whole week spent in the society of her bosom friend was bound to call
up. "But why Lord Chilminster?" She pronounced the name Chilster.
"Why won't he do? Isn't he the real thing? I picked him out in my sample
book of the aristocracy, and when I fitted the name on to Jeannette--the
Countess of Chilminster--it sounded quite elegant."
"Then it wasn't because you knew I knew him?" demanded Mrs. Urmy's
hostess with growing amazement.
Mrs. Urmy's face took on a blank expression.
"You've heard me mention the name. That's how it's pronounced,"
explained Lady Hartley. "His place isn't far from here."
"You don't say! The way these British titles are pronounced is enough to
make you doubt your own eyesight. I didn't know. But if he's a friend of
yours that'll likely make it all the easier."
"Lord Chilminster!" Lady Hartley spoke in an awed tone.
She felt it would be useless to make Mrs. Urmy understand the enormity
of her offence against good taste, and presently her astonishment gave
way to amusement.
"Lavinia," she rippled, "as a matchmaker you take the cake! I don't
believe----" She paused, listening. "Hush! Here's Jeannette!"
Miss Jeannette Urmy came in through the open French window. She was
dressed in a natty little cotton frock, looked fresh and chic, and only
pleasantly American. Perhaps she inherited her good looks and refined
tastes from "popper" Urmy, deceased, in which case that gentleman must
have committed one serious error of taste and judgment when he selected
Jeannette's mother for his better half.
"My! You're late, Jeannette!" observed Mrs. Urmy, shooting a quick
glance at Lady Hartley.
At the same moment, both ladies, by common consent, sauntered toward the
door. They knew Jeannette's temperament. A crisis, such as the
announcement in the _Morning Post_ was sure to evoke, was one at which
they were not anxious to assist.
"Oh, I'm ahead of time," answered Jeannette. "I've been up since six
looking for eggs."
"Eggs?" echoed Lady Hartley.
"Yes; I collect birds' eggs." She picked up the newspaper and let her
eye wander along the items in the Court Circular. "But getting up early
makes me homesick. The best time of my life was when I was a kid, when I
hadn't an idea beyond the woods on the old Massachusetts farm, when
popper kept his store, and--Oh!"
She had reached the fatal announcement, and sat with parted lips, rigid
as stone, while the world seemed toppling about her ears. There was a
long pause. Jeannette's lips gradually tightened, and her firm hand
crumpled up the paper.
"Mommer!" she exclaimed. "Here, Mommer!" But Mrs. Urmy and Lady Hartley
had beaten a diplomatic retreat. Jeannette jumped to her feet, the color
flaming in her face, her eyes snapping with indignation. "Oh!" she
cried, impotently. "I'll--I'll--oh! what can I do? It must come out! He
must apologize. Who did it? Oh, I don't even know him, the--wretch!"
The "chuff-chuff" of a motor-car coming up the drive interrupted her
outburst, and she looked up to see it being driven up and halted before
the entrance. Lady Hartley had a perfect fleet of cars. Jeannette at
once jumped to the conclusion that this was one of them. She had a
sudden inspiration. It was running free--ready to start. There was
temptation in the soft purr of its engine. The driver, quietly dressed,
but not in livery, she appraised as one of Lady Hartley's motor-men.
"Shall I?" she whispered. "Dare I? I can set things straight at once if
I do. Persis will be wild with me for going off without a word, but
I'll--I'll chance it!"
She ran into the hall, slipped into her motoring coat, and, throwing
discretion to the winds, walked out to the front of the house and
quickly up to the car.
"How soon can you drive me to Sapworth Hall?" she asked, getting in and
pulling the rug around her.
The barefaced appropriation of his car by an unknown young woman almost
took Lord Chilminster's breath away. He had, at much inconvenience to
himself, motored all the way to Lady Hartley's to contradict and sift an
amazing and annoying report that he had discovered in the _Morning
Post_. He had heard Lady Hartley mention the name of Urmy as that of a
friend of hers, and naturally decided that she was the proper person to
consult. But before he had time to get out of his car and ring the bell
here was a young person, springing from goodness knows where, mistaking
him for a motor-man, and ordering him about. For a moment he was
speechless. Then, as the humor of the situation began to appeal to him,
so did the good looks of the girl.
"Really," he began. "You see I----"
"Don't talk, get under way!" commanded Jeannette. "Quick! Her ladyship
has altered her mind about going out. You've got to take me to Sapworth
Hall. It's thirty miles. I want to be there by lunch-time. Do you know
the way?"
"I--I think so," stammered Chilminster.
Her bewildering eagerness to be off was infectious. The noble owner of
the car felt it. But apart from that, he was quite ready for an
adventure in such pleasant company. He forgot all about the object of
his visit. Without another word he let in the clutch and started.
Jeannette sank back with a sigh of relief. She credited herself with
having secured Persis's car very neatly. The man might, perhaps, get
into trouble, but she could make that up to him by a generous tip. Her
one idea was to contradict and confute the disgraceful announcement at
its fountain-head. It was providential that the unknown Lord
Chilminster's place was so near; but had it been ten times as far off,
Jeannette, boiling with justifiable indignation, and with her mind made
up to exact reparation, would have gone there.
"It's awful! It's unheard of! I--I won't have it! Who can have done it?"
she kept repeating through white teeth set viciously. "I'll have it
contradicted in large print by this time to-morrow, or the American
Ambassador shall----"
She was not quite sure what ambassadors did under similar circumstances,
and she left the mental threat unfinished. Anyhow, it was a disgrace to
herself, and her sex, if not a slight on her country, and it redoubled
her determination to "get even" with the perpetrator of it. She leaned
forward to make herself heard.
"Set a killing pace," she called. "I'll make it up to you."
Chilminster nodded, hid a smile, and let the car out to the top of its
speed. It ate up mile after mile; and as it came to Jeannette that each
one brought her nearer and nearer to the hateful person whose name had
been so scandalously bracketed with her own, she experienced a feeling
of nervousness. The boldness of her escapade began to alarm her. What
should she say? How express in words her view of an intolerable
situation which no self-respecting girl could even calmly think about?
Lord Chilminster's mind was almost similarly engaged. He was wondering
who Miss Jeannette L. Urmy could be, and whether she was aware of the
obnoxious paragraph in the paper. He did not do her the injustice to
suppose that she had inspired it (he had an open mind on that point),
but as he was not responsible for it himself, he had a suspicion that
she might be. Chilminster had met very few unmarried American girls, but
like most Englishmen, he was aware of their capacity for resolution in
most matters. Then, again, it was leap year. Suppose---- For a little
while he did a lot of hard thinking.
"I say," he called suddenly, looking over his shoulder. "Isn't there a
Miss Urmy staying at the White House?"
Jeannette drew herself up and fixed him with a stony stare.
"I am Miss Urmy," she answered frigidly.
The start that Chilminster gave unconsciously affected the
steering-wheel, and the car swerved sharply.
"What are you doing? You're driving disgracefully!" exclaimed Jeannette.
"I--I beg your pardon," faltered Chilminster. "I thought you were her
lady's maid."
He felt he owed her that one. A girl who could announce her approaching
marriage with a stranger (Chilminster no longer gave her the benefit of
the doubt) and follow up that glaring indiscretion by a visit to her
victim, was---- The imminence of such a thing alarmed him. Was she
coming to propose--to molest him? He got hot thinking of it.
The situation had undergone a complete change since he had started out
in a rage, and some trepidation, to confront Miss Urmy herself, if need
be. Now trepidation over-balanced all his other emotions. Miss Urmy was
behind him, in his own automobile, and he was meekly driving her at a
cracking speed to his own house! It was too late to turn back now. The
thing had to be seen through. Besides, he could not help feeling a
curiosity to know what was in his passenger's mind, and to discover her
bewildering plan of action.
Neither spoke for the rest of the journey, and at length the car passed
through the lodge gates, swept up the drive, and stopped at the entrance
to Sapworth Hall. Jeannette got out.
"You had better go round to the stables and ask for something to eat. I
may be some time," was all she volunteered as she rang the bell.
Rather staggered by the order, but foreseeing a bad quarter of an hour
ahead of him, Chilminster was glad of the respite. He opened the
throttle and slid out of sight as Jeannette was admitted.
His lordship was out, the butler informed her. Then she would wait--wait
all day, if necessary, she said decisively, following the man into the
library. No, she was in no need of refreshment, but her _chauffeur_, who
had gone round to the stables, might be glad of something in the
servants' hall.
With a foot impatiently tapping the polished floor, she sat summoning up
all her determination whilst awaiting the ordeal before her. For, by
this time had come the inevitable reaction, and the sudden impulse that
had made her act as she had seemed, somehow, out of relation to the
motive that had inspired it. Not that she regretted having come: her
self-respect demanded that sacrifice; but she wished the unpleasant
affair over.
An intolerable ten minutes passed. The beautiful seventeenth century
room, like a reflection on the spirit of democracy, was getting on
Jeannette's nerves. The strain of listening, watching the big mahogany
door for the expected entrance of Lord Chilminster, at last reduced her
to a state of apathy, and when he did come quietly in she was taken by
surprise.
"I'm so sorry to have kept you waiting," he said.
Jeannette stared. Bareheaded, gaiterless, minus his driving coat, very
self-contained and eminently aristocratic, the supposed motor-man
advanced into the room.
"You see, you told me to take the car round to the stables," he
proceeded, with a touch of apology in his tone.
"You--you are the Earl of Chilminster?" she gasped.
"Of Sapworth Hall, Wilts," he augmented, like one who quotes. "And you
are Miss Jeannette L. Urmy, of Boston, Massachusetts, I believe."
There was quite a long silence.
"You knew all along," she flushed angrily.
Chilminster raised a hand in protest. "Not until you told me."
"Then why didn't you stop? You ought to have taken me back immediately
you knew who I was."
"So I would have if----"
"You mean you didn't believe me. You thought I was a lady's maid!"
Jeannette interrupted indignantly.
"That was an error of judgment for which I humbly apologize. We are all
liable to make mistakes sometimes. You, Miss Urmy, for instance, took me
for a motor-man. You also appropriated my car, and commanded me to bring
you here at a murderous--no, a killing pace. And I think you added that
you would make it up to me."
Jeannette's face tingled. She had come to accuse, and, instead, found
herself patiently listening to a recital of her indiscretions. But if
Lord Chilminster was a strategist, Jeannette was a tactician. She
appreciated the danger of a passive defense, and conversely, of the
value of a vigorous aggression. Without a moment's hesitation she began
a counter attack.
"In to-day's _Morning Post_----" she commenced.
"Ah, the _Morning Post_!" echoed Chilminster, also changing front.
"There was a disgraceful announcement."
"Half of it certainly was--irksome."
"Which half?" asked Jeannette suspiciously.
"I have no conscientious scruples about matrimony in the abstract,"
parried Chilminster.
"But I have. I object altogether to the paragraph. I resent it."
"Then you did not insert it?"
"I insert it? _I?_" flamed Jeannette. She drew herself up as haughtily
as a pretty woman can under the disadvantage of being seated in a
yielding easy chair. "Do you mean to assert, Lord Chilminster, that
I----?"
She was interrupted by the entrance of the butler.
"Luncheon is served, my lord," he announced.
"You will take off your coat?"
Lord Chilminster turned to Miss Urmy, and advanced a step in
anticipation. The butler--with a well-trained butler's promptness--was
behind her, and before she could frame a word of objection, the
fur-lined garment had slipped from her shoulders.
Thus must martyrs have marched to the stake, was one of Jeannette's
bewildered reflections as she preceded her host out of the room, and, as
in a dream, found herself a few minutes later facing him across the
luncheon table. Outwardly, the meal proceeded in well-ordered calm. Lord
Chilminster made no further reference to the debatable topic; only
talked lightly and pleasantly on a variety of non-committal subjects.
As the lady's host that, of course, was the only attitude he could
adopt; but the fact remains that he did so _de bonne volonte_. Perhaps
because, so far, he had scored more points than his opponent in the
morning's encounter; perhaps, also, because of her undeniable good
looks, his irritation, due to the circumstances that had prompted that
encounter, began to lessen with _truites en papilotte_, was almost
forgotten in face of a _mousse de volaille_, and entirely vanished among
_asperges vertes mousseline_.
Miss Jeannette L. Urmy, with her veil lifted, and relieved of her
voluminous coat, was, he had to admit, distractingly pretty; not at all
the type he had pictured as the original of the name. Young, pretty, and
charming women (he was convinced that _au fond_ she was charming) ought
to have no obstinate prejudices against marriage. He even ventured to
think that Miss Urmy's mind had become obscured on that point by
those--well, indiscreet lines in the _Morning Post_. They had upset him;
then why not her? They were so--premature.
As for Jeannette, in spite of Lord Chilminster's effortless ease, her
powers of conversation were frozen. She was reduced to monosyllables,
and she ate in proportion. It was a humiliating experience to be
accepting the hospitality of the enemy; one, moreover, that made it
awkward for her to prolong hostilities. Having broken bread in his
tents (a Puritan strain was responsible for the illustration) she felt
disarmed. Besides, she was rather ashamed of her maladroitness in
mistaking Lord Chilminster for a common motor-man. It argued
_gaucherie_. Perhaps he thought her unconventional call a violation of
good taste--considered her forward! He had plainly shown his annoyance
about that obnox--that embarrassing paragraph, and that fact spiked most
of her batteries. He might, after all, prove to be quite----
"Do you mind if I smoke?"
Lord Chilminster's voice startled her out of her reverie. The servants
had noiselessly retired, and they were alone.
"I--I feel ready to sink through the floor," she rejoined
inconsequently.
He returned his cigarette case to his pocket, looking quite concerned.
"I'm so sorry. I ought not to have----"
"No, no. Please smoke. It isn't that," stammered Jeannette.
"It's the _Morning Post_?"
Jeannette evaded his eye.
"Yes; it does put us in rather a tight place," mediated Chilminster.
Nothing was said for a moment.
"Engaged!" he murmured.
Jeannette raised her eyes and noted his reflective attitude.
"Who can have put it in?" he went on.
"I can't imagine."
"And why?"
"It does seem strange," admitted Jeannette in a detached tone.
"It's not as if we were----"
"No," she interposed hurriedly.
"Well, what ought we to do about it? Of course, we can contradict it,
but----"
"But what?" she asked, filling his pause.
"I hate advertisement--that is, _unnecessary_ advertisement,"
Chilminster corrected himself. "It would make us--I mean me--look so--so
vacillating."
He looked up rather suddenly, and just missed Jeannette's eyes by the
thousandth of a second.
What could he mean? she asked herself, while her heart pumped
boisterously. Was he magnanimous enough to be thinking of accepting a
compromising situation to save her? What he had said sounded very
unselfish. Of course, she couldn't allow him to. What a pity he was not
an American--or something quite ordinary. Then she might----
"There's nothing for it but to write to the paper, I suppose?" he said
ruefully.
"I--I suppose not." The comment was dragged from Jeannette in a tone as
unconsciously reluctant as his was rueful.
Chilminster sighed. "It's so rough on you."
Jeannette felt a consuming anxiety to know whether his sympathy was
occasioned by the announcement or the suggested denial of it.
"And on you, too," she admitted. "What were you thinking--how did you
propose to phrase it?"
"I?" he asked apprehensively. "To be quite frank. I haven't got as far
as that. Never wrote to the papers in my life," he added
pusillanimously.
"But _I_ can't," argued Jeannette. Her determination of two hours ago
had vanished into the Ewigkeit.
Chilminster had an inspiration. "What do you say if we do it together?"
While she digested this expedient he fetched paper and pencil, and then
sat gazing at the ceiling for inspiration.
"Well?" she queried at the end of a minute.
"How ought one to begin these things?" asked the desperate man.
Jeannette cogitated deeply. "It's so difficult to say what one wants to
a stranger in a letter, isn't it?" she hesitated. "Wouldn't a telegram
do?"
"By Jove! Yes; and simply say: 'Miss Urmy wishes to deny----'"
"In _my_ name!" exclaimed Jeannette.
"Well--you are the person aggrieved."
"I really don't think it's fair to put the whole of the responsibility
on my shoulders," she demurred.
"No, I suppose not," Chilminster admitted grudgingly. "How would this
do: 'Miss Urmy and Lord Chilminster wish to contradict their
engagement----'"
"But that implies that there _was_ an engagement!"
Chilminster pondered the deduction. "So it does. I see. People would
jump to the conclusion that we were in a desperate hurry to alter our
minds!"
"And, of course, we haven't."
"Y-es. I don't know how you feel about it, but if there's one thing I
dislike it's tittle-tattle about my private affairs."
"Horrid!" shivered Jeannette. "What _are_ we to do?"
Her tone was so hopeless, so full of tears, that it melted Chilminster.
Susceptibilities that had been simmering within him for an hour past
came unexpectedly to the boil; and as they did so the difficulty
vanished.
"Why need we bother at all about it?" he asked impulsively.
For a world of moments, Jeannette stared at him, revolving the question.
Then a faint radiance came into her face, and grew and grew until it
burned. Jeannette bit her lip. Jeannette looked down.
"What do you mean?" she asked in confusion.
"Don't--don't you think we had better--take the consequences?" said
Chilminster, as he reached across the table and let his hand fall on
hers.
* * * * *
Mrs. Urmy stood at the window looking with lack-lustre eyes across the
park. She had had six solid hours in which to reflect on that risky
communication of hers to the _Morning Post_, and Jeannette's
disappearance since breakfast time provided a gloomy commentary on it.
She fidgeted uneasily as she recalled her daughter's scared look when
reading the paper, and maternal forebodings discounted her interest in
an automobile that showed at intervals between the trees of the drive as
it approached the White House.
But two moments later it occurred to her that it was Jeannette who sat
on its front seat beside the driver; and, as the car drew up, her
experienced eye detected something in the demeanor of the pair that
startled but elated her.
"Here's Jeannette!" she called over her shoulder to Lady Hartley. "In an
auto with a young man. Say, Persis, who is he?"
Lady Hartley hurried to the window, gave one look, and doubted the
evidence of her eyes.
"Lavinia, it's Lord Chilminster!" she cried, with a catch in her voice.
The two women flashed a glance brimful of significance at one another.
Lady Hartley's expressed uncertainty; Mrs. Urmy's triumph--sheer,
complete, perfect triumph.
"Didn't I say it was a sure thing?" she shrilled excitedly. "It's fixed
them up! Come right ahead and introduce me to my future son-in-law!"
As she raced to the door she added half to herself: "I don't want to
boast, but, thank the Lord, I've got Jeannette off this season!"
XII
THE MILLION DOLLAR FREIGHT TRAIN
The Story of a Young Engineer
By FRANK H. SPEARMAN
IT WAS the second month of the strike, and not a pound of freight had
been moved. Things did look smoky on the West End. The General
Superintendent happened to be with us when the news came. "You can't
handle it, boys," said he nervously. "What you'd better do is to turn it
over to the Columbian Pacific."
Our contracting freight agent on the Coast at that time was a fellow so
erratic that he was nicknamed "Crazy-horse." Right in the midst of the
strike Crazy-horse wired that he had secured a big silk shipment for New
York. We were paralyzed. We had no engineers, no firemen, and no motive
power to speak of. The strikers were pounding our men, wrecking our
trains, and giving us the worst of it generally; that is, when we
couldn't give it to them. Why the fellow displayed his activity at that
particular juncture still remains a mystery. Perhaps he had a grudge
against the road; if so, he took an artful revenge. Everybody on the
system with ordinary railroad sense knew that our struggle was to keep
clear of freight business until we got rid of our strike. Anything
valuable or perishable was especially unwelcome. But the stuff was
docked, and loaded, and consigned in our care before we knew it. After
that, a refusal to carry it would be like hoisting the white flag; and
that is something which never yet flew over the West End.
"Turn it over to the Columbian," said the General Superintendent; but
the General Superintendent was not looked up to on our division. He
hadn't enough sand. Our head was a fighter, and he gave tone to every
man under him. "No," he thundered, bringing down his fist. "Not in a
thousand years. We'll move it ourselves. Wire Montgomery (the General
Manager) that we will take care of it. And wire him to fire
Crazy-horse--and to do it right off." And before the silk was turned
over to us Crazy-horse was looking for another job. It is the only case
on record where a freight hustler was discharged for getting business.
There were twelve carloads; it was insured for $85,000 a car; you can
figure how far the title is wrong, but you never can estimate the worry
the stuff gave us. It looked as big as twelve million dollars' worth. In
fact, one scrub car-link, with the glory of the West End at heart, had a
fight over the amount with a skeptical hostler. He maintained that the
actual money value was a hundred and twenty millions; but I give you the
figures just as they went over the wire, and they are right.
What bothered us most was that the strikers had the tip almost as soon
as we had it. Having friends on every road in the country, they knew as
much about our business as we ourselves. The minute it was announced
that we should move the silk, they were after us. It was a defiance; a
last one. If we could move freight--for we were already moving
passengers after a fashion--the strike might be well accounted beaten.