LITMIR.BIZ

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“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.

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