The up train stopped, a porter sprang down the steps with two heavy
bags, assisted a lady to descend, climbed on board again, and he and the
train went off, leaving the lady and the bags there. The platform was
deserted, shining like a treacherous sheet of water beneath the dim
lamps. The rain fell steadily. It was the blackest and most dismal night
that ever was.
For some time the lady stood just where she had been left, with an
annoyed, affronted expression upon her face, as if she was waiting for
some one to come and remove this unpleasant weather. Nobody came,
nothing stirred, and she herself was strangely inactive.
Did she look like a submissive or helpless creature? On the contrary,
she was a portly, white-haired lady, dressed in black of a somewhat
majestic style, and not only her face, but the set of her plump
shoulders and even the jet ornament on her toque, seemed to be alive
with energy and resolution.
Yet she did not move. She turned her head to the north--rain and
darkness were there. She turned it to the south--the same thing. Behind
her she knew there was nothing but the railway track; so, with a sigh,
she picked up the bags and went on toward the waiting room.
Then, had there been any one there to see, the secret of her reluctance
to move would have been revealed. This imposing and dignified lady,
whose very glance was a rebuke to frivolity, had nevertheless one
outrageous vanity--she _would_ wear shoes that were too small for her.
Setting down the bags, she turned the handle of the door, and it was
locked. Through the glass she could see into the dimly lit room, where
there were plenty of benches upon which a sufferer might rest.
Exasperated, she rattled the knob and rapped upon the glass, but all in
vain. Picking up the bags again, she made her way painfully to the end
of the platform, to see what she could see.
The town of Binnersville, however, was one of those illogical towns
which are almost invisible from their own proper railway stations. There
lay before her a forlorn and lifeless street lined with small shops, all
tight shut, and not a human being in sight.
Her sharp eyes, however, caught sight of something very welcome. At the
end of the street, standing before a faintly illuminated drug store,
there was a real, civilized taxi. With all the speed possible to her she
went toward it, to seize it before it could vanish.
The street was slippery, the bags were heavy, and the portly lady in her
little high-heeled shoes made a dangerous progress. Nevertheless, she
got there. Seeing no driver where a driver should have been, and being a
woman of enterprise and resource, she set down her bags, leaned across
the seat, and blew the horn three or four times--great, loud squawks
that resounded startlingly through the night.
At once the door of the drug store opened, and a young man appeared on
the threshold.
“Kindly take me to No. 93 Sloan Street,” said the portly, white-haired
lady.
“But I’m not the driver,” said the young man.
“Then kindly call the driver!” said she.
Opening the door of the cab, she managed, with considerable effort, to
shove one of her bags inside. The young man was there to help her with
the other.
“The driver’s in the shop,” he explained, “getting something taken out
of his eye; but--”
“Be good enough to tell him I am waiting,” said she.
“He’ll be along in a minute, and then he can take us both to--”
“Pardon me!” said the portly lady, in a perfectly awful voice.
The young man seemed a little taken aback. She was now settled inside
the cab, and he was standing outside in the rain. It was very dark, and
they could not see each other; but so expressive was her voice that he
fancied he knew how she looked.
“I shall instruct the driver to return here for you, if you wish,” said
she.
“But, you see,” said the young man, quite good-humoredly, “I had engaged
this cab. It’s late, and the weather’s bad, and I’m going in your
direction. We can--”
“Pardon me! I cannot consent to that.”
“What?” persisted the young man. “Why not?”
“It is not my custom to encourage chance acquaintances,” replied she.
“If you insist upon getting in, I shall get out.”
“But look here!” protested the young man. “I--”
She was already struggling with the handle of the door.
“Very well!” he said curtly. “I’ll go!”
As he turned, he saw the driver coming out of the shop, holding a
handkerchief to his eye.
“This lady wants to go to No. 93 Sloan Street,” said he. “Oh, never mind
me!”
And he set off on foot up the hilly street, in the pelting rain. The
portly, white-haired lady watched him go.
“I cannot,” she said, half aloud, “encourage chance
acquaintances--especially on Lynn’s account.”