An Adventure in the Park
"Farnham promised," I said, "to dine with me to-morrow night, you know.
It is very much to be regretted that you have an engagement, but I hope
that you will remind him of his to me."
"I will do so, certainly," Wildred returned. "Not that any reminder
could be needed, for Farnham is one of your most enthusiastic admirers,
I should say."
We were vastly polite to each other during what remained of the
conversation, far more ceremoniously so than we should have been likely
to be had there been any solid liking on either side under the thin
veneer of friendliness.
In a few moments I had got away, despite Wildred's repeated request that
I should remain and share his lonely Christmas dinner with him. Somehow,
a mouthful of food taken in that house would have choked me, and I left
with the echo of the awful cry I had heard still seemingly ringing in my
ears.
I half expected that Farnham might look in upon me, as Wildred had
suggested, and therefore spent what remained of the evening after my
return to town at the hotel. But he did not come, and shortly after
midnight I threw down the book in which I had been able to retain no
great interest, and went to bed.
It was ridiculously early when I woke, and my first conscious thought
was a joyous one, that now only one day intervened between me and the
call I promised myself to make at Lady Tressidy's.
I had endeavoured to explain to my own satisfaction the presence of a
portrait which I believed to represent Miss Cunningham at the House by
the Lock. There were many ways in which it might have found a place
there, without betokening any great intimacy between the original of the
picture and Carson Wildred. It might have been an Academy success which
he had purchased; it might be even that the resemblance was merely one
of chance.
Still, try as I might to settle the doubts which, no matter how often
discarded, invariably came crowding back to my brain, I was already far
too deeply plunged into love to remember with calmness my glimpse of the
canvas under the drapery.
Of course it would be impossible for me to refer to it in talking with
Lady Tressidy or Miss Cunningham, if I were lucky enough to see them on
Sunday; but in some indirect way I might be able to induce one of them
to mention it. I could refer to my visit to the House by the Lock
perhaps, touching lightly upon my impression of the striking decorations
in the studio, or smoking-room, and then, if there were nothing to
conceal, and Miss Cunningham were aware that Mr. Wildred possessed her
portrait, it would be very natural that a word or two in regard to it
might pass her lips.
As I was on my way down to breakfast a little after ten, I met one of
the bell boys with a telegram, which he had been on the way to bring to
my door.
It was a long and elaborate message, and glancing down to the end of the
seven or eight lines I read Farnham's name. I then went back to the
beginning again.
"So sorry not to have seen you yesterday," the words ran. "Wildred has
come to town, bringing my luggage, on receipt of a wire from me saying I
have just heard of important financial business calling me to America at
once. Has told me of your visit. Very vexed can't keep engagement with
you to-night, and that this must after all be farewell, as am leaving
immediately for Southampton by boat train. Good-bye and good luck to
you. Will write you soon from other side, addressing Savoy Hotel. Yours,
HARVEY FARNHAM."
I cannot say I felt any very deep disappointment at the thought that I
should not see my friend from the States again. I liked him, and had
found him a pleasant companion, but had it not been for the strange and
unpleasant dream which had somehow gifted him with an artificial
importance in my mind, I should have cherished few regrets at his sudden
flitting. As it was, I had a curious sense of uneasiness, and an
inexplicable impression that in some undefined way I had done him an
injustice, or been careless of his interests, though in reality I was
very sure I had done nothing of the kind.
Still, I could not shake off the feeling, and with an odd restlessness
upon me I started almost immediately after breakfast for a long walk.
For some time I went on without paying very much attention to the
direction I had taken, but mechanically I had passed along the
Embankment, so on through crowded Piccadilly, and thus to the Park.
The dreary stretch of sodden grass, with stripped trees, and here and
there a patch of dingy London snow, did not look particularly inviting,
but I went in, wondering a little at my own aimlessness of mood.
I had intended to do a good deal of writing during the morning and early
afternoon, but I knew that, even had I stayed at home, it would have
been impossible for me to put pen to paper.
The ubiquitous cyclist was to be seen in great numbers and to the best
advantage. At this time of year the "smart set" was for the most part
conspicuous by its absence, but there were some pretty and neatly
costumed young women, and as I pursued my way slowly, idly looking at
those who passed, there was a flash of red-gold hair as a slender figure
in dark grey cloth shot by, and I knew, with a quickening of my heart
throbs, that I had seen Miss Cunningham.
She was going very well, and I was admiring the pretty back with its
girlish shoulders and slim tapering waist, when suddenly a woman, riding
in the opposite direction, swerved across the road on her wheel, before
Miss Cunningham had been given either time to slacken her speed or to
turn out of the way.
A collision was inevitable, and without waiting for it to happen, as I
knew it must, in another instant I ran forward with great springing
strides.
It was all over before I could reach the place. Both had fallen, and
several passers-by on wheels had stopped and collected in so close a
group that I could not see whether one or both had been seriously
injured.
In less time than is taken in the telling, however, I had elbowed my way
through the well-meaning crowd to find Miss Cunningham sitting on the
edge of the grass nursing a twisted ankle, her lovely face looking white
and troubled.
The cause of the accident was already on her feet, and in the midst of
such voluble apologies and explanations that I could only conclude she,
at least, had suffered slightly.
"Miss Cunningham," I said, warning the girl of my presence; and she
looked up with a tremulous little cry of surprise and perhaps relief.
"Oh, I am so thankful!" she exclaimed. "I was just wondering what I
should do. But--but you will help me, I know."
"If you will let me," I responded, rather too eagerly. "I saw the
accident from a distance. I hope you are not much hurt."
"I don't quite know," she said, ruefully.
By this time we had been practically left alone. Seeing that an
acquaintance of the young lady's had opportunely appeared upon the
scene, the others, whose proffered assistance could now be dispensed
with, had one by one moved away.
"Is it your ankle?" I asked, stooping down over the dainty foot which
showed beneath the short bicycling dress.
"Yes; it seemed to turn under me as I fell, somehow. And my poor
machine! I know it must have had a terrible smash. I feel far worse
about it than I do about myself. But the whole thing is a punishment, I
suppose. I oughtn't to have come out alone. Lady Tressidy never allows
it, and will be very cross with me when she hears what has happened, I'm
afraid. I shan't have a bit more sympathy than I deserve, when it comes
out. I hadn't meant her to know at all, you see."
I could not imagine how even a woman could find it in her heart to
reproach the owner of those beautiful appealing eyes and exquisite lips,
quivering now, between smiles and tears, like those of a mutinous child.
If I had dared tell her how deep was the sympathy I felt! But I was only
afraid lest she might read it, and more, in my eyes.
Sympathetic though I was, however, I could not control my joy that,
since the accident _had_ happened, I--and no other--had been on the
spot to offer aid which she might deign to accept.
"Don't mind about your bicycle," I said. "I'm sure it's all right, or
can easily be made so again; and if you'll let me enter into the plot,
perhaps between us we can think of a road out of the difficulty with
Lady Tressidy. But the first thing to do is to get you safely away from
this."
"I'm afraid I can't walk!" she warned me, laughing nervously.
"Of course not. A cab's the thing, with the invalided bike on top. But
may I be with you? I don't see how it is possible to let you go by
yourself."
"It will be very--unconventional, won't it?" she smiled. "But there are
times when conventionalities must be thrown aside, and I shall be
grateful if you'll take care of me, and do all the planning, please."
Then, womanlike, contradicting her own last sentence, she went on, "But
I don't see how we can manage about a cab. Of course there won't be any
here, and--I don't _very_ much want to be left sitting here all
alone."
"And you shall not be, for a moment," I said, joyful even at this small
sign that my presence was not actually disagreeable to her. "There are
plenty of people who will call a cab for us."
And I proceeded to put my statement to the proof.
Within five minutes an unusually presentable four-wheeler had appeared
upon the scene, the unfortunate bicycle had been handed up on top, and
the young lady had been tenderly helped inside.
"Tell him just to go on slowly for a few minutes while we talk things
over," she commanded, more cheerfully. "Do you know, Mr. Stanton, after
all I begin to hope my ankle is not so badly hurt; and though, as I told
you, I shall be in a sad scrape when I get home, and have to confess,
still--there's a spice of adventure in all this that appeals to me,
rather. It's a very long time since I have had an adventure of any
kind."
Poor child, she little guessed how many awaited her behind the lowered
curtain of the future!
"Never have _I_ had one which would be so wholly delightful," I
boldly said, "if I had not to think that you were in pain."
"Oh, it is really not so dreadful." She blushed brightly, but when the
lovely rose tint faded it left her pale even to the lips. "Suppose we
talk," she went on more sedately, "about the way in which you are to get
me out of my difficulty--for I think you've promised to do that."
I adopted her tone at once. "Let us begin with judicial questioning
then. Was Lady Tressidy at home when you came out?"
"No"--laughing--"or I couldn't have come--on my bicycle. She'd gone to
an anti-something meeting (Lady Tressidy is very fond of anti-something
meetings, as you'll discover for yourself when you know her). She won't
be at home to lunch either, and she need never find me out in my
iniquity, except that--even though my foot is not so _very_ bad--I
shall be sure to limp. She will enquire what has happened, and, of
course, though my conscience would not reproach me much for silence, if
that were possible, I couldn't tell a fib."
I would have been ready to swear that she was not one of the young women
who could rattle off what they might call "harmless evasions" with a
candidly smiling face.
"Suppose, then," I suggested, "that you allow me to take you at once to
a doctor, who will examine your ankle, and perhaps be able to anoint it
with some healing lotion, which may prevent the limping you so dread.
There used to be a man in this neighbourhood whom I knew by reputation
when I was in England last. I remember street and number, and it's not
very likely that he's moved away."
"A grand idea," she exclaimed; but though she tried to speak brightly,
even merrily, it was plain to see that she was suffering a good deal,
whether more physically or mentally I could not tell.
I put out my head and gave directions to the cabman, and when I drew it
in again to glance anxiously at the face which already I so passionately
loved, I saw that it was even whiter than before. The eyes were drooping
and the dark curling lashes almost swept the colourless cheeks. As
though she felt my gaze upon her, she looked up instantly, and made an
effort to smile; but the mischievous light which had danced in her eyes
when she first sank restfully back upon the shabby cushions of the cab
had been suddenly and utterly quenched.
"Miss Cunningham!" I exclaimed. "You have made nothing of your pain, but
I know that you are ill--that you are suffering."
"I am very foolish," she answered, in a low, unsteady voice. "It isn't
my ankle--though, of course, that hurts a little--but I think It must be
the shock, which I didn't realise at first. I felt quite bright until a
moment ago, but suddenly I am all weak and trembling. The truth is, Mr.
Stanton, I wasn't fit to be out this morning, especially alone, and I
didn't come simply from sheer bravado, as you might think, and for the
sake of doing what I'd been told not to do. I--I felt as though I
_must_ be out in the air, and in motion. I didn't sleep last night,
and I didn't eat any breakfast this morning, which may partly account
for this silliness of mine, perhaps. I thought I should feel better out
of doors, but it seems that nothing in the world can do me any good.
Everything I attempt must always end in disaster, and--oh, Mr. Stanton,
I am so very, very unhappy and miserable!"
To my amazement and distress, she covered her face with her little
gloved hands, and broke into a storm of sobbing.