Telling Madeleine not to unpack her bags, I gave her one of my
kimonos and ordered her to lie down while I slipped down-stairs for a
few words with Mrs. Mundy. There was time for only a hurried talk,
but during it I told her what I wanted her to do, what she must get
Mr. Crimm to do, and also, if inquiry was made for me during the
coming day she was to say I was out and she did not know just when I
would be in. As Mrs. Swink was unaware that her daughter had made
frequent visits to Scarborough Square at the same time Mr. Thomas
Cressy happened to be there, she was hardly apt to associate me with
their departure from the city; still, with less justice I have been
held responsible for things with which I had nothing to do, and, that
Mrs. Mundy be prepared for possible questions, I gave her a few
instructions concerning them.
She recalled clearly the conversation of which I had heard a few
words, but the girl talking to her had not mentioned the name of the
girl of whom she talked, or of that of the man who was being nursed
by her.
"She spoke of her as a friend who was a fool to care for a man as she
cared." Mrs. Mundy put her hand to her mouth to cover a yawn. "She
said--"
I got up. It was too late for details. "Find the girl who came to
see you, and if the friend of whom she is speaking is Etta Blake, get
her address and go to see her, if you can. If not, send Mr. Crimm.
Tell the latter he must find Harrie. He may be somewhere under an
assumed name. So may Etta Blake. Do you suppose it is possible
they--can be together somewhere?"
"Anything is possible." Mrs. Mundy blinked her eyes bravely to
prevent my seeing the overpowering sleep in them, and quickly I went
to the door.
"It's a shame you have to go to the train with us. You can come
right back, however, and sleep as late as you want. The cab will be
here at three-thirty. Take a nap until then, and don't look so
worried. I'm not committing a crime. I'm helping to keep some one
else from committing one. Good night." I kissed the dear soul and,
leaving her, hurried up-stairs.
Madeleine was lying down when I came back in the room, and, wanting
much to talk, she began to do so, but unfeelingly I made her stop.
Getting out the oldest and shabbiest dress I possessed, with a hat to
correspond, I took off my party dress and slipped into a warm and
worn wrapper. After putting a few things in a bag, without further
undressing, I stretched out on the couch near the foot of the bed and
in the dark called to Madeleine.
"You won't be a beautiful bride if you don't get some sleep. Shut
your eyes." Mine were shut. I wasn't going to be married. I was
only a very tired maiden-lady about to do something she had no
business doing, and shamelessly I went to sleep and left Madeleine
awake.
Seemingly I had slept but a few minutes when, opening my eyes, I saw
Madeleine standing, fully dressed, by the side of my couch, and
looking down at me. "It's ten minutes past three," she said. "I
hate to wake you, but--"
Springing up, I threw off my wrapper and reached down for my shoes.
"If you'd waked me before you put on your dress you wouldn't have to
take it off. You're going to wear that dress." I pointed to the one
on the chair behind her. "I'm sorry your wedding garments can't be
more festive, and that I'll have to wear your good clothes, but we
mustn't run risks merely for pride. Take your dress off quickly and
give it to me. Don't look at me, but hurry."
Madeleine's mind does not work as quickly as some people's, and a
little time was lost in explaining that any description to which she
would answer would have to apply to me, not her. In consequence the
cab was at the door before she was fully garmented in my plainest
clothes and I arrayed in her beautiful ones, and regretfully she
looked at me. I am taller and slenderer than Madeleine, but fashion
was in my favor, and the absence of fit and shortness of skirt gave
emphasis of adherence to its requirements. I looked the part. She
didn't.
At the station Tom and Selwyn were waiting and their puzzled
incomprehension was even greater than Madeleine's had been.
Explanations included a few suggestions as to the wisdom of our
separating and, the men agreeing, Selwyn and I went in the Pullman,
and poor little rich Madeleine and Tom to a day-coach, where crying
babies and peanut-hulls and close air and torn papers would have made
them wretchedly unhappy had they not been happily unconscious of
them. I was sorry for them, but marriage involves much. As the
train pulled out I waved from the window to Mrs. Mundy, who, on the
platform, waved back with one hand and with the other wiped her eyes.
Mrs. Mundy loves me, but she, too, does not always approve of me.
Travel evidently was light. The sleeper in which we found ourselves
had barely two-thirds of the berths made up, and, the rest of the
seats being empty, we took ours in a corner where in an undertone we
could talk and not disturb others. Taking off Madeleine's handsome
fur coat and newest hat I put the latter in its paper bag and gave
the former to Selwyn to hang on a hook. Gloves and other things
being disposed of, I again sat down and suggested that he, also, make
himself comfortable, and at the same time change his expression.
"Later you can smoke, but at present you will have to be in here
where I'm compelled to look at you. The photographic injunction to
look pleasant oughtn't to apply only to the taking of pictures. For
the love of Heaven, sit down, Selwyn, and behave yourself!"
Selwyn hung up his hat and coat and took the seat opposite mine.
From him came radiation of endurance, and, objecting to being
endured, I spoke impatiently. I did not care to be traveling at four
o'clock in the morning any more than he did, but much in life has to
be done that isn't preferable. He had invited himself to take the
trip. His desire to share any criticism coming to me for my part in
it was sincere, but rather than shielding it might subject me to an
increased amount. For the first time such a possibility came to me,
and, looking up, I saw his eyes were gravely watching me.
"I thought I was behaving. I'm willing to play the part properly if
I know the part, but I don't know it. Your intimations have been
indefinite."
"There's been no time for any other sort. When Mrs. Swink learns
that Madeleine and Tom have run away she will begin to ask where, and
somebody will certainly suggest Claxon."
"Then why go to Claxon?"
"They're not going to Claxon. We are going there. Just this side is
a little station at which they can take a local for Shelby. They
will change at this station and go to Shelby while we keep on to
Claxon and get off there."
"But last night you insisted on their going to Claxon." Selwyn's
voice implied that a woman's methods of management were beyond a
man's understanding.
"Inquiries will be made as to who bought tickets for Claxon. Mrs.
Swink will have the whole police department running around for clues
and things. I told you not to buy tickets. Did you?"
"I did not. I'm taking orders and doing what I'm told, but, being
new at it, I don't work as smoothly as I might. Is there any special
reason why I shouldn't have bought tickets?"
"There is." I opened my pocket-book, and, taking out a note, handed
it to him. "I'll take breakfast with you but I'll have to pay my
railroad fare. I didn't want you to get tickets, because if two
couples bought them it would cause confusion and telegrams might be
sent to Shelby also. I didn't have time to think it all out last
night. I only knew Tom and Madeleine must seemingly go to Claxon and
yet not go. I wasn't sure what could be done, but after you decided
to come I thought we could play the part and give them time to be
married at Shelby."
"You mean you and I are to pretend we are somebody else, mean--"
Selwyn's voice was protestingly puzzled. Impersonation did not
appeal.
"There'll be no necessity to pretend. If a sheriff, with orders to
do so, takes charge of us he will hardly believe our assertion that
we are not the parties wanted. He's used to that. All we will have
to do is to wait until Tom and Madeleine come back. When they show
as proper a marriage certificate as a dairy-maid and farmer-laddie
ever framed he will let us go. You don't look as if playing groom to
my bride pleases you. I'm sorry, but--"
Into Selwyn's eyes came that which made me turn mine away and look
out of the window. Unthinkingly I had invited what he was going to
say. "Playing groom does not interest me. Why play? And stop
looking out of the window." He changed his seat and took the one
beside me. "Look at me, Danny. Why can't we be married at Claxon?
We'll wait for those children to come back and then--"
"Is that exactly fair?" I drew away the hands he was hurting in his
tense grip. "I hardly thought you'd take--" I shut my eyes to keep
back quick tears for which there was no accounting. Something
curious was suddenly possessing me, something that for weeks I had
seemed fighting and resisting. An overmastering desire to give in;
to surrender, to yield to his love for me, to mine for him, was
disarming me, and swift, inexplicable impulse to marry him and give
up the thing I was trying to do urged and swept over me. And then I
remembered his house with its high walls. And I remembered
Scarborough Square. Until there was between them sympathy and
understanding there could be no abiding basis on which love could
build and find enrichment and fulfilment. Straightening, I sat up,
but I was conscious of being very tired.
"Please don't, Selwyn." The hand I had drawn away I held out to him.
"We must not think or talk of ourselves to-day. This is not our day."
"But I want my day." His strong fingers twisted into mine with
bruising force. "I have waited long for it. For all others you have
consideration, but my happiness alone you ignore. You seem to think
my endurance is beyond limit. How long are you going to keep this
thing up? Some day you are going to marry me. Why not to-day?"
I shook my head. "I cannot marry you today. Take care--" The
conductor was coming down the aisle toward us.