The Best Man (18 page)

Without delay Gordon softly unlatched the door and swung it open whispering to Celia:

“Go! Quick! Over there by the fence in the shadow. Don’t look around nor speak! Quick! I’ll come!”

Trembling in every limb yet with brave starry eyes Celia slipped like a wraith from the carriage, stole behind the boards and melted into the shadow of the great fence of the lumber yard, and her purple plumes were depths of shadow against the smoky planks. Gordon, grasping the suit-cases moved instantly after her, deftly and silently closing the carriage door and drooping into the shadows behind the big wagon, scarcely able to believe as yet they had really escaped.

Ten feet back along the sidewalk was a gateway, the posts being tall and thick. The gate itself was closed but it hung a few inches inside the line of the fence, and into this depression the two stepped softly and stood, flattening themselves back against the gate as closely as possible, scarcely daring to breathe, while the long freight clattered and rambled its way like a lot of jolly washerwomen running and laughing in a line and spatting their tired noisy feet as they went; then the vehicles impatiently took up their onward course. Gordon saw the driver look down at the window below him and glance back hastily over his shoulder, and the man on the other side of the box, looked down on his side. The glitter of something in his hand shone for an instant in the glare of the signal light over the track. Then the horse lurched forward and the cab began its crazy gait over the track and up the cobbled street. They had started onward without getting down to look in the carriage and see if all were safe with their prisoners, and they had not even looked back to see if they had escaped. They evidently trusted in the means they had used to lock the carriage doors, and had heard no sounds of their escaping. It was incredible, but it was true. Gordon drew a long breath of relief and relaxed from his strained position. The next thing was to get out of that neighborhood as swiftly as possible before those men had time to discover that their birds had flown. They would of course know at once where their departure had taken place and come back swiftly to search for them, with perhaps more men to help; and a second time escape would be impossible.

Gordon snatched up the suit-cases with one hand, and with the other drew Celia’s arm within his.

“Now, we must hurry with all our might,” he said softly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” Her breath was coming in a sob, but her eyes were shining bravely.

“Poor child!” his voice was very tender. “Were you much frightened?”

“A little,” she answered more bravely now.

“I shall have hard work to forgive myself for all this,” he said tenderly. “But we mustn’t talk. We have to get out of this quickly or they came back after us. Lean on me and walk as fast as you can.”

Celia bent her efforts to take long springing strides, and together they fairly skimmed the pavements, turning first this corner, then that, in the general direction from which Gordon thought they had come, until at last, three blocks away they caught the welcome whirr of a trolley, and breathless, flew onward, just watching a car. They cared not where it went so that they were safe in a bright light with other people. No diamonds on any gentleman’s neckscarf ever shone to Celia’s eyes with so friendly a welcome as the dull brass buttons on that trolley conductor’s coat as he rang up their fares and answered Gordon’s questions about how to get to East Liberty Station; and their pleasant homely gleam almost were her undoing, for now that they were safe at last the tears would come to her eyes.

Gordon watched her lovingly, tenderly, glad that she did not know how terrible had been her danger. His heart was still beating wildly with the thought of their marvellous escape, and his own present responsibility. He must run no further risks. They would keep to crowded trolleys, and trust to hiding in the open. The main thing was to get out of the city on the first train they could manage to board.

When they reached East Liberty Station a long train was just coming in, all sleepers, and they could hear the echo of a stentorian voice:

“Special for Harrisburg, Baltimore and Washington! All aboard!” and up at the further end of the platform Gordon saw the lank form of the detective whom he had tried to avoid an hour before at the other station.

Without taking time for thought he hurried Celia forward and they sprang breathlessly aboard. Not until they were fairly in the cars and the wheels moving under them did it occur to him that his companion had had nothing to eat since about twelve o’ clock. She must be famished, and in a fair way to be ill again. What a fool he was not to have thought! They could have stopped in some obscure restaurant along the way as well as not, and taken a later train, and yet it was safer to get away at once. Without doubt there were watchers at East Liberty, too, and he was lucky to have got on the train without a challenge. He was sure that detective’s face lighted strangely as he looked his way. Perhaps there was a buffet attached to the train. At least, he would investigate. If there wasn’t, they must get off at the next stop – there must be another stop surely somewhere near the city – he could not remember, but there surely must be.

“No,” growled the worried conductor. “You’re on the wrong train. This is a special, and every berth in the train is taken now but one upper.”

“Then, we’ll have to get off at the next stop, I suppose, and take the other train,” said Gordon dismally.

“There isn’t any other stop till somewhere in the middle of the night. I tell you this is a special, and we’re scheduled to go straight through. East Liberty’s the last stop.”

“Then what shall we do? Asked Gordon inanely.

“I’m sure I don’t know,” snapped the conductor. “I’ve enough to do without mending other people’s mistakes. Stay aboard, I suppose, unless you want to jump off and commit suicide.”

“But I have a lady with me who isn’t at all well,” said Gordon, with dignity.

“So much the worse for the lady,” replied the conductor inhumanly. “There’s one upper berth, I told you.”

“An upper berth wouldn’t do for her,” said Gordon decidedly. “She isn’t well, I tell you.”

“Suit yourself!” snapped the harassed official. “I reckon it’s better than nothing. You may not have it long. I’m likely to be asked for it the next half minute.”

“Is that so? And is there absolutely nothing else?”

“Young man, I can’t waste words on you. I haven’t time. Take it or let it alone. It’s all one to me. There’s some standing room left in the day-coach, perhaps.”

“I’ll take it,” said Gordon meekly, wishing he could go back and undo the last half-hour. How in the world was he to go and tell Celia that he could provide her nothing better than an upper berth?

She was sitting with her back to him, her face resting wearily on her hand against the window. Two men with largely checked suits, big seal rings, and diamond scarf-pins sat in the opposite seat. He knew it was most unpleasant for her. A nondescript woman with a very hat and thick powder on her face shared Celia’s seat. He reflected that “special” did not always bear a select company.

“Is there nothing you can do?” he pleaded with the conductor, as he took the bit of pasteboard entitling him to the last vacant berth. “Don’t you suppose you could get some man to change and give her a lower berth? It’ll be very hard for her. She isn’t used to upper berths.”

His eyes rested wistfully on the bowed head. Celia had taken off her plumed hat, and the fitful light of the car played with the gold of her hair. The conductor’s grim eye softened as he looked.

“That the lady? I’ll see what I can do,” he said briefly, and stumped off to the next car. The miracle of her presence worked its change upon him.

Gordon went over to Celia and told her in a low tone that he hoped to have arrangements made for her soon, so that she could be comfortable. She must be fearfully tired with the excitement and fright and hurry. He added that he had made a great blunder in getting on this train, and now there was no chance to get off for several hours, perhaps, and probably no supper to be had.

“Oh, it doesn’t matter in the least,” said Celia wearily. “I’m not at all hungry.” She almost smiled when she said it. He knew that what she wanted was to have her mind relieved about the letters. But she readily saw that there was no opportunity now.

She even seemed sorry at his troubled look, and tried to smile again through the settled sadness in her eyes. He could see she was very weary, and he felt like a great brute in care of a child, and mentally berated himself for his own thoughtlessness.

Gordon started off to search for something to eat for her, and was more successful than he had dared hope. The newsboy had two chicken sandwiched left, and these, with the addition of a fine orange, a box of chocolates, and a glass of ice-water, he presently brought to her, and was rewarded by a smile this time, almost as warm and intimate as those she had given him during their beautiful day.

But he could not sit beside her, for the places were all taken, and he could not stand in the aisle and talk, for the porter was constantly running back and forth making up the berths. There seemed to be a congested state of things in the whole train, every seat being full and men standing in the aisles. He noticed now that they all wore badges of some fraternal order. It was doubtless a delegation to some great convention, upon which they had intruded. They were a good-natured, noisy, happy crowd, but not anywhere among them was to be found a quiet spot where he and Celia could go on with their suddenly interrupted conversation. Presently the conductor came to him and said he had found a gentleman who would give the lady his lower berth and take her upper one. It was already made up, and the lady might take possession at once.

Gordon made the exchange of tickets, and immediately escorted Celia to it. He found her most glad to go for she was now unutterably weary, and was longing to get away from the light and noise about her.

He led the way with the suit-cases, hoping that in the other car there would be some spot where they could talk for a few minutes. But he was disappointed. It was even fuller than in the first car. He arranged everything for her comfort as far as possible, disposed of her hat and fixed her suit-case so that she could open it, but even while he was doing it there were people crowding by, and no private conversation could be had. He stepped back when all was arranged and held the curtain aside that she might sit on the edge of her berth. Then stopping over he whispered:

“Try to trust me until morning. I’ll explain it all to you then, so that you will understand how I have had nothing to do with those letters. Forget it, and try to rest. Will you?”

His tone was wistful. He had never wanted to do anything so much in all his life to stoop and kiss those sweet lips, and the lovely eyes that looked up at him out of the dusky shadows of the berth, filled with fear and longing. They looked more than ever like the blue tired flowers that drooped from her gown wearily. But he held himself with a firm hand. She was not his to kiss. When she knew how he had deceived her, she would probably never give him the right to kiss her.

“I will try,” she murmured in answer to his question, and then added: “But where will you be? Is your berth near by?”

“Not far away – that is, I had to take a place in another car, they are so crowded.”

“Oh!” she said a little anxiously. “Are you sure you have a good comfortable place?”

“Oh, yes, I shall be all right,” he answered joyously. It was so wonderful to have her care whether he was comfortable or not.

The porter was making up the opposite berth, and there was no room to stand longer, so he bade her good night, she putting out her hand for a farewell. For an instant he held it close, with gentle pressure, as if to reassure her, then he went away to the day-coach, and settled down into a hard corner at the very back of the car, drawing his travelling cap over his eyes, and letting his heart beat out wild joy over that little touch of her dear hand. Wave after wave of sweetness went over him, thrilling his very soul with a joy he had never known before.

And this was love! And what kind of a wretch was he, presuming to like this a woman who was the promised bride of another man! Ah, but such a man! A villain! A brute, who had used his power over her to make her suffer tortures! Had a man like that a right to claim her? His whole being answered “no.”

Then the memory of the look in her eyes, the turn of her head, the soft touch of her fingers as they lay for that instant in his, the inflection of her voice, would send that wave of sweetness over his senses, his heart would thrill anew, and he would forget the wretch who stood between him and this lovely girl whom he knew now he loved as he had never dreamed a man could love.

Gradually his mind steadied itself under the sweet intoxication, and he began to wonder just what he should say to her in the morning. It was a good thing he had not had further opportunity to talk with her that night, for he could not have told her everything; and now if all went well they would be in Washington in the morning, and he might make some excuse till after he had delivered his message. Then he would be free to tell the whole story, and lay his case before her for decision. His heart throbbed with ecstasy as he thought of the possibility for her forgiving him, and yet it seemed most unlikely. Sometimes he would let his wild longings fancy for just an instant what joy it would be if she could be induced to let the marriage stand. But he told himself at the same time that that could never be. It was very likely that there was someone else in New York to whom her heart would turn into a compulsory marriage. He would promise to help her, protect her, defend her from the man who was evidently using blackmail to get her into his power for some purpose; most likely for the sake of having control of her property. At least it would be some comfort to be able to help her out of her trouble. And yet, would she ever trust a man who had even unwittingly allowed her to be bound by the sacred tie of marriage to an utter stranger?

And thus, amid hope and fear, the night whirled itself away. Forward in the sleeper the girl lay wide awake for a long time. In the middle of the night a thought suddenly evolved itself out of the blackness of her curtained couch. She sat upright alertly and stared into the darkness, as if it were a thing that she could catch and handle and examine. The thought was born out of a dreamy vision of the crisp brown waves, almost curls if they had not been short and thick, that covered the head of the man who had lain sleeping outside her curtains in the early morning. It came to her with sudden force that not so had been the hair of the boy George Hayne, who used to trouble her girlish days. His was thin and black and oily, collecting naturally into little isolated strings with the least warmth, and giving him the appearance of a kitten who had been out in the rain. One lock, how well she remembered that lock! – one lock on the very crown of his head had always refused to lie down, no matter how much persuasion was brought to bear upon it. It had been the one point on which the self-satisfied George had been pregnable, his hair, that scalp lock that would always arise stiffly, oilily, from the top of his head. The hair she had looked at admiringly that morning in the dawning crimson of the rising sun had not been that way. It had curved clingingly to the shape of the fine head as if it loved to go that way. It was beautiful and fine and burnished with a sense of life and vigor in its every wave. Could hair change in ten years? Could it grow brown where it had been black? Could it become glossy instead of dull and oily? Could it take on the signs of natural wave where it had been as straight as a die? Could it grow like fur where it had been so thin?