Verrian stared at her now from a visage that was an entire blank, though
behind it conjecture was busy, and he was asking himself whether his
companion was some new kind of hair-dresser, or uncommonly cultivated
manicure, or a nursery governess obeying a hurry call to take a place in
Mrs. Westangle’s household, or some sort of amateur housekeeper arriving
to supplant a professional. But he said nothing.
Miss Shirley said, with a distress which was genuine, though he
perceived a trace of amusement in it, too, “I see that I will have to go
on.”
“Oh, do!” he made out to utter.
“I am going to Mrs. Westangle’s as a sort of mistress of the revels.
The business is so new that it hasn’t got its name yet, but if I fail it
won’t need any. I invented it on a hint I got from a girl who undertakes
the floral decorations for parties. I didn’t see why some one shouldn’t
furnish suggestions for amusements, as well as flowers. I was always
rather lucky at that in my own fam--at my father’s--” She pulled herself
sharply up, as if danger lay that way. “I got an introduction to Mrs.
Westangle, and she’s to let me try. I am going to her simply as part of
the catering, and I’m not to have any recognition in the hospitalities.
So it wasn’t necessary for her to send for me at the station, except as
a means of having me on the ground in good season. I have to thank you
for that, and--I thank you.” She ended in a sigh.
“It’s very interesting,” Verrian said, and he hoped he was not saying it
in any ignoble way.
He was very presently to learn. Round a turn of the road there came
a lively clacking of horses’ shoes on the hard track, with the muted
rumble of rubber-tired wheels, and Mrs. Westangle’s victoria dashed
into view. The coachman had made a signal to Verrian’s driver, and the
vehicles stopped side by side. The footman instantly came to the door of
the carryall, touching his hat to Verrian.
“Going to Mrs. Westangle’s, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Mrs. Westangle’s carriage. Going to the station for you, sir.”
“Miss Shirley,” Verrian said, “will you change?”
“Oh no,” she answered, quickly, “it’s better for me to go on as I am.
But the carriage was sent for you. You must--”
Verrian interrupted to ask the footman, “How far is it yet to Mrs.
Westangle’s?”
“About a mile, sir.”
“I think I won’t change for such a short distance. I’ll keep on as I
am,” Verrian said, and he let the goatskin, which he had half lifted to
free Miss Shirley for dismounting, fall back again. “Go ahead, driver.”
She had been making several gasping efforts at speech, accompanied with
entreating and protesting glances at Verrian in the course of his brief
colloquy with the footman. Now, as the carryall lurched forward again,
and the victoria wheeled and passed them on its way back, she caught her
handkerchief to her face, and to Verrian’s dismay sobbed into it. He let
her cry, as he must, in the distressful silence which he could not be
the first to break. Besides, he did not know how she was taking it all
till she suddenly with threw her handkerchief and pulled down her veil.
Then she spoke three heart-broken words, “How could you!” and he divined
that he must have done wrong.
“What ought I to have done?” he asked, with sullen humility.
“You ought to have taken the victoria.”
“How could I?”
“You ought to have done it.”
“I think you ought to have done it yourself, Miss Shirley,” Verrian
said, feeling like the worm that turns. He added, less resentfully, “We
ought both to have taken it.”
“No, Mrs. Westangle might have felt, very properly, that it was
presumptuous in me, whether I came alone in it or with you. Now we shall
arrive together in this thing, and she will be mortified for you and
vexed with me. She will blame me for it, and she will be right, for
it would have been very well for me to drive up in a shabby station
carryall; but an invited guest--”
“No, indeed, she shall not blame you, Miss Shirley. I will make a point
of taking the whole responsibility. I will tell her--”
“Mr. Merriam!” she cried, in anguish. “Will you please do nothing of the
kind? Do you want to make bad worse? Leave the explaining altogether to
me, please. Will you promise that?”
“I will promise that--or anything--if you insist,” Verrian sulked.
She instantly relented a little. “You mustn’t think me unreasonable. But
I was determined to carry my undertaking through on business principles,
and you have spoiled my chance--I know you meant it kindly or, if
not spoiled, made it more difficult. Don’t think me ungrateful. Mr.
Merriam--”
“My name isn’t Merriam,” he resented, at last, a misnomer which had
annoyed him from the first.
“Oh, I am so glad! Don’t tell me what it is!” she said, giving a laugh
which had to go on a little before he recognized the hysterical quality
in it. When she could check it she explained: “Now we are not even
acquainted, and I can thank a stranger for the kindness you have shown
me. I am truly grateful. Will you do me another favor?”
“Yes,” Verrian assented; but he thought he had a right to ask, as though
he had not promised, “What is it?”
“Not to speak of me to Mrs. Westangle unless she speaks of me first.”
“That’s simple. I don’t know that I should have any right to speak of
you.”
“Oh yes, you would. She will expect you, perhaps, to laugh about the
little adventure, and I would rather she began the laughing you have
been so good.”
“All right. But wouldn’t my silence make it rather more awkward?”
“I will take care of the awkwardness, thank you. And you promise?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“That is very good of you.” She put her hand impulsively across the
goat-skin, and gave his, with which he took it in some surprise, a quick
clasp. Then they were both silent, and they got out of the carryall
under Mrs. Westangle’s porte-cochere without having exchanged another
word. Miss Shirley did not bow to him or look at him in parting.