XXIV
THE END OF A STOP-OVER
The waiter was laying the plates for dinner when Gertrude came out ofher stateroom, and Fleetwell rose and placed a chair for her where theywould be out of earshot of the others.
"Had a comfortably good time to-day?" he inquired, stretching himselflazily on the lounge at her side.
"Yes. What have you been doing?"
"'Socializing,' as Priscilla says; cantering about all over Denver,looking up people we shouldn't nod to at home. Where are your friends?"
"The Burtons? I think they went to a hotel. They are not going on tillto-morrow night."
"I wonder what became of the passenger agent; I haven't seen him sincemorning," said the collegian, with his eyes lying in wait to pounce uponher secret.
"He was with us," she replied, calmly, and Fleetwell sat up immediately.
"Oughtn't I to be jealous?" he demanded.
"I don't know why you should be?"
"I fancy the others would say I ought to be."
"Why?"
"For obvious reasons; aren't we supposed to be as good as engaged?"
"I don't know about the supposition; but we are not engaged."
"No; and your father says it's my fault. Will you set the day?"
Her smile was sweet and ineffable. "What an enthusiastic wooer you are,Cousin Chester. Couldn't you rake up the embers and fan them into a tinybit of a blaze? just for form's sake, you know."
"That's nonsense," he answered, placidly. "We've known each other toolong for anything of that sort. But you haven't answered my question."
"About the day? That is nonsense, too. You know perfectly well thereisn't going to be any day--not for us."
Fleetwell drew a long breath and ran his fingers through his hair.
"Don't let us make any mistake about this," he said, soberly. "I'masking you in good faith to be my wife, you know."
"And I am refusing you in equally good faith. I don't love you atall--not in that way."
"You are quite sure of that?"
"Yes, surer now than ever before, though I've known it all along."
"Then you refuse me point blank?"
"I do."
He fetched another long breath and took her hand.
"That's the kindest thing you ever did for me, Gerty," he said, out of afull heart. "I--I'm ashamed to confess it, but I've been disloyal allalong. It's----"
"It's Hannah Beaswicke; I knew it," she said, smiling wisely. "But don'thumiliate yourself; I, too, have been 'disloyal,' as you call it."
"You?"
"Yes; I'll tell you about it some time--no, not now"--shaking herhead--"dinner is ready."
It was thus that Fleetwell kept his promise to his cousin, and there hadbeen never so much as a word about what Mr. Francis Vennor consideredthe main question at issue, namely, the fate of Gertrude's legacy. Andwhen they came to the table together they were so evidently at peacethat the President drew another false conclusion and wore his best KingGeorge smile throughout the entire dinner-hour.
At the conclusion of the meal, Fleetwell dodged the customary cigar withhis cousin. Under the circumstances he deemed it prudent to give thechapter of accidents a clear field. Moreover, he conjectured thatGertrude had somewhat to say to her father, and would be grateful for anundisturbed half-hour; wherefore he proposed a stroll up-town to Mrs.Dunham and the Misses Beaswicke, and presently left the car with thethree of them in tow.
The President was in his stateroom, refilling his cigar-case; and whenhe came out, Gertrude and Quatremain were alone in the largecompartment.
"Where are the others?" he asked, pausing at her chair to light hiscigar.
"They have gone up-town for a walk."
"H-m; and left you behind?"
"I didn't care to go." She saw that her opportunity was come, and gavethe secretary a look which should have made him vanish at once. It didnot, but her father cut the knot of that difficulty.
"It's a fine night; will you take a turn outside with me, while Ismoke?" he said.
She acquiesced, and they went out to pace up and down the long platform.Two turns they made in silence while Gertrude sought vainly for wordsconfessional, and at the third her father helped her without intendingto.
"When is it to be?" he asked, abruptly.
She supposed he meant her marriage to Brockway, but she determined tomake him speak plainly. So she said, "When is what to be?"
"Your marriage. Didn't you and Chester settle matters between you justbefore dinner?"
She laid fresh hold of her courage and answered, truthfully. "Yes, butnot as you imagine. Chester asked me, because, I fancy, you told him to;and I refused him."
She expected nothing less than an outpouring of bitter words, but shewas disappointed. Once and again they measured the length of the greatplatform before he spoke. Then he said, quite temperately, she thought,"So it is the passenger agent, after all, is it?"
"Yes." She said it resolutely, as one who may not be moved.
"Very good; you are your own mistress, and if you elect to be the wifeof a wage-earning mechanic, I suppose it's your own affair."
There was so little heat in the innuendo that it seemed scarcely worthwhile to resent it; nevertheless she ventured to say: "Great-grandfatherVennor was a carpenter, and I suppose he worked for wages."
"Doubtless; but there is the better part of a century between then andnow. However, I presume you have counted the cost. You lose your money,and that's the end of it--unless Chester happens to marry first."
"What difference would that make? It was I who set the conditions of thewill aside."
"All the difference in the world. In this case, the law takes nocognizance of intention. If Chester marries first, it would be taken as_prima facie_ evidence that he had prevented you from fulfilling yourpart of the conditions. But that is neither here nor there; Chester isnot exactly the kind of man to be caught in the rebound; and I presumeyou wouldn't be mercenary enough to wait for anything so indefinite ashis marriage, anyway."
"No."
"Then you lose your money." He could not forbear the repetition.
"I know it."
"Does your--does the young man know it?"
"Yes; otherwise he would not have spoken."
"No?" There was the mildest suggestion of incredulity in the upwardinflection. "Since you have made your decision, it is as well you shouldthink so. You are quite willing to begin at the bottom with him, areyou?"
"I am."
"Because I meant what I said last night. You have made your bed, and youwill have to lie on it; you will get nothing from me."
"We ask nothing but--but your good will." Gertrude was asundemonstrative as the daughter of Francis Vennor had a right to be, buthis coldness went near to breaking down her fortitude.
"My good will!" He turned upon her almost fiercely. "You have no rightto expect it. What has come over you in the last twenty-four hours thatyou should override the traditions and training of your whole life? Hasthis fellow but to crook his finger at you to make you turn your backupon everything that is decent and respectable?"
"Don't," she said, with a little sob in her voice; "I can't listen ifyou abuse him. I love him; do you understand what that means?"
"No, I don't; you are daft, crazy, hypnotized." The gathering throng wasbeginning to make privacy impossible on the platform, and he led herback to the car. "You'll do as you please in the end, I suppose, but nothere or now." He handed her up the steps of the private car and turnedto go away.
"Papa--one word," she pleaded. "Won't you see Mr. Brockway to-night?"
"No; and if I do, it will be the worse for him." And when she hadentered the car, he went away quickly and climbed the stairs to thetrain-despatcher's office on the second floor of the Union Depot.
Meanwhile, Brockway had eaten his supper and posted himself where hecould watch what he supposed to be the window of Gertrude's stateroomfor the promised signal. He saw the car empty itself, first of Fle
etwelland the ladies, and then of the President and his daughter, and while hewas waiting for the latter to return, Fleetwell came back, breathless.
"By Jove, Mr. Brockway, this is great luck!" he exclaimed. "You knowDenver pretty well, don't you?"
"Fairly well. I knew it better when I lived here."
"Do you happen to know this gentleman?" handing Brockway a card with aname written across it.
"Yes; very well, indeed."
"Then I wish you'd come and help me find him. I've been out in a cabonce, and the driver got lost. Will you do it?"
"With pleasure, if you'll get me back here quick. I have an engagementthat can't be put off."
They ran out through the building and took a carriage. "Just get me tothe house," said the collegian, "and you can come straight away back inthe cab," but beyond this he offered no explanations, and Brockway gavethe order to the driver.
When they reached the house in question, Fleetwell rang the bell, andthe answer from within seemed to be satisfactory. "All right," he calledback from the doorway; and a few minutes later Brockway was again on thestation platform, watching the non-committal windows of the private car.
It was while the passenger agent was up-town with Fleetwell thatPresident Vennor went to the despatcher's room. The result of his visitmay be told in the words of a terse order which presently clickedthrough the sounder in the yardmaster's office.
"J. H. M.,
"Denver Yard.
"Send out Car Naught-fifty, President Vennor and party, on Number 103, ten-five this P.M.
"A. F. V."
Of this Brockway knew nothing, and he haunted the vicinity of thespur-track with great patience for the better part of two hours. Atnine-forty-five, Fleetwell and the ladies returned. They were alllaughing and chatting gayly, and when they entered the car, Brockwaygave up his vigil. It was too late to hope for a private interview withMr. Vennor, and he concluded to go over to the Tadmor to see if hispeople were settled for the night.
Passing the telegraph office, he asked if there were any messages. Therewas one; the much requested extension of the gadfly's ticket; andthrusting it into his pocket, the passenger agent hurried across to thespecial sleeper.
Two minutes afterward, a switching-engine ran around on the spur-track,bumped gently against the Naught-fifty, and presently backed out intothe yard with the private car in tow.