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
