CHAPTER IX
FATE
Turning to the man behind him Seabury attempted to extract a littleinformation, and the man was very affable and anxious to be of help, butall he could do was to nod and utter Teutonic gutturals through a bushybeard with a deep, buzzing sound, and Seabury sank back, beaten anddejected.
"Good Lord!" he muttered to himself, "is the entire Fatherlandtravelling on this accursed car! I--I've half a mind----"
He stole a doubtful sidelong glance at his blue-eyed neighbor across theaisle, but she was looking out of her own window this time, her cheeksburied in the fur of her chinchilla muff.
"And after all," he reflected, "if I ask her, she might turn out to beof the same nationality." But it was not exactly that which preventedhim.
The train was slowing down; sundry hoarse toots from the locomotiveindicated a station somewhere in the vicinity.
"Plue Pirt Lake! Change heraus fuer Bleasant Falley!" shouted theconductor, opening the forward door. He lingered long enough to glarebalefully at Seabury, then, as nobody apparently cared either to get outat Blue Bird Lake or change for Pleasant Valley, he slammed the door andjerked the signal rope; the locomotive emitted a scornful Teutonicgrunt; the train moved forward into the deepening twilight of theDecember night.
The snow was now falling more heavily--it was light enough to seethat--a fine gray powder sifting down out of obscurity, blowing past thewindows in misty streamers.
The bulky man opposite breathed on the pane, rubbed it with a thumb likea pincushion, and peered out.
"Der next station iss Beverly," he said.
"The next is Peverly?"
"No, der next iss _B_everly; und der nextest iss Peverly.
"Then, if I am going to Beverly, I get out at the next station, don'tI?" stammered the perplexed young fellow, trying to be polite.
The man became peevish. "Nun, wass ist es?" he growled. "I dell youPeverly und you say Beverly. Don'd I know vat it iss I say alretty?"
"Yes--but _I_ don't----"
"Also, you ged owid vere you tam blease!" retorted the incensedpassenger, and resumed his newspaper, hunching himself around to presentnothing to Seabury except a vast expanse of neck and shoulder.
Seabury, painfully embarrassed, let it go at that. Probably the poor man_had_ managed to enunciate the name of the station properly; no doubtthe next stop was Beverly, after all. He was due there at 6.17. Helooked at his watch. It was a quarter past six already. The next stop_must_ be Beverly--supposing the train to be on time.
And already the guttural warning of the locomotive sounded from thedarkness ahead; already he sensed the gritting resistance of the brakes.
Permitting himself a farewell and perfectly inoffensive glance acrossthe aisle, he perceived her of the blue eyes and chinchilla furspreparing for departure; and, what he had not before noticed, her maidin the seat behind her, gathering a dainty satchel, umbrella, andsuit-case marked C. G.
So she was going to Beverly, too! He hoped she might be bound for theChristmas Eve frolic at the Austins'. It was perfectly possible--infact, probable.
He was a young man whose optimism colored his personal wishes so vividlythat sometimes what he desired became presently, in his imagination, acharming and delightful probability. And already his misgivingsconcerning the proper name of the next station had vanished. He _wanted_Beverly to be the next station, and already it was, for him. Also, hehad quite made up his mind that she of the chinchillas was bound for theAustins'.
A cynical blast from the locomotive; a jerking pull of brakes, and, fromthe forward smoker, entered the fat conductor.
"Beverly! Beverly!" he shouted.
So he, too, had managed to master his _P's_ and _B's_, concluded theyoung man, smiling to himself as he rose, invested himself with hisheavy coat, and picked up his suit-case.
The young lady of the chinchillas had already left the car, followed byher maid, before he stepped into the aisle ready for departure.
A shadow of misgiving fell upon him when, glancing politely at hisfellow-passenger, he encountered only a huge sneer, and concluded thatthe nod of courtesy was superfluous.
Also he hesitated as he passed the fat conductor, who was glaring athim, mouth agape--hesitated a moment only, then, realizing the dreadfulpossibilities of reopening the subject, swallowed his question insilence.
"It's _got_ to be Beverly, now," he thought, making his way to the snowyplatform and looking about him for some sign of a conveyance which mightbe destined for him. There were several sleighs and depot-wagonsthere--a number of footmen bustling about in furs.
"I'll just glance at the name of the station to be sure," he thought tohimself, peering up through the thickly descending snow where the nameof the station ought to be. And, as he stepped out to get a good view,he backed into a fur-robed footman, who touched his hat in hastyapology.
"Oh, Bailey! Is that you?" said Seabury, relieved to encounter one ofMrs. Austin's men.
"Yes, sir. Mr. Seabury, sir! Were you expected----?"
"Certainly," nodded the young man gayly, abandoning his suit-case to thefootman and following him to a big depot-sleigh.
And there, sure enough, was his lady of the chinchillas, nestling underthe robes to her pretty chin, and her maid on the box with thecoachman--a strangely fat coachman--no doubt a new one to replace oldMartin.
When Seabury came up the young lady turned and looked at him, and hetook off his hat politely, and she acknowledged his presence verygravely and he seated himself decorously, and the footman swung to therumble.
Then the chiming silver sleigh-bells rang out through the snow, themagnificent pair of plumed horses swung around the circle under thebleared lights of the station and away they speeded into snowy darkness.
A decent interval of silence elapsed before he considered himself atliberty to use a traveller's privilege. Then he said somethingsufficiently commonplace to permit her the choice of conversing orremaining silent. She hesitated; she had never been particularly weddedto silence. Besides, she was scarcely twenty--much too young to bewedded to anything. So she said something, with perfect composure, whichleft the choice to him. And his choice was obvious.
"I have no idea how far it is; have you?" he asked.
"Yes," she said coolly.
"This is a jolly sleigh," he continued with unimpaired cheerfulness.
She thought it comfortable. And for a while the conversation clung soclosely around the sleigh that it might have been run over had not hedragged it into another path.
"Isn't it amazing how indifferent railroads are to the convenience oftheir passengers?"
She turned her blue eyes on him; there was the faintest glimmer in theirdepths.
"I know you saw me running after that train," he said, laughinglyattempting to break the ice.
"I?"
"Certainly. And it amused you, I think."
She raised her eyebrows a trifle. "What is there amusing about that?"
"But you _did_ smile--at least I thought so."
Evidently she had no comment to offer. She _was_ hard to talk to. But hetried again.
"The fact is, I never expected to catch your--that train. It was onlywhen I saw--saw"--he floundered on the verge of saying "you," but veeredoff hastily--"when I saw that brakeman's expression of tired contempt, Isimply sailed through the air like a--a--like a--one of those--er youknow----"
"Do you mean kangaroos?" she ventured so listlessly that the quick flushof chagrin on his face died out again; because it was quite impossiblethat such infantine coldness and candour could be secretly trifling withhis dignity.
"It was a long jump," he concluded gayly, "but I did some jumping atHarvard and I made it and managed to hold on."
"You were very fortunate," she said, smiling for the first time.
And, looking at her, he thought he was; and he admitted it so blandlythat he overdid the part. But he didn't know that.
"I fancy," he continued, "that everybody on that train except yo
u and Iwere Germans. Such a type as sat opposite me----"
"Which car were you in?" she asked simply.
"Why--in your car----"
"In _my_ car?"
"Why--er--yes," he explained; "you were sitting across the aisle, youknow."
"Was I?" she asked with pleasant surprise; "across the aisle from you?"
He grew red; he had certainly supposed that she had noticed him enoughto identify him again. Evidently she had not. Mistakes like that areannoying. Every man instinctively supposes himself enough of an entityto be noticed by a pretty woman.
"I had no end of trouble of finding out where Beverly was," he saidafter a minute.
"Oh! And how did you find out?"
"I didn't until I backed into Bailey, yonder.... Do you know that I hada curious sort of presentiment that I should find you in this sleigh?"
"That is strange," she said. "When did you have it?"
"In the car--long before you got off."
She thought it most remarkable--rather listlessly.
"Those things happen, you know," he went on; "like thinking of a personyou don't expect to see, and looking up and suddenly seeing that veryperson walking along."
"How does that resemble your case?" she asked.
It didn't. He realised it even before he began to try to explain thesimilarity. It really didn't matter one way or the other; it was nothingto turn red about, but he was turning. Somehow or other she managed tosay things that never permitted that easy, graceful flow of languagewhich characterised him in his normal state. Somehow or other, he feltthat he was not doing himself justice. He could converse well enoughwith people as a rule. Something in that topsy-turvy and maddeninglyfoolish colloquy with those Germans must have twisted his tongue orunbalanced his logic.
"As a matter of fact," he said, "there's no similarity between the twocases except the basic idea of premonition."
She had been watching him disentangle himself with bright eyes in whichsomething was sparkling--perhaps sympathy and perhaps not. It may havebeen the glimmer of malice. Perhaps she thought him just a trifle tooornamental--for he certainly was a very good-looking youth--perhapssomething in the entire episode appealed to her sense of mischief.Probably even she herself could not explain just why she had thought itfunny to see him running for his train, and later entangling himself ina futile word-fest with the conductor and the large mottled man.
"So," she said thoughtfully, "you were obsessed by a premonition."
"Not--er--exactly obsessed," he said suspiciously. Then his facecleared. How could anybody be suspicious of such sweetly inquiringfrankness? "You see," he admitted, "that I--well, I rather hoped youwould be going to the Austins'."
"The _Austins'_!" she repeated.
"Yes. I--I couldn't help speculating----"
"About me?" she asked. "Why should you?"
"I--there was no reason, of course, only I k-kept seeing you withouttrying to----"
"Me?"
"Certainly. I couldn't help seeing you, could I?"
"Not if you were looking at me," she murmured, pressing her muff to herface. Perhaps she was cold.
Again it occurred to him that there was something foolish in her reply.Certainly she was a little difficult to talk to. But then she wasyoung--very young and--close enough to being a beauty to excuse herselffrom any overstrenuous claim to intellectuality.
"Yes," he said kindly and patiently, "I did see you, and I did hope thatyou were going to the Austins'. And then I bumped into somebody andthere you were. I don't mean," as she raised her pretty eyebrows--"meanthat you were Bailey. Good Lord, _what_ is the matter with my tongue!"he said, flushing with annoyance. "I don't talk this way usually."
"Don't you?" she managed to whisper behind her muff.
"No, I don't. That conductor's jargon seems to have inoculated me. Youwill probably not believe it, but I _can_ talk the English tonguesometimes----"
She was laughing now--a clear, delicious, irrepressible little peal thatrang sweetly in the frosty air, harmonising with the chimingsleigh-bells. And he laughed, too, still uncomfortably flushed.
"Do you think it would help if we began all over again?" she asked,looking wickedly at him over her muff. "Let me see--you had an obsessionwhich turned into a premonition that bumped Bailey and you found itwasn't Bailey at all, but a stranger in chinchillas who was goingto--_where_ did you say she was going? Oh, to the Austins'! _That_ isclear, isn't it?"
"About as clear as anything that's happened to me to-night," he said.
"A snowy night does make a difference," she reflected.
"A--a difference?"
"Yes--doesn't it?" she asked innocently.
"I--in _what_?"
"In clearness. Things are clearer by daylight?"
"I don't see--I--exactly how--as a matter of fact I don't follow you atall," he said desperately. "You say things--and they sound allright--but somehow my answers seem queer. _Do_ you suppose that Germanconversation has mentally twisted me?"
Her eyes above the fluffy fur of her muff were bright as stars, but shedid not laugh.
"Suppose," she said, demurely, "that _you_ choose a subject ofconversation and try to make sense of it. If you _are_ mentally twistedit will be good practice."
"And you will--you won't say things--I mean things not germane to thesubject?"
"Did you say German?"
"No, germane."
"Oh! Have _I_ been irrelevant, too?"
"Well, you mixed up mental clarity with snowy nights. Of course it was alittle joke--I saw that soon enough; I'd have seen it at once, only I_am_ rather upset and nervous after that German experience."
The Adventures of a Modest Man Page 12
