. I willbegin with the worst thing I can think of. Was it because I danced so much with Fanny Watervliet?"
Miss G., indignantly.—"How can you insult me by supposing that I could be jealous of such aperfectlittle goose as that? No, Allen! Whatever I think of you, Istillrespect you too much forthat."
Mr. R.—"I'm glad to hear that there are yet depths to which you think me incapable of descending, and that Miss Watervliet is one of them. I will now take a little higher ground. Perhaps you think I flirted with Mrs. Dawes. I thought, myself, that the thing might begin to have that appearance, but I give you my word of honour that as soon as the idea occurred to me, I dropped her,—rather rudely, too. The trouble was, don't you know, that I felt so perfectly safe with amarriedfriend of yours. I couldn't be hanging about you all the time, and I was afraid I might vex you if I went with the other girls; and I didn't know what to do."
Miss G.—"I think you behaved rather silly, giggling so much with her. But"—
Mr. R.—"I own it, I know it was silly. But"—
Miss G.—"It wasn't that; it wasn't that!"
Mr. R.—"Was it my forgetting to bring you those things from your mother?"
Miss G.—"No!"
Mr. R.—"Was it because I hadn't given up smoking yet?"
Miss G.—"YouknowI never asked you to give up smoking. It was entirely your own proposition."
Mr. R.—"That's true. That's what made me so easy about it. I knew I could leave it offanytime. Well, I will not disturb you any longer, Miss Galbraith." He throws his overcoat across his arm, and takes up his travelling-bag. "I have failed to guess your fatal—conundrum; and I have no longer any excuse for remaining. I am going into the smoking-car. Shall I send the porter to you for anything?"
Miss G.—"No, thanks." She puts up her handkerchief to her face.
Mr. R.—"Lucy, do you send me away?"
Miss G., behind her handkerchief.—"You were going, yourself."
Mr. R., over his shoulder.—"Shall I come back?"
Miss G.—"I have no right to drive you from the car."
Mr. R., coming back, and sitting down in the chair nearest her.—"Lucy, dearest, tell me what's the matter."
Miss G.—"Oh, Allen, your notknowingmakes it all the more hopeless and killing. It shows me that wemustpart; that you would go on, breaking my heart, and grinding me into the dust as long as we lived." She sobs. "It shows me that you never understood me, and you never will. I know you're good and kind and all that, but that only makes your not understanding me so much the worse. I do it quite as much for your sake as my own, Allen."
Mr. R.—"I'd much rather you wouldn't put yourself out on my account."
Miss G., without regarding him.—"If you could mortify me before a whole roomful of people as you did last night, what could I expect after marriage but continual insult?"
Mr. R., in amazement.—"Howdid I mortify you? I thought that I treated you with all the tenderness and affection that a decent regard for the feelings of others would allow. I was ashamed to find I couldn't keep away from you."
Miss G.—"O, you wereattentiveenough,Allen; nobody denies that. Attentive enough in non-essentials. O yes!"
Mr. R.—"Well, what vital matters did I fail in? I'm sure I can't remember."
Miss G.—"I dare say! I dare say they won't appear vital to you, Allen. Nothing does. And if I had told you, I should have been met with ridicule, I suppose. But I knewbetterthan to tell; I respected myself toomuch."
Mr. R.—"But now you mustn't respect yourselfquiteso much, dearest. And I promise you I won't laugh at the most serious thing. I'm in no humour for it. If it were a matter of life and death, even, I can assure you that it wouldn't bring a smile to my countenance. No, indeed! If you expect me to laugh,now, you must say something particularly funny."
Miss G.—"I was not going to say anythingfunny; as you call it, and I will say nothing at all, if you talk in that way."
Mr. R.—"Well, I won't, then. But do you know what I suspect, Lucy? I wouldn't mention it to everybody, but I will to you—in strict confidence: I suspect that you're rather ashamed of your grievance, if you have any. I suspect it's nothing at all."
Miss G., very sternly at first, with a rising hysterical inflection.—"Nothing, Allen! Do you call itnothing, to have Mrs. Dawes come out with all that about your accident on your way up the river, and ask me if it didn't frighten me terribly to hear of it, even after it was all over; and I had to say you hadn't told me a word of it? 'Why, Lucy!'"—angrily mimicking Mrs. Dawes—"'you must teach him better than that. I make Mr. Dawes tellmeeverything.' Little simpleton! And then to have them all laugh—oh dear, it's too much!"
Mr. R.—"Why, my dear Lucy—"
Miss G., interrupting him.—"I saw just how it was going to be, and I'm thankful,thankfulthat it happened. I saw that you didn't care enough for me to take me into your whole life; that you despised and distrusted me, and that it would get worse and worse to the end of our days; that we should grow further and further apart, and I should be left moping at home, while you ran about making confidantes of other women whom you consideredworthyof your confidence. It allflashedupon me in aninstant; and I resolved to break with you, then and there; and I did, just as soon as ever I could go tomy room for your things, and I'm glad,—yes,—O hu, hu, hu, hu, hu!—soglad I did it!"
Mr. R., grimly.—"Your joy is obvious. May I ask—"
Miss G.—"Oh, it wasn't thefirstproof you had given me how little you really cared for me, but I was determined it should be the last. I dare say you've forgotten them! I dare say you don't remember telling Mamie Morris that you didn't like crocheted cigar-cases, when you'd justtoldme that you did, and let me be such a fool as to commence one for you; but I'm thankful to saythatwent into the fire,—O yes,instantly! And I dare say you've forgotten that you didn't tell me your brother's engagement was to be kept, and let me come out with it that night at the Rudges' and then looked perfectly aghast, so that everybody thought I had been blabbing! Time and again, Allen, you have made me suffer agonies, yes,agonies; but your power to do so is at an end. I am free and happy at last." She weeps bitterly.
Mr. R., quietly.—"Yes, Ihadforgotten those crimes, and I suppose many similar atrocities. I own it, Iamforgetful and careless. I was wrong about those things.I ought to have told you why I said that to Miss Morris; I was afraid she was going to work me one. As to that accident I told Mrs. Dawes of, it wasn't worth mentioning. Our boat simply walked over a sloop in the night, and nobody was hurt. I shouldn't have thought twice about it, if she hadn't happened to brag of their passing close to an iceberg on their way home from Europe; then I trotted outmypretty-near disaster as a match for hers,—confound her! I wish the iceberg had sunk them! Only it wouldn't have sunk her,—she's so light! she'd have gone bobbing all over the Atlantic Ocean, like a cork; she's got a perfect life-preserver in that mind of hers." Miss Galbraith gives a little laugh, and then a little moan. "But since you are happy, I will not repine, Miss Galbraith. I don't pretend to be very happy myself, but then, I don't deserve it. Since you are ready to let an absolutely unconscious offence on my part cancel all the past; since you let my devoted love weigh as nothing against the momentary pique that a malicious little rattle-pate—she was vexed at my leaving her—could make you feel, and choose to gratify a wicked resentment at the cost of any suffering to me, why,Ican beglad and happy, too." With rising anger, "Yes, Miss Galbraith. Allisover between us. You can go! I renounce you!"
Miss G., springing fiercely to her feet.—"Go, indeed! Renounce me! Be so good as to remember that you haven't got metorenounce!"
Mr. R.—"Well, it's all the same thing. I'd renounce you if I had. Good evening, Miss Galbraith. I will send back your presents as soon as I get to town; it won't be necessary to acknowledge them. I hope we may never meet again." He goes out of the door towards the front of the car, but returns directly, and glances uneasily at Miss Galbraith, who remains with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. "Ah—a—that is—I shall be obliged to intrude upon you again. The fact is—"
Miss G., anxiously.—"Why, the cars have stopped! Are we at Schenectady?"
Mr. R.—"Well, no; notexactly; not exactly atSchenectady"—
Miss G.—"Then what station is this? Have they carried me by?" Observing his embarrassment, "Allen, what is the matter? What has happened? Tell me instantly! Are we off the track? Have we run intoanother train? Have we broken through a bridge? Shall we be burnt alive? Tell me, Allen, tell me,—I can bear it!—are we telescoped?" She wrings her hands in terror.
Mr. R., unsympathetically.—"Nothing of the kind has happened. This car has simply come uncoupled, and the rest of the train has gone on ahead, and left us standing on the track nowhere in particular." He leans back in his chair, and wheels it round from her.
Miss G., mortified, yet anxious.—"Well?"
Mr. R.—"Well, until they miss us, and run back to pick us up, I shall be obliged to ask your indulgence. I will try not to disturb you; I would go out and stand on the platform, but it's raining."
Miss G., listening to the rain-fall on the roof.—"Why, so it is!" Timidly, "Did you notice when the car stopped?"
Mr. R.—"No." He rises and goes out at the rear door, comes back, and sits down again.
Miss G.rises and goes to the large mirror to wipe away her tears. She glances at Mr. Richards, who does not move. She sits down in a seat nearer him than the chair she has left. After some faint murmurs andhesitations, she asks, "Will you please tell me why you went out just now?"
Mr. R., with indifference.—"Yes. I went to see if the rear signal was out."
Miss G., after another hesitation.—"Why?"
Mr. R.—"Because, if it wasn't out, some train might run into us from that direction."
Miss G., tremulously.—"Oh! And was it?"
Mr. R., dryly.—"Yes."
Miss G.returns to her former place with a wounded air, and for a moment neither speaks. Finally she asks very meekly, "And there's no danger from the front?"
Mr. R., coldly.—"No."
Miss G., after some little noises and movements meant to catch Mr. R.'s attention.—"Of course, I never meant to imply that you wereintentionallycareless or forgetful."
Mr. R., still very coldly.—"Thank you."
Miss G.—"I always did justice to your good-heartedness, Allen; you're perfectly lovely that way; and I know that you would be sorry if youknewyou had wounded my feelings, however accidentally." She droops her head so as to catch a sidelongglimpse of his face, and sighs, while she nervously pinches the top of her parasol, resting the point on the floor. Mr. R. makes no answer. "That about the cigar-case might have been a mistake; I saw that myself, and, as you explain it, why, it was certainly very kind and very creditable to—to your thoughtfulness. Itwasthoughtful."
Mr. R.—"I am grateful for your good opinion."
Miss G.—"But do you think it was exactly—it was quite—nice, not to tell me that your brother's engagement was to be kept, when you know, Allen, I can't bear to blunder in such things?" Tenderly, "Doyou? Youcan'tsay it was."
Mr. R.—"I never said it was."
Miss G., plaintively.—"No, Allen. That's what I always admired in your character. You always owned up. Don't you think it's easier for men to own up than it is for women?"
Mr. R.—"I don't know. I never knew any woman to do it."
Miss G.—"O yes, Allen! You know Ioftenown up."
Mr. R.—"No, I don't."
Miss G.—"Oh, how can you bear to sayso? When I'm rash, or anything of that kind, you know I acknowledge it."
Mr. R.—"Do you acknowledge it now?"
Miss G.—"Why, how can I, when I haven'tbeenrash?Whathave I been rash about?"
Mr. R.—"About the cigar-case, for example."
Miss G.—"Oh!That!That was a great while ago! I thought you meant something quite recent." A sound as of the approaching train is heard in the distance. She gives a start, and then leaves her chair again for one a little nearer his. "I thought perhaps you meant about—last night."
Mr. R.—"Well?"
Miss G., very judicially.—"I don't think it wasrashexactly. No, notrash. It might not have been verykindnot to—to—trust you more, when I knew that you didn't mean anything; but— No, I took the only course I could.Nobody could have done differently under the circumstances. But if I caused you any pain, I'm very sorry; O yes, very sorry indeed. But I was not precipitate, and I know I did right. At least Itriedto act for the best. Don't you believe I did?"
Mr. R.—"Why, if you have no doubtupon the subject, my opinion is of no consequence."
Miss G.—"Yes. But what do you think? If you think differently, and can make me see it differently, oughtn't you to do so?"
Mr. R.—"I don't see why. As you say, all is over between us."
Miss G.—"Yes." After a pause, "I should suppose you would care enough foryourselfto wish me to look at the matter from the right point of view."
Mr. R.—"I don't."
Miss G., becoming more and more uneasy as the noise of the approaching train grows louder.—"I thinkyouhave been very quick withmeat times, quite as quick as I could have been with you last night." The noise is more distinctly heard. "I'm sure that if I could once see it as you do,noone would be more willing to do anything in their power to atone for their rashness. Of course I know that everything is over."
Mr. R.—"As to that, I have your word; and, in view of the fact, perhaps this analysis of motive, of character, however interesting on general grounds, is a little"—
Miss G., with sudden violence.—"Say it, and take your revenge! I have put myselfat your feet, and you do right to trample on me! O, this is what women may expect when they trust to men's generosity! Well, it is over now, and I'm thankful, thankful! Cruel,suspicious, vindictive, you're all alike, and I'm glad that I'm no longer subject to your heartless caprices. And I don't care what happens after this, I shall always—Oh! You're sure it's from the front, Allen? Are you sure the rear signal is out?"
Mr. R., relenting.—"Yes, but if it will ease your mind, I'll go and look again." He rises and starts towards the rear door.
Miss G., quickly.—"O no! Don't go! I can't bear to be left alone!" The sound of the approaching train continually increases in volume. "O, isn't it coming very, very,veryfast?"
Mr. R.—"No, no! Don't be frightened."
Miss G., running towards the rear door.—"O, Imustget out! It will kill me, I know it will. Come with me! Do, do!" He runs after her, and her voice is heard at the rear of the car. "O, the outside door is locked, and we are trapped, trapped, trapped! O, quick! Let's try the door at the other end." They re-enter the parlour, and the roar of the train announces that it isupon them. "No, no! It's too late, it's too late! I'm a wicked, wicked girl, and this is all to punish me! O, it's coming, it's coming at full speed!" He remains bewildered, confronting her. She utters a wild cry, and, as the train strikes the car with a violent concussion, she flings herself into his arms. "There, there! Forgive me, Allen! Let us die together, my own, own love!" She hangs fainting on his breast. Voices are heard without, and after a little delay the porter comes in with a lantern.
Porter.—"Rather more of a jah than we meant to give you, sah! We had to run down pretty quick after we missed you, and the rain made the track a little slippery. Lady much frightened?"
Miss G., disengaging herself.—"O, not at all! Not in the least. We thought it was a train coming from behind, and going to run into us, and so—we—I—"
Porter.—"Not quite so bad as that. We'll be into Schenectady in a few minutes, miss. I'll come for your things." He goes out at the other door.
Miss G., in a fearful whisper.—"Allen! What will he ever think of us? I'm sure he saw us!"
Mr. R.—"I don't know what he'll thinknow.Hedidthink you were frightened; but you told him you were not. However, it isn't important what he thinks. Probably he thinks I'm your long lost brother. It had a kind of familiar look."
Miss G.—"Ridiculous!"
Mr. R.—"Why, he'd never suppose that I was a jilted lover of yours!"
Miss G., ruefully.—"No."
Mr. R.—"Come, Lucy,"—taking her hand,—"you wished to die with me, a moment ago. Don't you think you can make one more effort to live with me? I won't take advantage of words spoken in mortal peril, but I suppose you were in earnest when you called me your own—own—" Her head droops; he folds her in his arms, a moment, then she starts away from him, as if something had suddenly occurred to her.
Miss G.—"Allen, where are you going?"
Mr. R.—"Going? Upon my soul, I haven't the least idea."
Miss G.—"Wherewereyou going?"
Mr. R.—"O, Iwasgoing to Albany."
Miss G.—"Well, don't! Aunt Mary is expecting me here at Schenectady,—I telegraphed her,—and I want you to stophere, too, and we'll refer the whole matter to her. She's such a wise old head. I'm not sure"—
Mr. R.—"What?"
Miss G., demurely.—"That I'm good enough for you."
Mr. R., starting, in burlesque of her movement, as if a thought had struckhim.—"Lucy! how came you on this train when you left Syracuse on the morning express?"
Miss G., faintly.—"I waited over a train at Utica." She sinks into a chair and averts her face.