Learning that it left in a few minutes, and finding that she could secure a stateroom, she took it, paid for it, and hastily left without a glance behind her at Green.
Meanwhile Green had very calmly slipped one hand into the breast pocket of his own overcoat, where it trailed loosely over her left arm, meaning to extract his wallet without anybody observing him. The wallet was not there. He was greatly inclined to run after her, but he didn’t. He watched her depart, then:
“Is there another stateroom left on the Verbena Special?” he inquired of the ticket agent, coolly enough.
“One. Do you wish it?”
“Yes.”
The ticket agent made out the coupons and shoved the loose change under the grille, saying:
“Better hurry, sir. You’ve less than a minute.”
He ran for his train and managed to swing aboard just as the coloured porters were closing the vestibules and the train was in motion.
A trifle bewildered at what he had done, and by the rapidity with which he had done it, he sank down in the vacant observation car to collect his thoughts.
He was on board the Verbena Special — the southern train-de-luxe — bound for Jacksonville, St. Augustine, Palm Beach, Verbena Inlet, or Miami — or for Nassau, Cuba, and the remainder of the West Indies — just as he chose.
He had no other luggage than a walking-stick. Even his overcoat was in possession of somebody else. That was the situation that now faced George Z. Green.
But as the train emerged from the river tube, and he realised all this, he grew calmer; and the calmer he grew the happier he grew.
He was no longer on the threshold of Romance; he had crossed it, and already he was being whirled away blindly into the Unusual and the Unknown!
Exultingly he gazed out of the windows upon the uninspiring scenery of New Jersey. A wonderful sense of physical lightness and mental freedom took delightful possession of him. Opportunity had not beckoned him in vain. Chance had glanced sideways at him, and he had recognised the pretty flirt. His was certainly some brain!
And now, still clinging to the skirts of Chance, he was being whisked away, pell mell, headlong toward Destiny, in the trail of a slender, strange young girl who had swiped his overcoat and who seemed continually inclined to tears.
The incident of the overcoat no longer troubled him. That garment of his was not unlike the rough travelling coat she herself wore. And it might have been natural to her, in her distress of mind and very evident emotion, to have seized it by mistake and made off with it, forgetting that she still wore her own.
Of course it was a mistake pure and simple. He had only to look at the girl and understand that. One glance at her sweet, highbred features was sufficient to exonerate her as a purloiner of gentlemen’s garments.
Green crossed his legs, folded his arms, and reflected. The overcoat was another and most important element in this nascent Romance.
The difficulty lay in knowing how to use the overcoat to advantage in furthering and further complicating a situation already delightful.
Of course he could do the obvious: he could approach her and take off his hat and do the well-bred and civil and explain to her the mistake.
But suppose she merely said: “I’m sorry,” handed over his coat, and continued to read her magazine. That would end it. And it mustn’t end until he found out why she had emerged with tears in her beautiful eyes from the abode of the Princess Zimbamzim.
Besides, he was sure of getting his coat, his wallet, and its contents. His name and address were in the wallet; also both were sewed inside the inner pocket of the overcoat.
What would ultimately happen would be this: sooner or later she’d come to, wake up, dry her pretty eyes, look about, and find that she had two overcoats in her possession.
It would probably distress her dreadfully, particularly when she discovered the wallet and the money. But, wherever she was going, as soon as she reached there she’d send overcoat and money back to his address — doubtless with a pretty and contrite note of regret.
Yes, but that wouldn’t do! What good would the overcoat and the money be to him, if he were South and she shipped them North? And yet he was afraid to risk an abrupt ending to his Romance by explaining to her the mistake.
No; he’d merely follow her for the present. He couldn’t help it very well, being aboard the same train. So it would not be difficult to keep his eye on her as well as his overcoat, and think out at his leisure how best to tend, guard, cherish, and nourish the delicate and unopened bud of Romance.
Meanwhile, there were other matters he must consider; so he wrote out a telegram to Washington ordering certain necessary articles to be brought aboard the Verbena Special on its arrival there. The porter took charge of it.
That night at dinner he looked for the girl in vain. She did not enter the dining-car while he was there. Haunting the corridors afterward he saw no sign of her anywhere until, having received his necessaries in a brand new travelling satchel, and on his way to his stateroom, he caught a glimpse of her, pale and agitated, in conversation with the porter at her partly opened door.
She did not even glance at him as he entered his stateroom, but he could not avoid hearing what she was saying because her enunciation was so exquisitely distinct.
“Porter,” she said in her low, sweet voice, “I have, somehow, made a very dreadful mistake somewhere. I have a man’s overcoat here which does not belong to me. The cloth is exactly like the cloth of my own travelling ulster, and I must have forgotten that I had mine on when I took this.”
“Ain’t de gemman abohd de Speshul, Miss?” inquired the porter.
“I’m afraid not. I’m certain that I must have taken it in the station restaurant and brought it aboard the train.”
“Ain’t nuff’n in de pockets, is dey?” asked the porter.
“Yes; there’s a wallet strapped with a rubber band. I didn’t feel at liberty to open it. But I suppose I ought to in order to find out the owner’s name if possible.”
“De gemman’s name ain’t sewed inside de pocket, is it, Miss?”
“I didn’t look,” she said.
So the porter took the coat, turned it inside out, explored the inside pocket, found the label, and read:
“Snipps Brothers: December, 1913. George Z. Green.”
A stifled exclamation from the girl checked him. Green also protruded his head cautiously from his own doorway.
The girl, standing partly in the aisle, was now leaning limply against the door-sill, her hand pressed convulsively to her breast, her face white and frightened.
“Is you ill, Miss?” asked the porter anxiously.
“I — no. Z — what name was that you read?”
“George Z. Green, Miss — —”
“It — it can’t be! Look again! It can’t be!”
Her face was ashen to the lips; she closed her eyes for a second, swayed; then her hand clutched the door-sill; she straightened up with an effort and opened her eyes, which now seemed dilated by some powerful emotion.
“Let me see that name!” she said, controlling her voice with an obvious effort.
The porter turned the pocket inside out for her inspection. There it was:
“George Z. Green: 1008-1/2 Fifth Avenue, New York.”
“If you knows de gemman, Miss,” suggested the porter, “you all kin take dishere garmint back yo’se’f when you comes No’th.”
“Thank you.... Then — I won’t trouble you.... I’ll — I’ll ta-t-take it back myself — when I go North.”
“I kin ship it if you wishes, Miss.”
She said excitedly: “If you ship it from somewhere South, he — Mr. Green — would see where it came from by the parcels postmark on the express tag — wouldn’t he?”
“Yaas, Miss.”
“Then I don’t want you to ship it! I’ll do it myself.... How can I ship it without giving Mr. Green a clue—” she shuddered, “ — a clue to my whereabouts?”
; “Does you know de gemman, Miss?”
“No!” she said, with another shudder,— “and I do not wish to. I — I particularly do not wish ever to know him — or even to see him. And above all I do not wish Mr. Green to come South and investigate the circumstances concerning this overcoat. He might take it into his head to do such a thing. It — it’s horrible enough that I have — that I actually have in my possession the overcoat of the very man on whose account I left New York at ten minutes’ notice — —”
Her pretty voice broke and her eyes filled.
“You — you don’t understand, porter,” she added, almost hysterically, “but my possession of this overcoat — of all the billions and billions of overcoats in all the world — is a t-terrible and astounding b-blow to me!”
“Is — is you afeard o’ dishere overcoat, Miss?” inquired the astonished darkey.
“Yes!” she said. “Yes, I am! I’m horribly afraid of that overcoat! I — I’d like to throw it from the train window, but I — I can’t do that, of course! It would be stealing — —”
Her voice broke again with nervous tears:
“I d-don’t want the coat! And I can’t throw it away! And if it’s shipped to him from the South he may come down here and investigate. He’s in New York now. That’s why I am on my way South! I — I want him to remain in New York until — until all — d-danger is over. And by the first of April it will be over. And then I’ll come North — and bring him his coat — —”
The bewildered darkey stared at her and at the coat which she had unconsciously clutched to her breast.
“Do you think,” she said, “that M-Mr. Green will need the coat this winter? Do you suppose anything would happen to him if he doesn’t have it for a while — pneumonia or anything? Oh!” she exclaimed in a quivering voice, “I wish he and his overcoat were at the South Pole!”
Green withdrew his head and pressed both palms to his temples. Could he trust his ears? Was he going mad? Holding his dizzy head in both hands he heard the girl say that she herself would attend to shipping the coat; heard the perplexed darkey take his leave and go; heard her stateroom door close.
Seated in his stateroom he gazed vacantly at the couch opposite, so completely bewildered with his first over-dose of Romance that his brain seemed to spin like a frantic squirrel in a wheel, and his thoughts knocked and jumbled against each other until it truly seemed to him that all his senses were fizzling out like wet firecrackers.
What on earth had he ever done to inspire such horror in the mind of this young girl?
What terrible injury had he committed against her or hers that the very sound of his name terrified her — the mere sight of his overcoat left her almost hysterical?
Helplessly, half stupefied, he cast about in his wrecked mind to discover any memory or record of any injury done to anybody during his particularly blameless career on earth.
In school he had punched the noses of several schoolmates, and had been similarly smitten in return. That was the extent of physical injury ever done to anybody.
Of grave moral wrong he knew he was guiltless. True, he had frequently skinned the assembly at convivial poker parties. But also he had often opened jacks only to be mercilessly deprived of them amid the unfeeling and brutal laughter of his companions. No, he was not guilty of criminal gambling.
Had he ever done a wrong to anybody in business? Never. His firm’s name was the symbol for probity.
He dashed his hands to his brow distractedly. What in Heaven’s name had he done to fill the very soul of this young girl with fear and loathing? What in the name of a merciful Providence had he, George Z. Green, banker and broker, ever done to drive this young and innocent girl out of the City of New York!
To collect and marshal his disordered thoughts was difficult but he accomplished it with the aid of cigarettes. To a commonplace intellect there is no aid like a cigarette.
At first he was inclined to believe that the girl had merely mistaken him for another man with a similar name. George Z. Green was not an unusual name.
But his address in town was also written inside his coat pocket; and she had read it. Therefore, it was painfully evident to him that her detestation and fear was for him.
What on earth had inspired such an attitude of mind toward himself in a girl he had seen for the first time that afternoon? He could not imagine. And another strange feature of the affair was that she had not particularly noticed him. Therefore, if she entertained such a horror of him, why had she not exhibited some trace of it when he was in her vicinity?
Certainly she had not exhibited it by crying. He exonerated himself on that score, for she had been on the verge of tears when he first beheld her hurrying out of the parlours of the Princess Zimbamzim.
It gradually became plain to him that, although there could be no doubt that this girl was afraid of him, and cordially disliked him, yet strangely enough, she did not know him by sight.
Consequently, her attitude must be inspired by something she had heard concerning him. What?
He puffed his cigarette and groaned. As far as he could remember, he had never harmed a fly.
XXIII
That night he turned in, greatly depressed. Bad dreams assailed his slumbers — menacing ones like the visions that annoyed Eugene Aram.
And every time he awoke and sat up in his bunk, shaken by the swaying car, he realised that Romance had also its tragic phases — a sample of which he was now enduring. And yet, miserable as he was, a horrid sort of joy neutralised the misery when he recollected that it was Romance, after all, and that he, George Z. Green, was in it up to his neck.
A grey morning — a wet and pallid sky lowering over the brown North Carolina fields — this was his waking view from his tumbled bunk.
Neither his toilet nor his breakfast dispelled the gloom; certainly the speeding landscape did not.
He sat grimly in the observation car, reviewing a dispiriting landscape set with swamps, razorbacks, buzzards, and niggers.
Luncheon aided him very little. She had not appeared at all. Either her own misery and fright were starving her to death or she preferred to take her meals in her stateroom. He hoped fervently the latter might be the case; that murder might not be added to whatever else he evidently was suspected of committing.
Like the ticket he had seen her purchase, his own ticket took him as far as Ormond. Of course he could go on if she did. She could go to the West Indies and ultimately to Brazil. So could he. They were on the main travelled road to almost anywhere.
Nevertheless, he was on the watch at St. Augustine; and when he saw her come forth hastily and get into a bus emblazoned with the name and escutcheon of the Hotel Royal Orchid, he got in also.
The bus was full. Glancing at the other occupants of the bus, she included him in her brief review, and to his great relief he saw her incurious blue eyes pass calmly to the next countenance.
A dreadful, almost hysterical impulse assailed him to suddenly rise and say: “I am George Z. Green!” — merely to observe the cataclysmic effect on her.
But it did not seem so funny to him on after thoughts, for the chances appeared to be that she could not survive the shock. Which scared him; and he looked about nervously for fear somebody who knew him might be among the passengers, and might address him by name.
In due time the contents of the bus trooped into the vast corridors of the Hotel Royal Orchid. One by one they registered; and on the ledger Green read her name with palpitating heart — Miss Marie Wiltz and Maid. And heard her say to the clerk that her maid had been delayed and would arrive on the next train.
It never occurred to this unimaginative man to sign any name but his own to the register that was shoved toward him. Which perfectly proves his guilelessness and goodness.
He went to his room, cleansed from his person the stains of travel, and, having no outer clothes to change to, smoked a cigarette and gazed moodily from the window.
Now, his window gave on the drive-en
circled fountain before the front entrance to the hotel; and, as he was standing there immersed in tobacco smoke and gloom, he was astonished to see the girl herself come out hastily, travelling satchel in hand, and spring lightly into a cab. It was one of those victorias which are stationed for hire in front of such southern hotels; he could see her perfectly plainly; saw the darkey coachman flourish his whip; saw the vehicle roll away.
The next instant he seized his new satchel, swept his brand new toilet articles into it, snapped it, picked up hat and cane, and dashed down stairs to the desk.
Here he paid his bill, ran out, and leaped into a waiting victoria.
“Where did that other cab drive?” he demanded breathlessly to his negro coachman. “Didn’t you hear what the young lady said to her driver?”
“Yaas, suh. De young lady done say she’s in a pow’ful hurry, suh. She ‘low she gotta git to Ormond.”
“Ormond! There’s no train!”
“Milk-train, suh.”
“What! Is she going to Ormond on a milk-train?”
“Yaas, suh.”
“All right, then. Drive me to the station.”
It was not very far. She was standing alone on the deserted platform, her bag at her feet, his overcoat lying across it. Her head was bent, and she did not notice him at first. Never had he seen a youthful figure so exquisitely eloquent of despair.
The milk-train was about an hour overdue, which would make it about due in the South. Green seated himself on a wooden bench and folded his hands over the silver crook of his walking-stick. The situation was now perfectly clear to him. She had come down from her room, and had seen his name on the register, had been seized by a terrible panic, and had fled.
Had he been alone and unobserved, he might have attempted to knock his brains out with his walking-stick. He desired to, earnestly, when he realised what an ass he had been to sign the register.
She had begun to pace the platform, nervously, halting and leaning forward from time to time to scan impatiently the long, glittering perspective of the metals.
It had begun to grow dusk. Lanterns on switches and semaphores flashed out red, green, blue, white, stringing their jewelled sparks far away into the distance.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 683
