Friends
It was all I could do to resist the impulse to take the small trembling
hands in my own, to touch the bowed head with its glory of shimmering
ripples, to break into passionate words which must have alarmed her, and
put an end to my chance of winning her, perhaps for ever.
But to a certain extent I was able to control myself.
"What can I say--what can I do?" I stammered. "If there was only some
way in which it might be possible for me to help you."
"Ah, if--if!" she echoed, desolately. "Don't you think it strange that,
though we scarcely know each other--though this is only our second
meeting, and quite by chance, I turn to you with such a confession? I am
ashamed now"--and she impetuously dashed her tears away with a toy of a
handkerchief. "But the words spoke themselves before I could stop them.
You see, I have no one to talk to--no one to advise me. I think I must
be the loneliest girl in all this big preoccupied world."
"I should have thought you would have more friends than you could keep
within bounds," I said, hotly.
"Friends? Has anyone many friends? I have plenty of acquaintances, but I
think no friends. Let us not talk of this any more, though, Mr. Stanton.
I have forgotten myself."
"Forgive me--I can't obey you," I protested. "Just one word. As you
said, this is only our second meeting, and I have no right to ask a
favour of you, yet I am going to do it. I beg of you, as I never begged
anything before, that you will forget how short a time we have known
each other, and that you will take me for a friend--a friend in the
truest and best sense of that good, much-abused word. I swear to you
that you would find me loyal."
She looked up at me in the sweetest way, with eyes that glistened
through a sheen of tears.
"I believe that I should find you so," she answered, falteringly. "And,
oh, how I do need a friend--though you may think _me_ disloyal to
say that, when I have a home with those who--have meant to be kind to
me." Her eyes had dropped, but now she raised them again and met mine
earnestly. "Yes," she exclaimed--"yes, I _will_ have you for a
friend."
"Then won't you begin by making use of me at once?" I pleaded with an
eagerness I could no longer disguise.
"I--am I not making use of you now? Ah, I know what you mean! You mean I
am to tell you the things which I have let you see are troubling me? But
much as I need help and advice, _could_ I do that now, so soon? You
must already think me a very strange girl--half mad perhaps. Well, I
have had almost enough of late to drive me mad. Some time, in a few days
maybe, when we know each other a little better, I----But the man is
stopping. We have come to the doctor's you spoke of, I suppose?"
I neither blessed the cabman nor the doctor at that moment. Still less
did I do so afterwards, knowing that, if we had not been interrupted
then, it might well have happened that the whole course of our two lives
had been changed.
However, there was nothing to be done but ascertain if the eminent man
was at home, and able to give his attention to a somewhat urgent case.
The poor girl, too, was evidently suffering, and in a highly nervous
state, and it would have been cruel, now that the opportunity had
presented itself, to keep her for a single instant from the restoratives
doubtless at hand.
Dr. Byrnes was to be seen. I introduced Miss Cunningham to him,
described the accident, and left him to do what he could for the injured
ankle. Afterwards I had still the joy of driving to Park Lane with her
in anticipation.
I was only called when Dr. Byrnes was ready to send his patient away.
"Do you know what was the first thing that this young lady did before I
had time to begin my ministrations?" he jocularly enquired, and though
the girl looked up at him with imploring eyes, he persisted. "Why, she
fainted away, and if she had to do it, she couldn't have chosen a more
proper occasion. There I was, with all the known remedies at hand, and I
proceeded to use them, with the most satisfactory results, as you may
see. I don't think you will have any further trouble in going home; and
now that she has been well dosed and well bandaged, the best thing she
can do is to eat a hearty luncheon."
Once again settled in the cab, we were but a few moments' drive from Sir
Walter Tressidy's house in Park Lane, as I knew to my intense regret.
With wily forethought, however, I suggested going somewhat out of our
way to the establishment of a certain bicycle manufacturer and mender,
who would send for Miss Cunningham's machine, and repair it before the
accident it had met with could be conjectured by those not supposed to
know.
Try as I would I could not induce her to continue the conversation which
had been broken short. The brief interval that had passed since then had
severed the threads of intense emotion which had for the moment united
us, and she, evidently repenting her frankness, was visibly ill at ease.
It was only at the door that her manner warmed a little towards me
again.
"Yes, I believe I am quite all right," she said, in answer to a
question. "I shall not even have a suspicion of a limp." She held out
her hand to me, and did not try to draw it away, though I grasped it
rather longer and more tightly than conventionality might have approved.
"You will come--soon--to see Lady Tressidy and--me?" she asked, softly.
"I thought of calling to-morrow afternoon. May I?"
"I shall be glad--very glad. Never shall I forget your kindness to me
to-day. Don't think me any more--odd--than you can help. Good-bye."
Before I could begin to tell her how impossible it would be to think any
save the most reverent thoughts of her she was gone, and a cloud seemed
suddenly to darken my sky.