The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Parlor-Car, by William D. Howells
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Title: The Parlor-Car
Author: William D. Howells
Release Date: June 30, 2014 [eBook #3402]
[This file was first posted on March 4, 2001]
Language: English
Character set encoding: UTF-8
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PARLOR-CAR***
Transcribed from “The Sleeping Car and Other Farces” 1911 Houghton
Mifflin Company edition by David Price, email ccx074@pglaf.org
THE PARLOR-CAR.
Farce.
SCENE: A Parlor-Car on the New York Central Railroad. It is late
afternoon in the early autumn, with a cloudy sunset threatening rain.
The car is unoccupied save by a gentleman, who sits fronting one of the
windows, with his feet in another chair; a newspaper lies across his lap;
his hat is drawn down over his eyes, and he is apparently asleep. The
rear door of the car opens, and the conductor enters with a young lady,
heavily veiled, the porter coming after with her wraps and
travelling-bags. The lady’s air is of mingled anxiety and desperation,
with a certain fierceness of movement. She casts a careless glance over
the empty chairs.
* * * * *
_Conductor_: “Here’s your ticket, madam. You can have any of the places
you like here, or,”—glancing at the unconscious gentleman, and then at
the young lady,—“if you prefer, you can go and take that seat in the
forward car.”
_Miss Lucy Galbraith_: “Oh, I can’t ride backwards. I’ll stay here,
please. Thank you.” The porter places her things in a chair by a
window, across the car from the sleeping gentleman, and she throws
herself wearily into the next seat, wheels round in it, and lifting her
veil gazes absently out at the landscape. Her face, which is very
pretty, with a low forehead shadowed by thick blond hair, shows the
traces of tears. She makes search in her pocket for her handkerchief,
which she presses to her eyes. The conductor, lingering a moment, goes
out.
_Porter_: “I’ll be right here, at de end of de cah, if you should happen
to want anything, miss,”—making a feint of arranging the shawls and
satchels. “Should you like some dese things hung up? Well, dey’ll be
jus’ as well in de chair. We’s pretty late dis afternoon; more’n four
hours behin’ time. Ought to been into Albany ‘fore dis. Freight train
off de track jus’ dis side o’ Rochester, an’ had to wait. Was you going
to stop at Schenectady, miss?”
_Miss Galbraith_, absently: “At Schenectady?” After a pause, “Yes.”
_Porter_: “Well, that’s de next station, and den de cahs don’t stop ag’in
till dey git to Albany. Anything else I can do for you now, miss?”
_Miss Galbraith_: “No, no, thank you, nothing.” The _Porter_ hesitates,
takes off his cap, and scratches his head with a murmur of embarrassment.
_Miss Galbraith_ looks up at him inquiringly and then suddenly takes out
her porte-monnaie, and fees him.
_Porter_: “Thank you, miss, thank you. If you want anything at all,
miss, I’m right dere at de end of de cah.” He goes out by the narrow
passage-way beside the smaller enclosed parlor. _Miss Galbraith_ looks
askance at the sleeping gentleman, and then, rising, goes to the large
mirror, to pin her veil, which has become loosened from her hat. She
gives a little start at sight of the gentleman in the mirror, but
arranges her head-gear, and returning to her place looks out of the
window again. After a little while she moves about uneasily in her
chair, then leans forward, and tries to raise her window; she lifts it
partly up, when the catch slips from her fingers, and the window falls
shut again with a crash.
_Miss Galbraith_: “Oh, _dear_, how provoking! I suppose I must call the
porter.” She rises from her seat, but on attempting to move away she
finds that the skirt of her polonaise has been caught in the falling
window. She pulls at it, and then tries to lift the window again, but
the cloth has wedged it in, and she cannot stir it. “Well, I certainly
think this is beyond endurance! Porter! Ah,—Porter! Oh, he’ll never
hear me in the racket that these wheels are making! I wish they’d
stop,—I”—The gentleman stirs in his chair, lifts his head, listens, takes
his feet down from the other seat, rises abruptly, and comes to _Miss
Galbraith’s_ side.
_Mr. Allen Richards_: “Will you allow me to open the window for you?”
Starting back, “Miss Galbraith!”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Al— Mr. Richards!” There is a silence for some
moments, in which they remain looking at each other; then,—
_Mr. Richards_: “Lucy”—
_Miss Galbraith_: “I forbid you to address me in that way, Mr. Richards.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Why, you were just going to call me Allen!”
_Miss Galbraith_: “That was an accident, you know very well,—an impulse”—
_Mr. Richards_: “Well, so is this.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Of which you ought to be ashamed to take advantage. I
wonder at your presumption in speaking to me at all. It’s quite idle, I
can assure you. Everything is at an end between us. It seems that I
bore with you too long; but I’m thankful that I had the spirit to not at
last, and to act in time. And now that chance has thrown us together, I
trust that you will not force your conversation upon me. No gentleman
would, and I have always given you credit for thinking yourself a
gentleman. I request that you will not speak to me.”
_Mr. Richards_: “You’ve spoken ten words to me for every one of mine to
you. But I won’t annoy you. I can’t believe it, Lucy; I can _not_
believe it. It seems like some rascally dream, and if I had had any
sleep since it happened, I should think I—”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Oh! You were sleeping soundly enough when I got into
the car!”
_Mr. Richards_: “I own it; I was perfectly used up, and I _had_ dropped
off.”
_Miss Galbraith_, scornfully: “Then perhaps you _have_ dreamed it.”
_Mr. Richards_: “I’ll think so till you tell me again that our engagement
is broken; that the faithful love of years is to go for nothing; that you
dismiss me with cruel insult, without one word of explanation, without a
word of intelligible accusation, even. It’s too much! I’ve been
thinking it all over and over, and I can’t make head or tail of it. I
meant to see you again as soon as we got to town, and implore you to hear
me. Come, it’s a mighty serious matter, Lucy. I’m not a man to put on
heroics and that; but _I_ believe it’ll play the very deuce with me,
Lucy,—that is to say, Miss Galbraith,—I do indeed. It’ll give me a low
opinion of woman.”
_Miss Galbraith_, averting her face: “Oh, a very high opinion of woman
you have had!”
_Mr. Richards_, with sentiment: “Well, there was one woman whom I thought
a perfect angel.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Indeed! May I ask her name?”
_Mr. Richards_, with a forlorn smile. “I shall be obliged to describe
her somewhat formally as—Miss Galbraith.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Mr. Richards!”
_Mr. Richards_: “Why, you’ve just forbidden me to say _Lucy_! You must
tell me, dearest, what I have done to offend you. The worst criminals
are not condemned unheard, and I’ve always thought you were merciful if
not just. And now I only ask you to be just.”
_Miss Galbraith_, looking out of the window: “You know very well what
you’ve done. You can’t expect me to humiliate myself by putting your
offence into words.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Upon my soul, I don’t know what you mean! I _don’t_
know what I’ve done. When you came at me, last night, with my ring and
presents and other little traps, you might have knocked me down with the
lightest of the lot. I was perfectly dazed; I couldn’t say anything
before you were off, and all I could do was to hope that you’d be more
like yourself in the morning. And in the morning, when I came round to
Mrs. Philips’s, I found you were gone, and I came after you by the next
train.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Mr. Richards, your personal history for the last
twenty-four hours is a matter of perfect indifference to me, as it shall
be for the next twenty-four hundred years. I see that you are resolved
to annoy me, and since you will not leave the car, I must do so.” She
rises haughtily from her seat, but the imprisoned skirt of her polonaise
twitches her abruptly back into her chair. She bursts into tears. “Oh,
what _shall_ I do?”
_Mr. Richards_, dryly: “You shall do whatever you like, Miss Galbraith,
when I’ve set you free; for I see your dress is caught in the window.
When it’s once out, I’ll shut the window, and you can call the porter to
raise it.” He leans forward over her chair, and while she shrinks back
the length of her tether, he tugs at the window-fastening. “I can’t get
at it. Would you be so good as to stand up,—all you can?” Miss
Galbraith stands up, droopingly, and Mr. Richards makes a movement
towards her, and then falls back. “No, that won’t do. Please sit down
again.” He goes round her chair and tries to get at the window from that
side. “I can’t get any purchase on it. Why don’t you cut out that
piece?” Miss Galbraith stares at him in dumb amazement. “Well, I don’t
see what we’re to do: I’ll go and get the porter.” He goes to the end of
the car, and returns. “I can’t find the porter,—he must be in one of the
other cars. But”—brightening with the fortunate conception—“I’ve just
thought of something. Will it unbutton?”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Unbutton?”
_Mr. Richards_: “Yes; this garment of yours.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “My polonaise?” Inquiringly, “Yes.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Well, then, it’s a very simple matter. If you will just
take it off I can easily”—
_Miss Galbraith_, faintly: “I can’t. A polonaise isn’t like an
overcoat”—
_Mr. Richards_, with dismay: “Oh! Well, then”—He remains thinking a
moment in hopeless perplexity.
_Miss Galbraith_, with polite ceremony: “The porter will be back soon.
Don’t trouble yourself any further about it, please. I shall do very
well.”
_Mr. Richards_, without heeding her: “If you could kneel on that
foot-cushion, and face the window”—
_Miss Galbraith_, kneeling promptly: “So?”
_Mr. Richards_: “Yes, and now”—kneeling beside her—“if you’ll allow me
to—to get at the window-catch,”—he stretches both arms forward; she
shrinks from his right into his left, and then back again,—“and pull
while I raise the window”—
_Miss Galbraith_: “Yes, yes; but do hurry, please. If any one saw us, I
don’t know what they would think. It’s perfectly ridiculous!”—pulling.
“It’s caught in the corner of the window, between the frame and the sash,
and it won’t come! Is my hair troubling you? Is it in your eyes?”
_Mr. Richards_: “It’s in my eyes, but it isn’t troubling me. Am I
inconveniencing you?”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Oh, not at all.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Well, now then, pull hard!” He lifts the window with a
great effort; the polonaise comes free with a start, and she strikes
violently against him. In supporting the shock he cannot forbear
catching her for an instant to his heart. She frees herself, and starts
indignantly to her feet.
_Miss Galbraith_: “Oh, what a cowardly—subterfuge!”
_Mr. Richards_: “Cowardly? You’ve no idea how much courage it took.”
Miss Galbraith puts her handkerchief to her face, and sobs. “Oh, don’t
cry! Bless my heart,—I’m sorry I did it! But you know how dearly I love
you, Lucy, though I do think you’ve been cruelly unjust. I told you I
never should love any one else, and I never shall. I couldn’t help it;
upon my soul, I couldn’t. Nobody could. Don’t let it vex you, my”—He
approaches her.
_Miss Galbraith_: “Please not touch me, sir! You have no longer any
right whatever to do so.”
_Mr. Richards_: “You misinterpret a very inoffensive gesture. I have no
idea of touching you, but I hope I may be allowed, as a special favor,
to—pick up my hat, which you are in the act of stepping on.” Miss
Galbraith hastily turns, and strikes the hat with her whirling skirts; it
rolls to the other side of the parlor, and Mr. Richards, who goes after
it, utters an ironical “Thanks!” He brushes it, and puts it on, looking
at her where she has again seated herself at the window with her back to
him, and continues, “As for any further molestation from me”—
_Miss Galbraith_: “If you _will_ talk to me”—
_Mr. Richards_: “Excuse me, I am not talking to you.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “What were you doing?”
_Mr. Richards_: “I was beginning to think aloud. I—I was soliloquizing.
I suppose I may be allowed to soliloquize?”
_Miss Galbraith_, very coldly: “You can do what you like.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Unfortunately that’s just what I can’t do. If I could
do as I liked, I should ask you a single question.”
_Miss Galbraith_, after a moment: “Well, sir, you may ask your question.”
She remains as before, with her chin in her hand, looking tearfully out
of the window; her face is turned from Mr. Richards, who hesitates a
moment before he speaks.
_Mr. Richards_: “I wish to ask you just this, Miss Galbraith: if you
couldn’t ride backwards in the other car, why do you ride backwards in
this?”
_Miss Galbraith_, burying her face in her handkerchief, and sobbing: “Oh,
oh, oh! This is too bad!”
_Mr. Richards_: “Oh, come now, Lucy. It breaks my heart to hear you
going on so, and all for nothing. Be a little merciful to both of us,
and listen to me. I’ve no doubt I can explain everything if I once
understand it, but it’s pretty hard explaining a thing if you don’t
understand it yourself. Do turn round. I know it makes you sick to ride
in that way, and if you don’t want to face me—there!”—wheeling in his
chair so as to turn his back upon her—“you needn’t. Though it’s rather
trying to a fellow’s politeness, not to mention his other feelings. Now,
what in the name”—
_Porter_, who at this moment enters with his step-ladder, and begins to
light the lamps: “Going pretty slow ag’in, sah.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Yes; what’s the trouble?”
_Porter_: “Well, I don’t know exactly, sah. Something de matter with de
locomotive. We sha’n’t be into Albany much ‘fore eight o’clock.”
_Mr. Richards_: “What’s the next station?”
_Porter_: “Schenectady.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Is the whole train as empty as this car?”
_Porter_, laughing: “Well, no, sah. Fact is, dis cah don’t belong on dis
train. It’s a Pullman that we hitched on when you got in, and we’s
taking it along for one of de Eastern roads. We let you in ‘cause de
Drawing-rooms was all full. Same with de lady,”—looking sympathetically
at her, as he takes his steps to go out. “Can I do anything for you now,
miss?”
_Miss Galbraith_, plaintively: “No, thank you; nothing whatever.” She
has turned while _Mr. Richards_ and _The Porter_ have been speaking, and
now faces the back of the former, but her veil is drawn closely. _The
Porter_ goes out.
_Mr. Richards_, wheeling round so as to confront her: “I wish you would
speak to me half as kindly as you do to that darky, Lucy.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “_He_ is a _gentleman_!”
_Mr. Richards_: “He is an urbane and well-informed nobleman. At any
rate, he’s a man and a brother. But so am I.” _Miss Galbraith_ does not
reply, and after a pause _Mr. Richards_ resumes. “Talking of gentlemen,
I recollect, once, coming up on the day-boat to Poughkeepsie, there was a
poor devil of a tipsy man kept following a young fellow about, and
annoying him to death—trying to fight him, as a tipsy man will, and
insisting that the young fellow had insulted him. By and by he lost his
balance and went overboard, and the other jumped after him and fished him
out.” Sensation on the part of _Miss Galbraith_, who stirs uneasily in
her chair, looks out of the window, then looks at _Mr. Richards_, and
drops her head. “There was a young lady on board, who had seen the whole
thing—a very charming young lady indeed, with pale blond hair growing
very thick over her forehead, and dark eyelashes to the sweetest blue
eyes in the world. Well, this young lady’s papa was amongst those who
came up to say civil things to the young fellow when he got aboard again,
and to ask the honor—he said the _honor_—of his acquaintance. And when
he came out of his stateroom in dry clothes, this infatuated old
gentleman was waiting for him, and took him and introduced him to his
wife and daughter; and the daughter said, with tears in her eyes, and a
perfectly intoxicating impulsiveness, that it was the grandest and the
most heroic and the noblest thing that she had ever seen, and she should
always be a better girl for having seen it. Excuse me, Miss Galbraith,
for troubling you with these facts of a personal history, which, as you
say, is a matter of perfect indifference to you. The young fellow didn’t
think at the time he had done anything extraordinary; but I don’t suppose
he _did_ expect to live to have the same girl tell him he was no
gentleman.”
_Miss Galbraith_, wildly: “O Allen, Allen! You _know_ I think you are a
gentleman, and I always did!”
_Mr. Richards_, languidly: “Oh, I merely had your word for it, just now,
that you didn’t.” Tenderly, “Will you hear me, Lucy?”
_Miss Galbraith_, faintly: “Yes.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Well, what is it I’ve done? Will you tell me if I guess
right?”
_Miss Galbraith_, with dignity: “I am in no humor for jesting, Allen.
And I can assure you that though I consent to hear what you have to say,
or ask, _nothing_ will change my determination. All is over between us.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Yes, I understand that, perfectly. I am now asking
merely for general information. I do not expect you to relent, and, in
fact, I should consider it rather frivolous if you did. No. What I have
always admired in your character, Lucy, is a firm, logical consistency; a
clearness of mental vision that leaves no side of a subject unsearched;
and an unwavering constancy of purpose. You may say that these traits
are characteristic of _all_ women; but they are pre-eminently
characteristic of you, Lucy.” _Miss Galbraith_ looks askance at him, to
make out whether he is in earnest or not; he continues, with a perfectly
serious air. “And I know now that if you’re offended with me, it’s for
no trivial cause.” She stirs uncomfortably in her chair. “What I have
done I can’t imagine, but it must be something monstrous, since it has
made life with me appear so impossible that you are ready to fling away
your own happiness—for I know you _did_ love me, Lucy—and destroy mine.
I will begin with the worst thing I can think of. Was it because I
danced so much with Fanny Watervliet?”
_Miss Galbraith_, indignantly: “How can you insult me by supposing that I
could be jealous of such a perfect little goose as that? No, Allen!
Whatever I think of you, I still respect you too much for that.”
_Mr. Richards_: “I’m glad to hear that there are yet depths to which you
think me incapable of descending, and that Miss Watervliet is one of
them. I will now take a little higher ground. Perhaps you think I
flirted with Mrs. Dawes. I thought, myself, that the thing might begin
to have that appearance, but I give you my word of honor that as soon as
the idea occurred to me, I dropped her—rather rudely, too. The trouble
was, don’t you know, that I felt so perfectly safe with a _married_
friend of yours. I couldn’t be hanging about you all the time, and I was
afraid I might vex you if I went with the other girls; and I didn’t know
what to do.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “I think you behaved rather silly, giggling so much
with her. But”—
_Mr. Richards_: “I own it, I know it was silly. But”—
_Miss Galbraith_: “It wasn’t that; it wasn’t that!”
_Mr. Richards_: “Was it my forgetting to bring you those things from your
mother?”
_Miss Galbraith_: “No!”
_Mr. Richards_: “Was it because I hadn’t given up smoking yet?”
_Miss Galbraith_: “You _know_ I never asked you to give up smoking. It
was entirely your own proposition.”
_Mr. Richards_: “That’s true. That’s what made me so easy about it. I
knew I could leave it off _any_ time. Well, I will not disturb you any
longer, Miss Galbraith.” He throws his overcoat across his arm, and
takes up his travelling-bag. “I have failed to guess your
fatal—conundrum; and I have no longer any excuse for remaining. I am
going into the smoking-car. Shall I send the porter to you for
anything?”
_Miss Galbraith_: “No, thanks.” She puts up her handkerchief to her
face.
_Mr. Richards_: “Lucy, do you send me away?”
_Miss Galbraith_, behind her handkerchief: “You were going, yourself.”
_Mr. Richards_, over his shoulder: “Shall I come back?”
_Miss Galbraith_: “I have no right to drive you from the car.”
_Mr. Richards_, coming back, and sitting down in the chair nearest her:
“Lucy, dearest, tell me what’s the matter.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “O Allen! your not _knowing_ makes it all the more
hopeless and killing. It shows me that we _must_ part; that you would go
on, breaking my heart, and grinding me into the dust as long as we
lived.” She sobs. “It shows me that you never understood me, and you
never will. I know you’re good and kind and all that, but that only
makes your not understanding me so much the worse. I do it quite as much
for your sake as my own, Allen.”
_Mr. Richards_: “I’d much rather you wouldn’t put yourself out on my
account.”
_Miss Galbraith_, without regarding him: “If you could mortify me before
a whole roomful of people, as you did last night, what could I expect
after marriage but continual insult?”
_Mr. Richards_, in amazement: “_How_ did I mortify you? I thought that I
treated you with all the tenderness and affection that a decent regard
for the feelings of others would allow. I was ashamed to find I couldn’t
keep away from you.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Oh, you were _attentive_ enough, Allen; nobody denies
that. Attentive enough in non-essentials. Oh, yes!”
_Mr. Richards_: “Well, what vital matters did I fail in? I’m sure I
can’t remember.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “I dare say! I dare say they won’t appear vital to
you, Allen. Nothing does. And if I had told you, I should have been met
with ridicule, I suppose. But I knew _better_ than to tell; I respected
myself too _much_.”
_Mr. Richards_: “But now you mustn’t respect yourself _quite_ so much,
dearest. And I promise you I won’t laugh at the most serious thing. I’m
in no humor for it. If it were a matter of life and death, even, I can
assure you that it wouldn’t bring a smile to my countenance. No, indeed!
If you expect me to laugh, now, you must say something particularly
funny.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “I was not going to say anything funny, as you call it,
and I will say nothing at all, if you talk in that way.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Well, I won’t, then. But do you know what I suspect,
Lucy? I wouldn’t mention it to everybody, but I will to you—in strict
confidence: I suspect that you’re rather ashamed of your grievance, if
you have any. I suspect it’s nothing at all.”
_Miss Galbraith_, very sternly at first, with a rising hysterical
inflection: “Nothing, Allen! Do you call it _nothing_, to have Mrs.
Dawes come out with all that about your accident on your way up the
river, and ask me if it didn’t frighten me terribly to hear of it, even
after it was all over; and I had to say you hadn’t told me a word of it?
‘Why, Lucy!’”—angrily mimicking Mrs. Dawes,—“‘you must teach him better
than that. I make Mr. Dawes tell me everything.’ Little simpleton! And
then to have them all laugh—Oh, dear, it’s too much!”
_Mr. Richards_: “Why, my dear Lucy”—
_Miss Galbraith_, interrupting him: “I saw just how it was going to be,
and I’m thankful, _thankful_ that it happened. I saw that you didn’t
care enough for me to take me into your whole life; that you despised and
distrusted me, and that it would get worse and worse to the end of our
days; that we should grow farther and farther apart, and I should be left
moping at home, while you ran about making confidantes of other women
whom you considered _worthy_ of your confidence. It all _flashed_ upon
me in an _instant_; and I resolved to break with you, then and there; and
I did, just as soon as ever I could go to my room for your things, and
I’m glad,—yes,—Oh, hu, hu, hu, hu, hu!—_so_ glad I did it!”
_Mr. Richards_, grimly: “Your joy is obvious. May I ask”—
_Miss Galbraith_: “Oh, it wasn’t the _first_ proof you had given me how
little you really cared for me, but I was determined it should be the
last. I dare say you’ve forgotten them! I dare say you don’t remember
telling Mamie Morris that you didn’t like embroidered cigar-cases, when
you’d just _told_ me that you did, and let me be such a fool as to
commence one for you; but I’m thankful to say _that_ went into the
fire,—oh, yes, _instantly_! And I dare say you’ve forgotten that you
didn’t tell me your brother’s engagement was to be kept, and let me come
out with it that night at the Rudges’, and then looked perfectly aghast,
so that everybody thought I had been blabbing! Time and again, Allen,
you have made me suffer agonies, yes, _agonies_; but your power to do so
is at an end. I am free and happy at last.” She weeps bitterly.
_Mr. Richards_, quietly: “Yes, I _had_ forgotten those crimes, and I
suppose many similar atrocities. I own it, I _am_ forgetful and
careless. I was wrong about those things. I ought to have told you why
I said that to Miss Morris: I was afraid she was going to work me one.
As to that accident I told Mrs. Dawes of, it wasn’t worth mentioning.
Our boat simply walked over a sloop in the night, and nobody was hurt. I
shouldn’t have thought twice about it, if she hadn’t happened to brag of
their passing close to an iceberg on their way home from Europe; then I
trotted out _my_ pretty-near disaster as a match for hers,—confound her!
I wish the iceberg had sunk them! Only it wouldn’t have sunk her,—she’s
so light; she’d have gone bobbing about all over the Atlantic Ocean, like
a cork; she’s got a perfect life-preserver in that mind of hers.” _Miss
Galbraith_ gives a little laugh, and then a little moan. “But since you
are happy, I will not repine, Miss Galbraith. I don’t pretend to be very
happy myself, but then, I don’t deserve it. Since you are ready to let
an absolutely unconscious offence on my part cancel all the past; since
you let my devoted love weigh as nothing against the momentary pique that
a malicious little rattle-pate—she was vexed at my leaving her—could make
you feel, and choose to gratify a wicked resentment at the cost of any
suffering to me, why, I can be glad and happy too.” With rising anger,
“Yes, Miss Galbraith. All _is_ over between us. You can go! I renounce
you!”
_Miss Galbraith_, springing fiercely to her feet: “Go, indeed! Renounce
me! Be so good as to remember that you haven’t got me _to_ renounce!”
_Mr. Richards_: “Well, it’s all the same thing. I’d renounce you if I
had. Good-evening, Miss Galbraith. I will send back your presents as
soon as I get to town; it won’t be necessary to acknowledge them. I hope
we may never meet again.” He goes out of the door towards the front of
the ear, but returns directly, and glances uneasily at Miss Galbraith,
who remains with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. “Ah—a—that is—I
shall be obliged to intrude upon you again. The fact is”—
_Miss Galbraith_, anxiously: “Why, the cars have stopped! Are we at
Schenectady?”
_Mr. Richards_: “Well, no; not _exactly_; not stopped exactly at
_Schenectady_”—
_Miss Galbraith_: “Then what station is this? Have they carried me by?”
Observing his embarrassment, “Allen, what is the matter? What has
happened? Tell me instantly! Are we off the track? Have we run into
another train? Have we broken through a bridge? Shall we be burnt
alive? Tell me, Allen, tell me,—I can bear it!—are we telescoped?” She
wrings her hands in terror.
_Mr. Richards_, unsympathetically: “Nothing of the kind has happened.
This car has simply come uncoupled, and the rest of the train has gone on
ahead, and left us standing on the track, nowhere in particular.” He
leans back in his chair, and wheels it round from her.
_Miss Galbraith_, mortified, yet anxious: “Well?”
_Mr. Richards_: “Well, until they miss us, and run back to pick us up, I
shall be obliged to ask your indulgence. I will try not to disturb you;
I would go out and stand on the platform, but it’s raining.”
_Miss Galbraith_, listening to the rain-fall on the roof: “Why, so it
is!” Timidly, “Did you notice when the car stopped?”
_Mr. Richards_: “No.” He rises and goes out at the rear door, comes
back, and sits down again.
_Miss Galbraith_, rises, and goes to the large mirror to wipe away her
tears. She glances at Mr. Richards, who does not move. She sits down in
a seat nearer him than the chair she has left. After some faint murmurs
and hesitations, she asks, “Will you please tell me why you went out just
now?”
_Mr. Richards_, with indifference: “Yes. I went to see if the rear
signal was out.”
_Miss Galbraith_, after another hesitation: “Why?”
_Mr. Richards_: “Because, if it wasn’t out, some train might run into us
from that direction.”
_Miss Galbraith_, tremulously: “Oh! And was it?”
_Mr. Richards_, dryly: “Yes.”
_Miss Galbraith_ returns to her former place, with a wounded air, and for
a moment neither speaks. Finally she asks very meekly, “And there’s no
danger from the front?”
_Mr. Richards_, coldly: “No.”
_Miss Galbraith_, after some little noises and movements meant to catch
Mr. Richards’s attention: “Of course, I never meant to imply that you
were intentionally careless or forgetful.”
_Mr. Richards_, still very coldly: “Thank you.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “I always did justice to your good-heartedness, Allen;
you’re perfectly lovely that way; and I know that you would be sorry if
you knew you had wounded my feelings, however accidentally.” She droops
her head so as to catch a sidelong glimpse of his face, and sighs, while
she nervously pinches the top of her parasol, resting the point on the
floor. Mr. Richards makes no answer. “That about the cigar-case might
have been a mistake; I saw that myself, and, as you explain it, why, it
was certainly very kind and very creditable to—to your thoughtfulness.
It _was_ thoughtful!”
_Mr. Richards_: “I am grateful for your good opinion.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “But do you think it was exactly—it was quite—nice, not
to tell me that your brother’s engagement was to be kept, when you know,
Allen, I can’t bear to blunder in such things?” Tenderly, “_Do_ you?
You _can’t_ say it was?”
_Mr. Richards_: “I never said it was.”
_Miss Galbraith_, plaintively: “No, Allen. That’s what I always admired
in your character. You always owned up. Don’t you think it’s easier for
men to own up than it is for women?”
_Mr. Richards_: “I don’t know. I never knew any woman to do it.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Oh, yes, Allen! You know I _often_ own up.”
_Mr. Richards_: “No, I don’t.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Oh, how can you bear to say so? When I’m rash, or
anything of that kind, you know I acknowledge it.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Do you acknowledge it now?”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Why, how can I, when I haven’t _been_ rash? _What_
have I been rash”—
_Mr. Richards_: “About the cigar-case, for example.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Oh! _that_! That was a great while ago! I thought
you meant something quite recent.” A sound as of the approaching tram is
heard in the distance. She gives a start, and then leaves her chair
again for one a little nearer his. “I thought perhaps you meant
about—last night.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Well.”
_Miss Galbraith_, very judicially: “I don’t think it was _rash_, exactly.
No, not _rash_. It might not have been very _kind_ not to—to—trust you
more, when I knew that you didn’t mean anything; but—No, I took the only
course I could. Nobody could have done differently under the
circumstances. But if I caused you any pain, I’m very sorry; oh, yes,
very sorry indeed. But I was not precipitate, and I know I did right.
At least I _tried_ to act for the best. Don’t you believe I did?”
_Mr. Richards_: “Why, if you have no doubt upon the subject, my opinion
is of no consequence.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Yes. But what do you think? If you think
differently, and can make me see it differently, oughtn’t you to do so?”
_Mr. Richards_: “I don’t see why. As you say, all is over between us.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Yes.” After a pause, “I should suppose you would care
enough for yourself to wish me to look at the matter from the right point
of view.”
_Mr. Richards_: “I don’t.”
_Miss Galbraith_, becoming more and more uneasy as the noise of the
approaching train grows louder: “I think you have been very quick with me
at times, quite as quick as I could have been with you last night.” The
noise is more distinctly heard. “I’m sure that if I could once see it as
you do, no one would be more willing to do anything in their power to
atone for their rashness. Of course I know that everything is over.”
_Mr. Richards_: “As to that, I have your word; and, in view of the fact,
perhaps this analysis of motive, of character, however interesting on
general grounds, is a little”—
_Miss Galbraith_, with sudden violence: “Say it, and take your revenge!
I have put myself at your feet, and you do right to trample on me! Oh,
this is what women may expect when they trust to men’s generosity! Well,
it _is_ over now, and I’m thankful, thankful! Cruel, suspicious,
vindictive, you’re all alike, and I’m glad that I’m no longer subject to
your heartless caprices. And I don’t care what happens after this, I
shall always—Oh! You’re sure it’s from the front, Allen? Are you sure
the rear signal is out?”
_Mr. Richards_, relenting: “Yes, but if it will ease your mind, I’ll go
and look again.” He rises, and starts towards the rear door.
_Miss Galbraith_, quickly: “Oh, no! Don’t go! I can’t bear to be left
alone!” The sound of the approaching train continually increases in
volume. “Oh, isn’t it coming very, very, _very_ fast?”
_Mr. Richards_: “No, no! Don’t be frightened.”
_Miss Galbraith_, running towards the rear door. “Oh, I _must_ get out!
It will kill me, I know it will. Come with me! Do, do!” He runs after
her, and her voice is heard at the rear of the car. “Oh, the outside
door is locked, and we are trapped, trapped, trapped! Oh, quick! Let’s
try the door at the other end.” They re-enter the parlor, and the roar
of the train announces that it is upon them. “No, no! It’s too late,
it’s too late! I’m a wicked, wicked girl, and this is all to punish me!
Oh, it’s coming, it’s coming at full speed!” He remains bewildered,
confronting her. She utters a wild cry, and as the train strikes the car
with a violent concussion, she flings herself into his arms. “There,
there! Forgive me, Allen! Let us die together, my own, own love!” She
hangs fainting on his breast. Voices are heard without, and after a
little delay _The Porter_ comes in with a lantern.
_Porter_: “Rather more of a jah than we meant to give you, sah! We had
to run down pretty quick after we missed you, and the rain made the track
a little slippery. Lady much frightened?”
_Miss Galbraith_, disengaging herself: “Oh, not at all! Not in the
least. We thought it was a train coming from behind, and going to run
into us, and so—we—I”—
_Porter_: “Not quite so bad as that. We’ll be into Schenectady in a few
minutes, miss. I’ll come for your things.” He goes out at the other
door.
_Miss Galbraith_, in a fearful whisper: “Allen! What will he ever think
of us? I’m sure he saw us!”
_Mr. Richards_: “I don’t know what he’ll think _now_. He _did_ think you
were frightened; but you told him you were not. However, it isn’t
important what he thinks. Probably he thinks I’m your long-lost brother.
It had a kind of family look.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Ridiculous!”
_Mr. Richards_: “Why, he’d never suppose that I was a jilted lover of
yours!”
_Miss Galbraith_, ruefully: “No.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Come, Lucy,”—taking her hand,—“you wished to die with
me, a moment ago. Don’t you think you can make one more effort to live
with me? I won’t take advantage of words spoken in mortal peril, but I
suppose you were in earnest when you called me your own—own”—Her head
droops; he folds her in his arms a moment, then she starts away from him,
as if something had suddenly occurred to her.
_Miss Galbraith_: “Allen, where are you going?”
_Mr. Richards_: “Going? Upon my soul, I haven’t the least idea.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Where _were_ you going?”
_Mr. Richards_: “Oh, I _was_ going to Albany.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Well, don’t! Aunt Mary is expecting me here at
Schenectady,—I telegraphed her,—and I want you to stop here, too, and
we’ll refer the whole matter to her. She’s such a wise old head. I’m
not sure”—
_Mr. Richards_: “What?”
_Miss Galbraith_, demurely: “That I’m good enough for you.”
_Mr. Richards_, starting, in burlesque of her movement, as if a thought
had struck _him_: “Lucy! how came you on this train when you left
Syracuse on the morning express?”
_Miss Galbraith_, faintly: “I waited over a train at Utica.” She sinks
into a chair, and averts her face.
_Mr. Richards_: “May I ask why?”
_Miss Galbraith_, more faintly still: “I don’t like to tell. I”—
_Mr. Richards_, coming and standing in front of her, with his hands in
his pockets: “Look me in the eye, Lucy!” She drops her veil over her
face, and looks up at him. “Did you—did you expect to find _me_ on this
train?”
_Miss Galbraith_: “I was afraid it never _would_ get along,—it was so
late!”
_Mr. Richards_: “Don’t—tergiversate.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Don’t _what_?”
_Mr. Richards_: “Fib.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Not for worlds!”
_Mr. Richards_: “How did you know I was in this car?”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Must I? I thought I saw you through the window; and
then I made sure it was you when I went to pin my veil on,—I saw you in
the mirror.”
_Mr. Richards_, after a little silence: “Miss Galbraith, do you want to
know what _you_ are?”
_Miss Galbraith_, softly: “Yes, Allen.”
_Mr. Richards_: “You’re a humbug!”
_Miss Galbraith_, springing from her seat, and confronting him. “So are
you! You pretended to be asleep!”
_Mr. Richards_: “I—I—I was taken by surprise. I had to take time to
think.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “So did I.”
_Mr. Richards_: “And you thought it would be a good plan to get your
polonaise caught in the window?”
_Miss Galbraith_, hiding her face on his shoulder: “No, no, Allen! That
I never _will_ admit. _No_ woman would!”
_Mr. Richards_: “Oh, I dare say!” After a pause: “Well, I am a poor,
weak, helpless man, with no one to advise me or counsel me, and I have
been cruelly deceived. How could you, Lucy, how could you? I can never
get over this.” He drops his head upon her shoulder.
_Miss Galbraith_, starting away again, and looking about the car: “Allen,
I have an idea! Do you suppose Mr. Pullman could be induced to _sell_
this car?”
_Mr. Richards_: “Why?”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Why, because I think it’s perfectly lovely, and I
should like to live in it always. It could be fitted up for a sort of
summer-house, don’t you know, and we could have it in the garden, and you
could smoke in it.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Admirable! It would look just like a travelling
photographic saloon. No, Lucy, we won’t buy it; we will simply keep it
as a precious souvenir, a sacred memory, a beautiful dream,—and let it go
on fulfilling its destiny all the same.”
_Porter_, entering, and gathering up _Miss Galbraith’s_ things: “Be at
Schenectady in half a minute, miss. Won’t have much time.”
_Miss Galbraith_, rising, and adjusting her dress, and then looking about
the car, while she passes her hand through her lover’s arm: “Oh, I do
_hate_ to leave it. Farewell, you dear, kind, good, lovely car! May you
never have another accident!” She kisses her hand to the car, upon which
they both look back as they slowly leave it.
_Mr. Richards_, kissing his hand in the like manner: “Good-by, sweet
chariot! May you never carry any but bridal couples!”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Or engaged ones!”
_Mr. Richards_: “Or husbands going home to their wives!”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Or wives hastening to their husbands.”
_Mr. Richards_: “Or young ladies who have waited one train over, so as to
be with the young men they hate.”
_Miss Galbraith_: “Or young men who are so indifferent that they pretend
to be asleep when the young ladies come in!” They pause at the door and
look back again. “‘And must I leave thee, Paradise?’” They both kiss
their hands to the car again, and, their faces being very close together,
they impulsively kiss each other. Then _Miss Galbraith_ throws back her
head, and solemnly confronts him. “Only think, Allen! If this car
hadn’t broken _its_ engagement, we might never have mended ours.”
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