THE countenances of the ladies fell instantly when he was gone. “Mrs.
March,” said Mrs. Deering, with a nervous tremor, “did Mr. March get us
those rooms at the Grand Union?”
“No—no,” my wife began, and she made a little pause, as if to gather
plausibility. “The Grand Union was very full, and he thought that at the
States—”
“Because,” said Mrs. Deering, “I don’t know as we shall trouble him,
after all. Mr. Deering isn’t very well, and I guess we have got to go
home—”
“_Go home_!” Mrs. March echoed, and her voice was a tone-scene of a
toppling hope and a widespread desolation. “Why, you mustn’t!”
“We must, I guess. It had begun to be very pleasant, and—I guess I have
got to go. I can’t feel easy about him.”
“Why, of course,” Mrs. March now assented, and she waved her fan
thoughtfully before her face. I knew what she was thinking of, and I
looked at Miss Gage, who had involuntarily taken the pose and expression
of the moment when I first saw her at the kiosk in Congress Park. “And
Miss Gage?”
“Oh yes; I must go too,” said the girl wistfully, forlornly. She had
tears in her voice, tears of despair and vexation, I should have said.
“That’s too bad,” said Mrs. March, and, as she did not offer any solution
of the matter, I thought it rather heartless of her to go on and rub it
in. “And we were just planning some things we could do together.”
“It can’t be helped now,” returned the girl.
“But we shall see you again before you go?” Mrs. March asked of both.
“Well, I don’t know,” said the girl, with a look at Mrs. Deering, who now
said—
“I guess so. We’ll let you know when we’re going.” And they got away
rather stiffly.
“Why in the world, my dear,” I asked, “if you weren’t going to promote
their stay, need you prolong the agony of their acquaintance?”
“Did you feel that about it too? Well, I wanted to ask you first if you
thought it would do.”
“What do?”
“You know; get her a room here. Because if we do we shall have her
literally on our hands as long as we are here. We shall have to have the
whole care and responsibility of her, and I wanted you to feel just what
you were going in for. You know very well I can’t do things by halves,
and that if I undertake to chaperon this girl I shall chaperon her—”
“To the bitter end. Yes; I understand the conditions of your
uncompromising conscience. But I don’t believe it will be any such
killing matter. There are other semi-detached girls in the house; she
could go round with them.”
We talked on, and, as sometimes happens, we convinced each other so
thoroughly that she came to my ground and I went to hers. Then it was
easier for us to come together, and after making me go to the clerk and
find out that he had a vacant room, Mrs. March agreed with me that it
would not do at all to have Miss Gage stay with us; the fact that there
was a vacant room seemed to settle the question.
We were still congratulating ourselves on our escape when Mrs. Deering
suddenly reappeared round our corner of the verandah. She was alone, and
she looked excited.
“Oh, it isn’t anything,” she said in answer to the alarm that showed
itself in Mrs. March’s face at sight of her. “I hope you won’t think
it’s too presuming, Mrs. March, and I want you to believe that it’s
something I have thought of by myself, and that Julia wouldn’t have let
me come if she had dreamed of such a thing. I do hate so to take her
back with me, now that she’s begun to have a good time, and I was
wondering—wondering whether it would be asking too much if I tried to get
her a room here. I shouldn’t exactly like to leave her in the hotel
alone, though I suppose it would be perfectly proper; but Mr. Deering
found out when he was trying to get rooms before that there were some
young ladies staying by themselves here, and I didn’t want to ask the
clerk for a room unless you felt just right about it.”
“Why, of course, Mrs. Deering. It’s a public house, like any other, and
you have as much right—”
“But I didn’t want you to think that I would do it without asking you,
and if it is going to be the least bit of trouble to you.” The poor
thing while she talked stood leaning anxiously over toward Mrs. March,
who had risen, and pressing the points of her fingers nervously together.
“It won’t, Mrs. Deering. It will be nothing but pleasure. Why,
certainly. I shall be delighted to have Miss Gage here, and anything
that Mr. March and I can do—Why, we had just been talking of it, and Mr.
March has this minute got back from seeing the clerk, and she can have a
very nice room. We had been intending to speak to you about it as soon
as we saw you.”
I do not know whether this was quite true or not, but I was glad Mrs.
March said it, from the effect it had upon Mrs. Deering. Tears of relief
came into her eyes, and she said: “Then I can go home in the morning. I
was going to stay on a day or two longer, on Julia’s account, but I
didn’t feel just right about Mr. Deering, and now I won’t have to.”
There followed a flutter of polite offers and refusals, acknowledgments
and disavowals, and an understanding that I would arrange it all, and
that we would come to Mrs. Deering’s hotel after supper and see Miss Gage
about the when and the how of her coming to us.
“Well, Isabel,” I said, after it was all over, and Mrs. Deering had
vanished in a mist of happy tears, “I suppose this is what you call
perfectly providential. Do you really believe that Miss Gage didn’t send
her back?”
“I know she didn’t. But I know that she _had_ to do it just the same as
if Miss Gage had driven her at the point of the bayonet.”