IX
There Denis sat, as much at home in that icy room as a frog in water. To be sure, he had offered to close the window, but Emily had declined, preferring to wear her fur coat. His very voice had changed. All the warmth had gone out of it, and his face wore a look she had not seen before—a bored and disdainful look.
Yet she knew that he was really happy. All the talk about old friends and old days, from which she was so entirely shut out, interested and pleased him. She knew that he thought Cecil amusing and Cynthia a beautiful and distinguished girl, and that he profoundly admired his mother’s frosty calm. He was among his own people, and immeasurably glad to be there.
And Emily herself was quite happy, quite content to sit in silence. She had two supreme consolations. One was the look in Denis’s eyes each time he turned toward her, and that was often. He wasn’t good at expressing himself in words, but his glance was eloquent enough, and it spoke only to her. His own people were entirely shut out from their secret happiness. They might ignore her if they liked; she didn’t care in the least. They were the real outsiders.
And the other compensation was a bit of paper tucked inside her blouse—Denis’s note to his mother, which Mrs. Lanier was never to see. Emily could well afford to be generous, for her triumph was complete and magnificent.[Pg 170]
MUNSEY’S
MAGAZINE
AUGUST, 1924
Vol. LXXXII NUMBER 3
Who Is This Impossible Person?
THE STORY OF A VERY FORMIDABLE AUNT AND A VERY PERSISTENT YOUNG MAN
By Elisabeth Sanxay Holding
THE up train stopped, a porter sprang down the steps with two heavy bags, assisted a lady to descend, climbed on board again, and he and the train went off, leaving the lady and the bags there. The platform was deserted, shining like a treacherous sheet of water beneath the dim lamps. The rain fell steadily. It was the blackest and most dismal night that ever was.
For some time the lady stood just where she had been left, with an annoyed, affronted expression upon her face, as if she was waiting for some one to come and remove this unpleasant weather. Nobody came, nothing stirred, and she herself was strangely inactive.
Did she look like a submissive or helpless creature? On the contrary, she was a portly, white-haired lady, dressed in black of a somewhat majestic style, and not only her face, but the set of her plump shoulders and even the jet ornament on her toque, seemed to be alive with energy and resolution.
Yet she did not move. She turned her head to the north—rain and darkness were there. She turned it to the south—the same thing. Behind her she knew there was nothing but the railway track; so, with a sigh, she picked up the bags and went on toward the waiting room.
Then, had there been any one there to see, the secret of her reluctance to move would have been revealed. This imposing and dignified lady, whose very glance was a rebuke to frivolity, had nevertheless one outrageous vanity—she would wear shoes that were too small for her.
Setting down the bags, she turned the handle of the door, and it was locked. Through the glass she could see into the dimly lit room, where there were plenty of benches upon which a sufferer might rest. Exasperated, she rattled the knob and rapped upon the glass, but all in vain. Picking up the bags again, she made her way painfully to the end of the platform, to see what she could see.
The town of Binnersville, however, was one of those illogical towns which are almost invisible from their own proper railway stations. There lay before her a forlorn and lifeless street lined with small shops, all tight shut, and not a human being in sight.
Her sharp eyes, however, caught sight of something very welcome. At the end of the street, standing before a faintly illuminated drug store, there was a real, civilized taxi. With all the speed possible to her she went toward it, to seize it before it could vanish.
The street was slippery, the bags were heavy, and the portly lady in her little high-heeled shoes made a dangerous progress. Nevertheless, she got there. Seeing no driver where a driver should have been, and being a woman of enterprise and resource, she set down her bags, leaned across the seat, and blew the horn three or four times—great, loud squawks that resounded startlingly through the night.
At once the door of the drug store opened, and a young man appeared on the threshold.
“Kindly take me to No. 93 Sloan Street,” said the portly, white-haired lady.
“But I’m not the driver,” said the young man.[Pg 172]
“Then kindly call the driver!” said she.
Opening the door of the cab, she managed, with considerable effort, to shove one of her bags inside. The young man was there to help her with the other.
“The driver’s in the shop,” he explained, “getting something taken out of his eye; but—”
“Be good enough to tell him I am waiting,” said she.
“He’ll be along in a minute, and then he can take us both to—”
“Pardon me!” said the portly lady, in a perfectly awful voice.
The young man seemed a little taken aback. She was now settled inside the cab, and he was standing outside in the rain. It was very dark, and they could not see each other; but so expressive was her voice that he fancied he knew how she looked.
“I shall instruct the driver to return here for you, if you wish,” said she.
“But, you see,” said the young man, quite good-humoredly, “I had engaged this cab. It’s late, and the weather’s bad, and I’m going in your direction. We can—”
“Pardon me! I cannot consent to that.”
“What?” persisted the young man. “Why not?”
“It is not my custom to encourage chance acquaintances,” replied she. “If you insist upon getting in, I shall get out.”
“But look here!” protested the young man. “I—”
She was already struggling with the handle of the door.
“Very well!” he said curtly. “I’ll go!”
As he turned, he saw the driver coming out of the shop, holding a handkerchief to his eye.
“This lady wants to go to No. 93 Sloan Street,” said he. “Oh, never mind me!”
And he set off on foot up the hilly street, in the pelting rain. The portly, white-haired lady watched him go.
“I cannot,” she said, half aloud, “encourage chance acquaintances—especially on Lynn’s account.”