1
|A squat locomotive, bell ringing, dense clouds of black smoke pouring
from the flaring smoke-stack, came rumbling and clanking in between the
platforms and stopped just beyond the old red brick depot.
The crowd of ladies converged swiftly toward the steps of the four dingy
yellow cars that made up, traditionally, the one-ten train. These
ladies were bound for the shops, the matinées (it was a Wednesday, and
October), the lectures and concerts of Chicago.
Henry Calverly, 3rd, avoided the press by swinging his slimly athletic
person aboard the smoker. He stepped within and for a moment stood
sniffing the thick blend of coal gases and poor tobacco, then turned
back and made his way against the incoming current of men. Bad air on a
train made him car-sick. He stood considering the matter, clinging to a
sooty brake wheel, while the train started. Then he plunged at the
door of the car next behind, in among an enormous number of dressed-up,
chattering ladies. He wondered why they all talked at once; it was
like a tea. He was afraid of them. Apparently they filled the car; he
couldn't, from the door, see one empty seat. Well, nothing for it but
to run the gauntlet. And not without a faintly stirring sense of
conspicuousness that was at once pleasing and confusing he started down
the aisle, clutching at seat-backs for support.
Near the farther end of the car there was one vacant half-seat. A girl
occupied the other half. She was leaning forward, talking to the
women in front. These latter, on close inspection--he had paused
midway--proved to be Mrs B. L. Ames and her daughter, Mary.
This was awkward. He could hardly, as he felt, drop into the seat just
behind them. Besides, who was the girl in the other half of that seat?
The hat was unfamiliar; yet something in the way it moved about came to
him as ghosts come.
He weakly considered returning to the smoker; even turned; but a lady
caught his sleeve. It was Mrs John W. MacLouden.
'I wanted to tell you how much we are enjoying your stories in the
_Gleaner_,' she said. 'Mr MacLouden says they're worthy of Stevenson.
His _New Arabian Nights_ you know. Mr MacLouden met Stevenson once. In
London.'
Henry blushed; mumbled; edged away.
Mary Ames looked up.
Her cool eyes rested on him. But she didn't bow, or smile. He wasn't
sure that she even inclined her head.
His blush became a flush. He forgot Mrs MacLouden. It seemed now that
he couldn't retreat. Not after that. He must face that girl. Walk coolly
by. He couldn't take that seat, of course; but to walk deliberately
by and on into the car behind would help a little. At least in his
feelings; and these were what mattered.... Who _was_ the girl under that
unfamiliar hat? Some one the Ameses knew well, clearly.
He moved on, straight toward the enemy. Dignity, he felt, was the thing.
Yes, you had to be dignified. Though it was a little hard to carry with
the car lurching like this. He wished his face wouldn't burn so.
The girl beneath that hat raised her head, and exhibited the blue eyes
and the pleasantly, even prettily freckled face of Martha Caldwell!
Henry stood, in a sense fascinated, staring down. He had put Martha out
of his life for ever. But here she was! He had believed, now and then
during the summer, that he hated her. To-day it was interesting--indeed,
enough of the old emotional tension fingered within him to make it
momentarily, slightly thrilling--to discover that he liked her. He
saw her now with an unexpected detachment. He even saw that she was
prettier. The smile that was just fading when their eyes met had a touch
of radiance in it.
Beside Martha, on the unoccupied half of the seat, lay her shopping bag.
In a preoccupied manner, as the smile died, she reached out to pick it
up and make room. But the little action which had begun impersonally,
brought up memories. Her hand stopped abruptly in air; her colour rose.
Then, as Henry, very red, lips compressed, was about to plunge on along
the aisle, the hand came down on the bag.