desperate. "You've no right to keep me here like this, and it won't do
you a bit of good, for if you stand there till we're both in our second
childhood, I won't change my mind. You ought to know that now, Mr.
Parker. Please let me go."
He didn't move.
"If you don't, I'll scream at the top of my lungs," I said. And he must
have seen that I meant it, for he flung open the door with a slam and I
swept past him, with my nose in the air, trying to look like Mother.
[Illustration: "_I swept past him with my nose in the air, trying to
look like Mother_"]
I didn't see him again till it was time to go home. Then he drove back
with Mrs. Ess Kay and me to The Moorings in the shut-up motor car, and
didn't open his mouth once on the way--which was wonderful for him, and
seemed somehow ominous.
I had been too angry and excited after that scene of ours to feel
unhappy, or to worry much about what might come next, but that drive,
short as it was, with Potter freezingly silent, and Mrs. Ess Kay
alarmingly polite, made me feel that the end had come. I was sure she
had been told by her brother what an obstinate, ungrateful girl I was,
and I had a guilty sinking of the heart, as if I really had been both.
There was no Sally to protect me now, no one to advise me what to do,
and there was a big lump in my throat as I said good night and went to
my own room.
I hadn't been there long when there came a knock at the door--the same
determined kind of inexorable knock which Mother gives when I've been
found out in something which she thinks it her duty to make me sorry
for.
I'd locked the door, and would have liked to make some excuse not to
open it; but it was Mrs. Ess Kay's door, and Mrs. Ess Kay's room, just
as much as it was Mrs. Ess Kay's brother I had refused.
She sailed in all in black, like an executioner, though of course,
executioners don't go down into history wearing chiffon trimmed with
jet.
"My dear Betty," said she, subsiding into a large armchair, "I want to
have a serious talk with you."
It would have been stupid pretending not to understand, so I just
looked at her, and waited.
"I daresay, you can guess what it's about?" she went on.
"I suppose so," I said. "I'm very sorry about everything. But I can't
help not being in love with Mr. Parker, can I?"
"I should have thought," said Mrs. Ess Kay, "that your Mother's
daughter would have attached very little importance to being in love.
Apparently she hasn't been as successful with you as with Lady
Victoria. Believe me, Betty, there's nothing in it--nothing at all."
"In what?"
"In what you call 'being in love.' A girl fancies a man for his eyes,
or his dancing, or because he is strong, and she thinks she's in love
with him, but it's only a fancy which passes before she's been his wife
for twelve months, and she wonders what she ever saw in him then. A
year after you have been married to my brother, you will be very fond
of him, and you will be one of the most important young women in
America as well as in Europe. Oh, my dear, you will _have_ to take him.
Your Mother will never forgive you, if you don't. It was quite an
understood thing between us, when she lent you to me, that if possible
there was to be a match. Your beauty and name, and Potter's money. He's
really a very good fellow--a temper, perhaps; but I wouldn't give much
for a man without one, and like most Americans, he'll make a splendid
husband."
"For someone," I murmured.
"For you, Betty. I assure you, I daren't tell the Duchess you've
definitely refused Potter. You must be persuaded. Be engaged to him;
let him follow you to England."
"If I did that, I should find myself being married off to him before I
knew."
"Well, and if you did? It would be because you'd had the chance to
change your mind."
I shook my head. "I must go home to England," I said, "but Mr. Parker
mustn't follow me."
Mrs. Ess Kay's face hardened.
"I'm afraid if you go home after refusing Potter, you'll have a very
poor welcome, my child. The Duchess has been kind enough to take me a
little into her confidence. I don't think she would have sent you over
with me, if she hadn't known something about Potter; and your sister's
affairs aren't arranged yet. Oh, you needn't blush, and look so
indignant. The Duchess didn't mind putting her difficulties in a
letter, when I wrote her you weren't behaving quite satisfactorily, and
you may take it from me that at present things stand like this: You
must go back an engaged girl or else stay away until Lady Victoria is
married."
If Mother were different, I should have hoped Mrs. Ess Kay was
exaggerating; but as it was, I believed her, though I did my best to be
high-eyebrowed and incredulous, till she remarked that I could see the
Duchess's letter if I liked, though it might be rather embarrassing.
I was sure it would be, and preferred to take its contents on faith;
but I was so miserable that I had to keep my eyes staring wide open to
prevent the tears dropping down. I was tired, and forlorn, and
homesick--for Vic and Stan, and the dear dogs and everything except
Mother--and I felt such a horrible weakness creeping over me that I
could even imagine myself by and by doing what they meant me to do. I
thought the best thing was to gain a respite, lest Mrs. Ess Kay should
drag some kind of a concession from me, which I would have to live up
to, afterwards.
"I can't talk any more about it now," I said. "I believe what you say,
but it only makes it worse for me, to think that Mother should have
made what amounts to a kind of bargain with you. Maybe by to-morrow
everything won't seem so dreadful."
She got up, with a relieved air. Perhaps even she hadn't been enjoying
the conversation.
"Of course it won't," said she. "It won't seem dreadful at all. You've
no idea how happy we're all going to be. Now, just you sleep well, and
dream sweet dreams, and you'll wake up feeling a different girl. Maybe
poor Potter hasn't been as tactful as he might be; that's because he's
too much in love to be clever. But he has a lovely surprise for you
to-morrow. Something connected with a certain finger of your left hand.
I promise you that you'll like it; and now I'm going to leave you in
peace for the night." I can't tell what savage deed I mightn't have
been capable of doing if she had had the idea of kissing me; but she
hadn't. She merely patted me on the shoulder, and went out, leaving me
to stare aimlessly at the door after she had softly closed it.
XIII
ABOUT RUNNING AWAY
I don't know how long it was before the thought came to me that I would
take Vivace and a handbag and run away to Sally; but anyway it was
before it had occurred to me to sit down.
Sally said before she went away that I was to go to her if I felt like
it, and Sally always means what she says. Now I felt like it so much
that it seemed suddenly the only possible thing to do, so all I had to
decide was the best way and the best time to do it.
As for the time, if I didn't escape before Mrs. Ess Kay and Potter
formed a hollow square round me to pour their volleys into my heart in
the morning, all that was prophetic in my soul said I would never
escape, but would suffer great confusion and rout.
As for the way, it was more difficult to make up my mind, but the first
thing was to see how much money I had in my exchequer--which happened
to be a gold purse Sally had given me.
I hadn't spent much, and since coming over, dear old Stan had sent me
another fifteen pounds, which he wrote was part of one night's winnings
at bridge--unusual for him, if it's true, as Vic thinks that he
continually loses. Altogether, I had nearly thirty pounds in hand,
which seemed a lot, only I didn't know at all how much it would cost
for Vivace and me to reach Sally in Chicago; and I couldn't tell until
I had got irrevocably away from Mrs. Ess Kay and The Moorings.
By this time it was nearly two o'clock, and in a couple of hours it
would be light. I must sneak out of the house with a dressing bag
before any of the servants were stirring, and meanwhile I must pack up
all my belongings except such things as Mrs. Ess Kay had given me--so
that I could write and have my boxes sent on by and by.
As soon as I had realised that there wasn't a minute to throw away, the
worst was over, for I didn't stop to grizzle. I finished getting out of
my bridesmaid's dress in which I had danced so gaily a little while
ago, dashed a thin frock, a dressing gown and a few others things into
my fitted dressing bag (which was almost too heavy to carry, but not
quite), and then stuffed everything else, except a travelling frock,
into the boxes that were stored in a huge wardrobe built into the wall.
I made all the haste I could, but I'm not clever at packing, so I heard
some clock striking four, when I had slipped on my thin grey canvas
coat and skirt, and was putting on my hat, with cold hands that
trembled so much I could hardly stick in the hat pins.
I had been excited enough the day I heard I was to come to Mrs. Ess
Kay, but I was twice as excited now when I was going to leave her. I
felt rather frightened, still I couldn't help smiling when I said to
myself how little I had thought when I learned the great news about
America and Mrs. Ess Kay, in what circumstances I should part from her.
Each step Vivace and I took in the corridors and on the stairs seemed
to make such an incredible noise in the quiet house, that I felt like a
runaway elephant eloping with a hippopotamus, but either it wasn't as
bad as I thought, or everyone was lying charmed in a magic sleep, for
we got out through a window in the dining room, down the verandah steps
and across the lawn without being stopped, as I half expected.
I knew the way to the railway station very well, for I had often been
there since I arrived (the last time was when I saw Sally off), but the
question was, when would there be a train? And a good deal depended on
that question, for though Mrs. Ess Kay and Potter might not exactly
have the power to drag me back, I wanted to get as far away from them
as I could before they discovered that I had gone.
I was horrified to find when we arrived that--as the Americans
say--there was "nothing doing," not a soul in sight, and there I was,
very hot and hysterical, with Vivace and my dressing bag looking like
an escaped burglaress. I had been so nervous while I was packing, that
I'd been afraid of everything, even the soap in the soap dish, which
had two great blinking bubbles at one end, like a pair of goblin eyes
that watched me move, but I was much worse now, and I could have fallen
on the neck of the first official person I saw moving about the station
after I had waited for perhaps a quarter of an hour. I don't know what
he was, but when I appealed to him for news of a train for New York,
instead of calling the police to give Vivace and me in charge as a
dangerous pair, he scratched his head and said there was a milk train
due presently, if I was mighty anxious.
A milk train sounded innocent and suitable to a girl travelling alone,
but even if it hadn't I should have been thankful to go in it. I
couldn't buy a ticket, it appeared, in the ordinary way; but when the
milk train came my man introduced me to another. Perhaps he was a
milkman; anyway he seemed to have authority, and he said as a favour
Vivace and I could be taken. He was a nice person, and he talked a
great deal after the train had given several false starts and at last
had got off. I sat on my bag, as I had on the docks, in a bare, curious
car, which really belonged to the milk, and sometimes when we bumped I
should have fallen on the floor if it hadn't been for him. He told me
all about himself, and wanted to be told all about me, but I thought,
nice as he was, it would be safer not. He asked leading questions which
it was hard to keep from answering, unless I hurt his feelings; but I
think he somehow got the impression that I was going to see a sick
relative, though I never exactly said so.
I don't know what time I should have got to New York if I had had to
travel all the way with the milk, for milk it seems objects to speed;
but after we had jogged along for a couple of hours, we crawled into a
station where a real train was ready to start. There were just five
minutes to say farewell to my friend, and buy a ticket, when all
flushed and panting, I found myself and Vivace and the bag, in a car
different from any I had seen yet. It had no nice easy chairs and plate
glass mirrors and wire nettings in the windows, like the one in which
I'd travelled to Newport, but there were two rows of seats, and when
the train moved a cloud of coal smoke poured in through the door at the
front end. Babies squalled, children whined, and their faces grew black
and damp with mingled dirt and heat while grown-up people scolded; but
a dear old lady got into my seat before long, and just because I helped
her with a band-box, she made me a present of a huge peach. I was
thankful to have it, for by this time I was collapsing with hunger,
having been up all night without anything to eat.
The peach made me think of Mr. Brett, and the little basket he had sent
me on the docks. Then this thought suggested another. He had said he
would do anything for me that was in his power, and if he were still in
New York, it was in his power to help me a good deal. He could tell me
how much it would cost to go to Chicago, and he could show me how to
get there.
I really believe that at first I hadn't had a thought of seeing him,
but once it had got into my head, I welcomed it, begged it to sit down
and make itself at home.
I could have clapped my hands with joy when I saw the Grand Central
Station and the delightful _cafe au lait_ porters with their red caps.
It looked as familiar and comforting as if I'd passed through a hundred
times instead of once, and I had the nice feeling that now something
pleasant was sure to happen, which one has when one first arrives in
Paris.
Vivace brightened up, too, and he took me out, rather than I him. I was
in such a hurry to get away, for fear Potter might have come after me
by a quick train, and be looking somewhere, that I flew along with my
bag and Vivace, without waiting for a porter. I followed other people
out of the station, with the intention of finding a cab and driving to
the Club where Mr. Brett was employed; but though there were dozens of
hansoms drawn up by the pavement, they had the air of being private
ones. It did seem queer that so many people should have private hansoms
waiting for them at this particular hour (it was half past twelve) but
the drivers with their tall shiny hats, smart coats and bright, clever
faces, the glitter of the harness, the newness of the cab linings and
appointments all forbade any other thought. I wandered wistfully along
the line, wondering if there were no public conveyances of any kind at
the Grand Central, besides the trams which were as appalling as a
procession of African lions. When I came to the end I caught the eye of
a well-groomed young man in a pale gray top coat, looking down from his
high seat at the back of a dark green hansom with great round portholes
knocked in the sides, and it struck me that there was pity kindling in
his glance. I snatched at the ray as if it had been that everlasting
straw which always seems to be bobbing about when an author is drowning
one of his characters.
"_Do_ you think there is anybody who could drive me?" I enquired,
meekly.
"You bet, Miss," said he. "I'm engaged myself, or I'd be only too
pleased, but you just speak to that other gentleman there,"--with an
encouraging jerk of his sleek head towards the next vehicle. "He'll
take you anywhere you want to go."
"Are you sure it isn't a private hansom?" I breathed up to him in a
low, confidential voice, for the cab he indicated was even finer than
his, and Stan doesn't look as smart on his coach on a Coaching Parade
day in the Park, as did the gentleman I was recommended to address.
"Sure pop," said my friend, grinning, but not in a way to hurt my
feelings; so I thanked him, and we both bowed very politely; and the
new man, who had heard after all, said that none of the hansoms were
private; anybody might have them who could pay; but I needn't be
afraid, he wouldn't charge me too much.
When he asked where I wanted to go, after all I hadn't the courage to
mention the Club. The only other place I could think of was the
Waldorf-Astoria, where Potter had said any stranger who liked could
walk in and sit down. I told the man to drive me there, so he did, and
only charged me fifty cents, which he hinted was a very special price.
"We don't want you English young ladies to think bad of us," he
explained, and I assured him there was no danger of that, if I could
judge by myself.
They wouldn't let me go into the Turkish room--which I remembered very
well--with Vivace, so I had to give him up to be fed and taken care of,
and I was obliged to part with my bag too. Then I wrote a note to Mr.
Brett, just a few lines, saying that I was alone in New York, in a
little difficulty, and remembering his kind offer, I ventured to ask if
he would come to the Turkish Room at the Waldorf-Astoria to help me
with advice.
A messenger took the letter--such an aggressively brisk child, I was
sure he wouldn't waste a second on the way--and as soon as he had gone
I was beset with fears lest Mr. Brett should have left New York, or
lest, if still in town, he might be surprised or shocked at my taking
him at his word.
I was past being hungry now, but my head ached and I felt dull and
stupid. There was hardly anyone in the Turkish Room, for all the world
of the Waldorf-Astoria was lunching. I sat watching the door, watching
the door, until I seemed to have been in that place doing that one
thing and nothing else for years. My eyelids would keep dropping, and
my thoughts slipping away as if they flowed past me on a slow stream. I
caught them back again and again, but at last I forgot and let them go.
The next thing I knew I was raising my head with a jerk, and opening my
eyes to look straight into those of Mr. Brett. It was he, there was no
doubt of that, and yet he was different. In my dreamy state, I couldn't
think how for an instant, but as I came to myself I saw it was all a
question of dress. He had, perhaps, been making money in journalism,
for he was no longer good looking in _spite_ of his clothes. He had the
most excellent grey flannels, or something of the sort; just the right
kind of collar (I know it must be right, for Stan always wears it) and
a waistcoat Potter himself might have envied. I didn't exactly think of
these things then, but I must have unconsciously taken them all in, in
a flash, for I knew them afterwards.
By the time the flash had passed we were shaking hands, and he was
saying in his nice voice how awfully sorry he was to have kept me
waiting. He had been at the Club, but owing to a stupid mistake there
had been some delay in his getting my letter.
I was even more pleased to see him than I had thought I was going to
be. I felt as if I had known him all my life, and he looked so strong
and handsome, and dependable, that I couldn't bear to take my eyes off
his face, lest I should wake up and find him gone--because I'd been
dreaming him.
"I'll tell you all about everything, if you'll sit down," I said, but
instead of doing as I asked, he enquired with a queer, worried
expression on his face whether I had had lunch.
"No, nor breakfast either," I replied quite gaily, but with a watery
smile.
"Good heavens," said he, going as red as if I had accused him of
snatching it from my lips. "Then you must have both together, before
you begin to tell me anything."
"We might go out and have a sandwich somewhere," I suggested.
"There's nothing the matter with the Waldorf sandwiches."
"Except that they're expensive," said I. "You must remember you and I
aren't millionaires."
"I've been doing pretty well lately," said he. "I can almost call
myself rich. Please have some lunch, I can afford it, and if you refuse
I'll know it's because----"
I guessed what he might be going to say, so I stopped him.
"Nonsense!" I exclaimed. "But I've run away from Mrs. Stuyvesant-Knox,
and I don't want to be found. If she or her brother should have come to
New York, or if anybody else----"
"I've thought of that," said he, quickly, "but we've no time to waste.
You're starving. If you wouldn't mind my getting you a private dining
room, and sending you in some lunch----"
"But I want you to be with me," I insisted.
He evidently hesitated, but only for a minute. I don't think he's the
sort of man to hesitate long about anything.
"Very well, that's what I'd like best, of course, if you don't mind,"
said he. "I'll go and see to everything, and be back before you can
count sixty, if you do it slowly."
I didn't do it at all, but thought how thankful I was that he had come
to me, for I was sure everything would go right now.
In two or three minutes he came back to take me into a charming little
dining room, where there was no danger that Mrs. Ess Kay or Potter
could pounce upon us, as it was for Mr. Brett and me alone. I shuddered
to think what it must be costing, but his clothes were so exceedingly
good I hoped he hadn't exaggerated about the luck that had come to him.
Naturally I couldn't tell the part of my story which concerned Potter
Parker; but I said that Mrs. Ess Kay wanted me to do things which I
didn't think it right to do, and I couldn't stay in her house even a
day longer.
"I should like to go home," I went on, "but I can't yet, and the only
other thing is to join Miss Woodburn in Chicago. You remember Miss
Woodburn, don't you?"
He said he remembered her very well, had read in the newspapers that
she had left Newport for Chicago, and thought it was a wise idea of
mine to join her.
"I'm glad you think that," said I, "for I want to start to-day; and I
hope you'll tell me how to go, how much money it will be, how long it
takes to get there, and all about it."
He didn't answer for a minute, but sat looking very grave, staring at
his brown hand on the white tablecloth, as if he'd never seen it
before. Then he said:
"Curiously enough, I am going West this afternoon too. Would you object
to my being in the same train? I wouldn't suggest such a thing, only
you see as you're a stranger in the country, I might be able to help
you a little."
"How splendid!" I exclaimed. "It seems almost too good to be true. You
can't fancy what a relief it is to my mind."
He looked pleased at that, and said I was very kind, though I should
have thought it was the other way round.
"I'll get your ticket then," he went on. "If you'll give me twenty-five
dollars--five pounds, you know--I'll hand you back the change; but I'm
afraid it won't be much."
"Change?" I echoed. "Why, I supposed it would be ever so much more than
five pounds to get to Chicago, which is almost in Central America,
isn't it?"
"The people who live there think it's central," said Mr. Brett. "But
they make the railroad men keep prices down, so that dissatisfied New
Yorkers can afford to go and live there. It isn't a bad journey, you'll
find. I think it will interest you. You sleep and eat in the train, you
know."
"What fun!" I exclaimed. "I've never slept in a train, even on the
Continent."
"If you had, it would be different from this one," said he. "Can you be
ready in twenty-five minutes? The train which we call the Twentieth
Century, starts at 2.45."
"I'm ready now," said I. "The sooner we're on the way the better. But
oh, about Vivace. Will they allow him to sleep and eat too?"
"I expect I can arrange that," Mr. Brett answered, in such a confident
way that I felt sure he could do it, or anything else he set out to do.
It really was lucky for me that he happened to be travelling West that
same day, and such an extraordinary coincidence, too.
"Are you going on journalistic business?" I asked.
"No, it's business I'm undertaking for a friend," he explained. "But I
hope to get something good for myself out of it in the end."
"Oh, I do hope you will," I replied. "I'm sure you deserve to."
"I'm sure I don't," said he, laughing. "But I shall try hard for it,
all the same. You know, you told me to be ambitious."
"I know I did," I answered.
A moment later he said that he must hurry off and attend to the
tickets, and I had only time to glance through some papers the waiter
brought me, with columns full of Mohunsleigh's marriage, when he was
back again with a cab.
While I read an account of the wedding, and gushing paragraphs about
me, I wondered if there mightn't be things not so flattering in the
same papers to-morrow.