FOILED YET AGAIN
Mallory had fled from the scene at the first hum of the minister's
words. His fate was like alkali on his palate. For twelve hundred
miles he had ransacked the world for a minister. When one dropped on
the train like manna through the roof, even this miracle had to be
checkmated by a perverse miracle that sent to the train an early
infatuation, a silly affair that he himself called puppy-love. And now
Marjorie would never marry him. He did not blame her. He blamed fate.
He was in solitude in the smoking room. The place reeked with drifting
tobacco smoke and the malodor of cigar stubs and cigarette ends. His
plans were as useless and odious as cigarette ends. He dropped into a
chair his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands--Napoleon on
St. Helena.
And then, suddenly he heard Marjorie's voice. He turned and saw her
hesitating in the doorway. He rose to welcome her, but the smile died
on his lips at her chilly speech:
"May I have a word with you, sir?"
"Of course. The air's rather thick in here," he apologized.
"Just wait!" she said, ominously, and stalked in like a young Zenobia.
He put out an appealing hand: "Now, Marjorie, listen to reason. Of
course I know you won't marry me now."
"Oh, you know that, do you?" she said, with a squared jaw.
"But, really, you ought to marry me--not merely because I love
you--and you're the only girl I ever----" He stopped short and she
almost smiled as she taunted him: "Go on--I dare you to say it."
He swallowed hard and waived the point: "Well, anyway, you ought to
marry me--for your own sake."
Then she took his breath away by answering: "Oh, I'm going to marry
you, never fear."
"You are," he cried, with a rush of returning hope. "Oh, I knew you
loved me."
She pushed his encircling arms aside: "I don't love you, and that's
why I'm going to marry you."
"But I don't understand."
"Of course not," she sneered, as if she were a thousand years old,
"you're only a man--and a very young man."
"You've ceased to love me," he protested, "just because of a little
affair I had before I met you?"
Marjorie answered with world-old wisdom: "A woman can forgive a man
anything except what he did before he met her."
He stared at her with masculine dismay at feminine logic: "If you
can't forgive me, then why do you marry me?"
"For revenge!" she cried. "You brought me on this train all this
distance to introduce me to a girl you used to spoon with. And I don't
like her. She's awful!"
"Yes, she is awful," Mallory assented. "I don't know how I ever----"
"Oh, you admit it!"
"No."
"Well, I'm going to marry you--now--this minute--with that preacher,
then I'm going to get off at Reno and divorce you."
"Divorce me! Good Lord! On what grounds?"
"On the grounds of Miss Kitty--Katty--Llewellington--or whatever her
name is."
Mallory was groggy with punishment, and the vain effort to foresee her
next blow. "But you can't name a woman that way," he pleaded, "for
just being nice to me before I ever met you."
"That's the worst kind of unfaithfulness," she reiterated. "You should
have known that some day you would meet me. You should have saved your
first love for me."
"But last love is best," Mallory interposed, weakly.
"Oh, no, it isn't, and if it is, how do I know I'm to be your last
love? No, sir, when I've divorced you, you can go back to your first
love and go round the world with her till you get dizzy."
"But I don't want her for a wife," Mallory urged, "I want you."
"You'll get me--but not for long. And one other thing, I want you to
get that bracelet away from that creature. Do you promise?"
"How can I get it away?"
"Take it away! Do you promise?"
Mallory surrendered completely. Anything to get Marjorie safely into
his arms: "I promise anything, if you'll really marry me."
"Oh, I'll marry you, sir, but not really."
And while he stared in helpless awe at the cynic and termagant that
jealousy had metamorphosed this timid, clinging creature into, they
heard the conductor's voice at the rear door of the car: "Hurry
up--we've got to start."
They heard Lathrop's protest: "Hold on there, conductor," and Selby's
plea: "Oh, I say, my good man, wait a moment, can't you?"
The conductor answered with the gruffness of a despot: "Not a minute.
I've my orders to make up lost time. All aboard!"
While the minister was tying the last loose ends of the matrimonial
knot, Mallory and Marjorie were struggling through the crowd to get at
him. Just as they were near, they were swept aside by the rush of the
bride and groom, for the parson's "I pronounce you man and wife,"
pronounced as he backed toward the door, was the signal for another
wedding riot.
Once more Ira and Anne were showered with rice. This time it was their
own. Ira darted out into the corridor, haling his brand-new wife by
the wrist, and the wedding guests pursued them across the vestibule,
through the next car, and on, and on.
Nobody remained to notice what happened to the parson. Having
performed his function, he was without further interest or use. But to
Mallory and Marjorie he was vitally necessary.
Mallory caught his hand as it turned the knob of the door and drew him
back. Marjorie, equally determined, caught his other elbow:
"Please don't go," Mallory urged, "until you've married us."
The Reverend Charles stared at his captors in amazement:
"But my dear man, the train's moving."
Marjorie clung all the tighter and invited him to "Come on to the next
stop."
"But my dear lady," Selby gasped, "it's impossible."
"You've just got to," Mallory insisted.
"Release me, please."
"Never!"
"How dare you!" the parson shrieked, and with a sudden wriggle writhed
out of his coat, leaving it in Marjorie's hands. He darted to the door
and flung it open, with Mallory hot after him.
The train was kicking up a cloud of dust and getting its stride. The
kidnapped clergyman paused a moment, aghast at the speed with which
the ground was being paid out. Then he climbed the brass rail and,
with a hasty prayer, dropped overboard.
Mallory lunged at him, and seized him by his reversed collar. But the
collar alone remained in his clutch. The parson was almost lost in the
dust he created as he struck, bounded and rolled till he came to a
stop, with his stars and his prayers to thank for injuries to nothing
worse than his dignity and other small clothes.
Mallory returned to the observation room and flung the collar and bib
to the floor in a fury of despair, howling:
"He got away! He got away!"