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.”
THE SLEEPING CAR
I.
SCENE: One side of a sleeping-car on the Boston and Albany Road. The curtains are drawn before most of the berths; from the hooks and rods hang hats, bonnets, bags, bandboxes, umbrellas,
