"WELL, HARDLY EVER--"
Minot went below and sent two messages, one to Jephson, the other to
Thacker. The lobby of the De la Pax was thronged with brilliantly
attired wedding guests who, metaphorically, beat their breasts in
perplexity over the tidings that had come even as they craned their
necks to catch the first glimpse of that distinguished bridal party.
The lavishly decorated parlor that was to have been the scene of the
ceremony stood tragically deserted. Minot cast one look at it, and
hurried again to his own particular cell.
He took a couple of time-tables from his desk, and sat down in a chair
facing the window. All over now. Nothing to do but return to the
North, as fast as the trains would take him. He had won, but he had
also lost. He felt listless, weary. He let the time-tables fall to
the floor, and sat gazing out at that narrow
street--thinking--wondering--wishing--
It was late in the afternoon when the clamor of his telephone recalled
him to himself. He leaped up, and seized the receiver. Allan
Harrowby's voice came over the wire.
"Can you run down to the room, Minot?" he inquired. "The last call,
old boy."
Minot went. He found both the Harrowbys there, prepared to say good-by
to San Marco forever.
"Going to New York on the _Lady Evelyn_," said George Harrowby, who was
aggressively cheerful. "From there I'm taking Allan to Chicago. Going
to have him reading George Ade and talking our language in a week."
Lord Harrowby smiled wanly.
"Nothing left but Chicago," he drawled. "I wanted to see you before I
went, Minot, old chap. Not that I can thank you for all you did--I
don't know how. You stood by me like--like a gentleman. And I realize
that I have no claim on Lloyds--it was all my fault--if I'd never let
Martin Wall have that confounded policy-- But what's the use of
if-ing? All my fault. And--my thanks, old boy." He sighed.
"Nonsense," said Minot. "A business proposition, solely, from my point
of view. There's no thanks coming to me."
"It seems to me," said George Harrowby, "that as the only victor in
this affair, you don't exhibit a proper cheerfulness. By the way, we'd
be delighted to take you north on our boat. Why not--"
But Minot shook his head.
"Can't spare the time--thank you just the same," he replied. "I'd like
nothing better--"
Amid expressions of regret, the Harrowbys started for the elevator.
Minot walked along the dusky corridor with them.
"We've had a bit of excitement--what?" said Allan. "If you're ever in
London, you're to be my guest. Old George has some sort of a berth for
me over there--"
"Not a berth, Allan," objected George, pressing the button for the
elevator. "You're not going to sleep. A job. Might as well begin to
talk the Chicago language now. Mr. Minot, I, too, want to thank you--"
They stepped into the elevator, the door slammed, the car began to
descend. Minot stood gazing through the iron scroll work until the
blond head of the helpless Lord Harrowby moved finally out of sight.
Then he returned to his room and the time-tables, which seemed such
dull unhappy reading.
Mr. Jack Paddock appeared to invite Minot to take dinner with him. His
bags, he remarked, were all packed, and he was booked for the seven
o'clock train.
"I've slipped down the mountain of gold," he said in the course of the
dinner. "But all good things must end, and I certainly had a good
thing. Somehow, I'm not so gloomy as I ought to be."
"Where are you going, Jack?" Minot asked.
Mr. Paddock leaned over confidentially.
"Did I say her father was in the plumbing business?" he inquired. "My
error, Dick. He owns a newspaper--out in Grand Rapids. Offered me a
job any time I wanted it. Great joke then--pretty serious now. For
I'm going out to apply."
"I'm glad of it."
"So am I, Dick. I was a fool to let her go back like that. Been
thinking it all over--and over--one girl in--how many are there in the
world, should you say? The other day I had a chill. It occurred to me
maybe she'd gone and married the young man with the pale purple necktie
who passes the plate in the Methodist Church. So I beat it to the
telegraph counter. And--"
"She's heart whole and fancy free?"
"O.K. in both respects. So it's me for Grand Rapids. And say, Dick,
I--er--I want you to know I'd sent that telegram before the accident
last night. As a matter of fact, I sent it two days ago."
"Good boy," said Minot. "I knew this game down here didn't satisfy
you. May I be the first to wish you joy?"
"You? With a face like a defeated candidate? I say, cheer up! She'll
stretch out eager arms in your direction yet."
"I don't believe it, Jack."
"Well, while there's life there's still considerable hope lying loose
about the landscape. That's why I don't urge you to take the train
with me."
An hour later Mr. Paddock spoke further cheering words in his friend's
ear, and departed for the North. And in that city of moonlight and
romance Minot was left (practically) alone.
He took a little farewell walk through that quaint old town, then
retired to his room to read another chapter in the time-table. At
four-twenty in the morning, he noted, a small local train would leave
for Jacksonville. He decided he would take it. With no parlor cars,
no sleepers, he would not be likely to encounter upon it any of the
startled wedding party bound north.
The call he left did not materialize, and it was four o'clock when he
awoke. Hastily in the chill dawn he bade farewell to town and hotel.
In fifteen minutes he had left both behind, and was speeding toward the
small yellow station set on the town's edge. He glanced feverishly at
his watch. There was need of haste, for this train was made up in San
Marco, and had had as yet no chance to be late.
He rushed through the gate just as it was being closed, and caught a
dreary little train in the very act of pulling out. Gloomy oil lamps
sought vainly to lessen the dour aspect of its two coaches. Panting,
he entered the rear coach and threw himself and his bag into a seat.
Five seconds later he glanced across the aisle and discovered in the
opposite seat Miss Cynthia Meyrick, accompanied by a very sleepy-eyed
family!
"The devil!" said Minot to himself. He knew that she would see in this
utter accident nothing save a deliberate act of following. What use to
protest his innocence?
He considered moving to another seat. But such a theatric act could
only increase the embarrassment. Already his presence had been
noted--Aunt Mary had given him a glare, Spencer Meyrick a scowl, the
girl a cloudy vague "where have I seen this person before?" glance in
passing.
Might as well make the best of it. He settled himself in his seat.
Once again, as on another railroad car, he sought to keep his eyes on
the landscape without--the dim landscape with the royal palms waving
like grim ghosts in the half light. The train sped on.
A most uncomfortable situation! If only it would grow light! It
seemed so silly to be forced to find the view out the window entrancing
while it was still very dark.
Spencer Meyrick went forward to the smoker. Aunt Mary, weary of life,
slid gently down to slumber. Her unlovely snore filled the dim car.
How different this from the first ride together! The faint pink of the
sky grew brighter. Now Minot could see the gray moss hanging to the
evergreens, and here and there a squalid shack where human beings lived
and knew nothing of life. And beside him he heard a sound as of a
large body being shaken. Also the guttural protest of Aunt Mary at
this inconsiderate treatment.
Aunt Mary triumphed. Her snore rose to shatter the smoky roof. Three
times Minot dared to look, and each time wished he hadn't. The whole
sky was rosy now. Somewhere off behind the horizon the good old sun
was rising to go to work for the passenger department of the coast
railroad.
Some sense in looking out now. Minot saw a shack that seemed
familiar--then another. Next a station, bearing on its sad shingle the
cheery name of "Sunbeam." And close to the station, gloomy in the
dawn, a desiccated chauffeur beside an aged automobile.
Minot turned quickly, and caught Cynthia Meyrick in the act of peering
over his shoulder. She had seen the chauffeur too.
The train had stopped a moment, but was under way again. In those
brown eyes Minot saw something wistful, something hurt,--saw things
that moved him to put everything to a sudden test. He leaped to his
feet and pulled madly at the bell cord.
"What--what have you done?" Startled, she stared at him.
"I've stopped the train. I'm going to ride to Jacksonville as I rode
to San Marco--ages ago. I'm not going alone."
"Indeed?"
"Quick. The conductor will be here in a minute. Here's a card and
pencil--write a note for Aunt Mary. Say you'll meet them in
Jacksonville! Hurry, please!"
"Mr. Minot!" With great dignity.
"One last ride together. One last chance for me to--to set things
right if I can."
"If you can."
"If--I admit it. Won't you give me the chance? I thought you would be
game. I dare you!"
For a second they gazed into each other's eyes. The train had come to
a stop, and Aunt Mary stirred fretfully in her sleep. With sudden
decision Cynthia Meyrick wrote on the card and dropped it on her
slumbering relative.
"I know I'll be sorry--but--" she gasped.
"Hurry! This way! The conductor's coming there!"
A moment later they stood together on the platform of the Sunbeam
station, while the brief little train disappeared indignantly in the
distance.
"You shouldn't have made me do that!" cried the girl in dismay. "I'm
always doing things on the spur of the moment--things I regret
afterward--"
"I know. You explained that to me once. But you can also do things on
the spur of the moment that you're glad about all your life. Oh--good
morning, Barney Oldfield."
"Good morning," replied the rustic chauffeur with gleeful recognition.
"Where's it to this time, mister?"
"Jacksonville. And no hurry at all." Minot held open the door and the
girl stepped into the car.
"The gentleman is quite mistaken," she said to the chauffeur. "There
is a very great hurry."
"Ages of time until luncheon," replied Minot blithely, also getting in.
"If you were thinking of announcing--something--then."
"I shall have nothing to announce, I'm sure. But I must be in
Jacksonville before that train. Father will be furious."
"Trust me, lady," said the chauffeur, grinding again at his hooded
music-box. "I've been doing stunts with this car since I saw you last.
Been over a hundred miles from Sunbeam. Begins to look as though
Florida wasn't going to be big enough, after all."
He leaped to the wheel, and again that ancient automobile carried
Cynthia Meyrick and the representative of Lloyds out of the town of
Sunbeam. But the exit was not a laughing one. The girl's eyes were
serious, cold, and with real concern in his voice Minot spoke:
"Won't you forgive me--can't you? I was only trying to be faithful to
the man who sent me down here--faithful through everything--as I should
be faithful to you if you gave me the chance. Is it too
late--Cynthia--"
"There was a time," said the girl, her eyes wide, "when it was not too
late. Have you forgotten? That night on the balcony, when I threw
myself at your feet, and you turned away. Do you think that was a
happy moment for me?"
"Was it happy for me, for that matter?"
"Oh, I was humiliated, ashamed. Then your silly rescue of my
gown--your advice to me to marry Harrowby--"
"Would you have had me throw over the men who trusted me--"
"I--I don't know. I only know that I can't forgive what has
happened--in a minute--"
"What was that last?"
"Nothing."
"You said in a minute."
"Your ears are deceiving you."
"Cynthia--you're not going to punish me because I was faithful-- Don't
you suppose I tried to get some one in my place?"
"Did you?"
"The day I first rode in this car with you. And then--I stopped
trying--"
"Why?"
"Because I realized that if some one came in my place I'd have to go
away and never see you again--and I couldn't do that I had to be near
you, dear girl--don't worry, he can't hear, the motor's too noisy--I
had to be where I could see that little curl making a question mark
round your ear--where I could hear your voice--I had to be near you
even if to do it I must break my heart by marrying you to another man.
I loved you. I love you now--"
A terrific crash interrupted. Dolefully the chauffeur descended from
the car to make an examination. Dolefully he announced the result.
"Busted right off," he remarked. "Say, I'm sorry. I'll have to walk
back to the garage at Sunbeam and--and I'm afraid you'll have to jest
sit here until I come back."
He went slowly down the road, and the two sat in that ancient car in
the midst of sandy desolation.
"Cynthia," Minot cried. "I worship you. Won't you--"
The girl gave a strange little cry.
"I wanted to be cross with you a little longer," she said almost
tearfully. "But I can't. I wonder why I can't. I cried all night at
the thought of never seeing you again. I wonder why I cried. I
guess--it's because--for the first time--I'm really--in love."
"Cynthia!"
"Oh, Dick--don't let me change my mind again--ever--ever!"
"Only over my dead body!"
With one accord they turned and looked at that quaint southern
chauffeur plodding along through the dust and the sunshine. It did not
seem to either of them that there was any danger of his looking back.
And, happily, he didn't.
THE END