Chapter 11

"Colombia air is pretty fine, but New Hampshire air is better--for old New Hampshire boys," asserted Waldron. He nodded at a red-capped porter waiting near, and laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "This chap is going to be all right when he gets where a certain little mother can look after him. Mothers and blood poisoning don't assimilate a bit. And now we have to be off, for I want to get my patient settled in his berth before the train pulls out, and it's going to be called in about thirty seconds."

He turned aside for a final word with Julius. "I'm not asking too much?"

"Do you think you are?"

The two pairs of eyes searched each other.

"I know Miss Dorothy is an orphan; I know, too, that you are her only brother. You understand that I mean to ask her to marry me, if I can have the chance. I couldn't do it--on paper. If you approve the match--and I think you do or you wouldn't have planned quite so cleverly last July--"

"What?"

"You brought about that meeting, you know," said Waldron, smiling, with such a penetrating look that Julius felt it go past all defenses.

"How do you know I did?"

"By a certain peculiar twist to your left eyebrow when that train came in from the wrong direction. You forget that I went to school with you. I have seen that twist before; it meant only one thing."

"Well, I'll be--see here, it was after dark when that train--"

"The hotel hand had a lantern. You unwisely allowed its rays to strike your face."

Julius burst into a smothered laugh. "Well, you're a good one!"

"I'm glad you think so--since I'm asking of you this thing you so dislike to do."

"I don't dislike it; I'm delighted to have the chance. I'll have her on that train if I have to blindfold her."

"Don't do that. Show her the card."

The two shook hands with a strong grip of affection and understanding. Then Waldron, wheeling the chair himself, took his friend Hackett away as carefully as if he were convoying a baby. Julius, after seeing the party through the gates, went back to his college rooms, his wits busy with the task which so took hold of his fancy.

Julius would have enjoyed scheming involvedly, but Waldron had been too peremptory about that to allow of a particle of intrigue. So, before he slept, he sent his sister a special-delivery letter knowing she would receive it in the morning. It stated, after describing the situation to her (with a few private and characteristic touches of his own), that he would call her up by telephone to receive her reply, and that he would go through the city on a certain afternoon train on which she was to join him. This plan would give the pair time for a leisurely dinner in Boston before meeting Waldron upon the ten o'clock train. When he had Dorothy on the wire next morning he was not surprised that her first words were these:

"Julius--is it surely Julius? Well--I don't see how I can go!"

"Why not? Got the mumps--or any other disfiguring complaint?"

"Mercy, no! But--it can't be that it is necessary! He--he certainly could--"

"Did you read that schedule?"

Julius's voice had in it a commanding, no-compromise quality. He knew that this feminine evasiveness was probably inevitable; they were made that way, these girls; but he did not intend to let the time limit of an expensive long-distance call be exceeded by mere nonsense.

"Ye-es, but--"

"Now listen. We've got three minutes to talk; we've used thirty seconds already saying nothing. I'm going to be on that train. I'm going to have that little trip with Kirke, and if you don't have it, it will be pure foolishness; and you'll cry your eyes out afterward to think you didn't. He can't get to you; if he could he'd do it; you must know him well enough for that if you've been hearing from him all these months. Now--will you be there?"

"Julius! I'm afraid I--"

"Will you be there?"

"Why--don't you think I--perhaps I ought to have Bud--"

"No, I don't. I'm all the chaperon you'll need for this affair. If you go and get another woman mixed up with it you'll lose half of your fun, for she'll be sure to forget she's the chaperon--you know Bud--and first you know you'll be chaperoning her. See? Will you be at the station? I'm going to hang up now in just fifteen seconds!"

"Oh, Jule--wait!--I--"

"All right! I'll telephone down for the seats. Good-bye!"

He was on the vestibuled platform of his car to meet her when his train passed the home city from whose suburbs she had come in. His eager eye fell delightedly on the trimly modish figure his sister presented; he would be proud to take her back into his car. He knew just how two or three sleepy fellows of his own age, in chairs near his own, would sit up when they saw him return with this radiant girl. Dot certainly knew how to get herself up, he reflected, as he had often done before.

It was April and it was "raining cats and dogs" as Dorothy came aboard, but the blue rainproof serge of her beautifully fitting suit was little the worse therefor, and the close little black hat with the fetching feather was one to defy the elements, be they never so wildly springlike.

"You're a good sport!" was Julius's low-pitched greeting as he kissed her, the tail of his eye on one of his young fellow-passengers who had followed him to the platform for a breath of fresh air and stood with his hands in his pockets staring at the pretty girl close by.

"I feel like a buccaneer--or a pirate--or something very bold and wild and adventurous," she returned.

"You don't look it--except in your eye. I think I do see there the gleam of a desperate resolve." He bent over her devotedly as he put her in her chair, noting the effect on the young gentlemen who had been too slothful to leave the car, but who now, as he had predicted to himself, were "sitting up," both physically and mentally, as they covertly eyed his new travelling companion. "I admit it takes courage for a New England girl to start out to meet a barbarian from the wilds of South America, unchaperoned except by a perfectly good brother."

"If I could be sure the brother would be perfectly good--" she suggested, smiling at him as she slightly altered the position of her chair so that the attentive fellow-travellers were moved out of her line of vision.

"I'm sworn to rigorous virtue," he replied solemnly. "He attended to that for you."

Dorothy looked out of the window. She looked out of the window most of the way to Boston, so that the interested youths opposite were able to enjoy only the averted line of her profile.

Julius, however, took delight in playing the lover for their benefit, and his attention to his sister would have deceived the elect. The result was a considerably heightened colour in Dot's face, which added the last touch of charm to the picture and completed her brother's satisfaction.

Arrived in the city, Broughton treated his sister to a delicious little dinner at a favourite hotel, which he himself relished to the full. He questioned whether she knew what she was eating or its quality, but she maintained an appearance of composure which only herself knew was attained at a cost.

He then escorted her to a florist's and himself insisted upon pinning upon the blue serge coat a gorgeous corsage knot of deep-hued red roses and mignonette, which added to her quiet costume the one brilliant note that was needed to bring out her beauty as his artistic young eye approved.

She protested in vain. "I don't want to wear flowers--to-night, my dear boy."

"Why not? There's nothing conspicuous about that, these days. More conspicuous not to, you might say. You often do it yourself."

"I know, but--to-night!"

"He won't know what you have on. He's slightly delirious at this very minute, I have no doubt at all. When he sees you he'll go off his head. Oh, nobody'll know it to look at him; you needn't be afraid of that."

"Please stop talking about it," commanded his sister. But she did not refuse to wear the red roses. No sane young woman could after having caught a glimpse of herself in the florist's mirror. Even an indifferent shopgirl stared with interest after the pair as they left the place, wondering if, after all, flowers weren't more effective on the quiet swells than on those of the dashing attire.

"We're to meet him on the train, not in the station," Julius observed, as he hurried his sister across the great concourse. "He has to make rather a close connection. So we'll be in our seats when he arrives. Or, better yet, we'll get back on the observation platform and see him when he comes out the gates. That'll give you the advantage of the first look!"

Their car, it turned out, was the end one and their seats at the rear end, as Julius had tried to arrange but had not been sure of accomplishing. Dorothy followed him through the car and out upon the platform. Here the two watched the crowds hurrying through the gates toward their own and other trains, while the minutes passed. Julius, watch in hand, began to show signs of anxiety.

"He'd better be showing up soon," he announced as the stream of oncoming passengers began to thin. "It's getting pretty close to--There he is though! Good work. Come on, old fellow, don't be so leisurely! By George, that's not Kirke after all! Those shoulders--I thought it certainly was. But he'll come--oh, he'll come all right or break a leg trying!"

But he did not come. The last belated traveller dashed through the gates, the last signal was given, the train began very slowly to move.

"He's missed the connection," said Julius solemnly. "But we'll hear from him at the first stop; certainly we'll hear from him. We'll go inside the car and be prepared to answer up."

But neither at the first stop nor the second did the porter appear with a message for Mr. Broughton or for Miss Broughton, or for anybody whomsoever.

Dorothy sat quietly looking out of the window into the darkness, her cheek supported by her hand and shaded from her brother. She was perfectly cheerful and composed, but Julius guessed rightly enough that it was not a happy hour for her. She had come more than half-way to meet a man who had asked it of her, only to have him fail to appear. Of course there was an explanation--of course; but--well, it was not a happy hour. The red roses on her breast drooped a very little; their counterparts in her cheeks paled slowly as the train flew on. An hour went by.

Some miles after stopping at a station the train slowed down again.

"Where are we?" queried Julius, peering out of the window, his hand shading his eyes. "Nowhere in particular, I should say."

The train stopped, began to move again, backing; it presently became apparent that it was taking a siding.

"That's funny for this train," said Julius, and went out on the rear platform to investigate.

In a minute or two another train appeared in the distance behind, rushed on toward them, slowed down not quite to a stop, and was instantly under way again. A minute later their own train began to move once more.

"Perhaps he's chartered a special and caught up," said Julius, returning to his sister. "Perhaps he's made so much money down in Colombia that he can afford to hire specials. That was a special, all right--big engine and one Pullman. We wouldn't be sidetracked for anything less important, I'm quite sure."

He stretched himself comfortably in his chair again with a furtive glance at his sister. He sat with his back to the car, facing her. He now saw her look down the car with an intent expression; then suddenly he saw the splendid colour surge into her face. Her eyes took fire--and Julius swung about in his chair to find out the cause. Then he sprang up, and if he did not shout his relief and joy it was because well-trained young men, even though they be not yet out of college, do not give vent to their emotions in public.

"By George!" he said under his breath. "How in time has he made it?"

But Waldron, as he came back through the car, was not looking at Julius. Dorothy had risen and was standing by her chair, and though the newly arrived traveller shook hands with Julius as he met him in the aisle, it was only to look past him at the figure at the back of the car. The next instant his hand had grasped hers, and he was gazing as straight down into her eyes as a man may who has seen such eyes for the last nine months only in his dreams. "You came!" he said; and there were wonder and gratitude and joy in his voice, so that it was not quite steady.

She nodded. "There seemed to be nothing else to do," she answered, and her smile was enchanting.

"Did you want to do anything else?"

There must certainly have been something about him which inspired honesty. Quite naturally, from the feminine point of view, Dorothy would have liked not to answer this direct and meaning question just then. But, as once before, the necessity of speaking to this man only the truth was instantly strong upon her. Deep down, evade the issue as she might by saying that she would have preferred to have him come to her, she knew that she was glad to do this thing for him, since the other had been impossible.

So she lifted her eyes for an instant and let him see her answer before she slowly shook her head, while the quick breath she could not wholly control stirred the red roses on her breast.

"Now see here, old man," said Julius Broughton, "I know the time is short and all that, and I'm going to spend this next hour in the smoking-room and let you two have a chance to talk. But before I go my natural curiosity must be satisfied or I shall burst. Am I to understand that that gilt-edged special that passed us just now brought you to your appointment? And are you King of Colombia down there, or anything like that?"

Waldron turned, laughing. His browned cheek had a touch of a still warmer colour in it, his eyes were glowing.

"That certainly was wonderful luck," said he. "I reached the gate just as the tail-lights of this train were disappearing. As I turned away a man at my elbow asked if I minded missing it. I said I minded so much that if I could afford it I would hire a special to catch it. He said, very much as if he had been offering me a seat in his motor, that a special was to leave in a few minutes and that it would pass this train somewhere within an hour. He turned out to be the president of the road. We had a very interesting visit on the way down--or it would have been interesting if it had happened at any other tune. I was so busy keeping an eye out for sidetracked trains that I now and then lost the run of the conversation."

"If the president of the road hadn't turned up," suggested Julius, "would you mind saying what other little expedient would have occurred to you?"

"I should have wired you, begging you to give me one more chance," admitted Waldron. "I should have wired you anyway, if I hadn't felt that it would have spoiled my dramatic entrance at some siding. And I wanted all the auxiliaries on my side."

Julius went away into the smoking compartment forward with a sense of having had Fate for the second time take a hand in a more telling management of other people's affairs than even he, with all his love of pulling wires, could effect. He looked back as he went, to see Waldron taking Dorothy out upon the observation platform.

"It's lucky it's a mild April night," he said to himself. "I suppose it wouldn't make any difference if a northeast blizzard were on."

"Will it chill the roses?" Waldron asked with a smile as he closed the door behind them, shutting himself and Dorothy out into the cool, wet freshness of the night, where the two gleaming rails were slipping fast away into the blackness behind and only distant lights here and there betokened the existence of other human beings in a world that seemed all theirs.

"It wouldn't matter if it did," she answered.

"Wouldn't it? Can you possibly feel, as I do, that nothing in the world matters, now that we are together again?"

Again the direct question. But somehow she did not in the least mind answering; she wanted to answer. The time was so short!

With other men Dorothy Broughton had used every feminine art of evasion and withdrawal at moments of crisis, but she could not use them with this man.

She shook her head, laying one hand against her rose-red cheek, like a shy and lovely child--yet like a woman, too.

He gently took the hand away from the glowing cheek, and kept it fast in his.

"I fell desperately in love with you when I was fifteen," said Kirke Waldron. "I carried the image of you all through my boyhood and into manhood. I saw you at different times while you were growing up, although you didn't see me. I kept track of you. I thought you never could be for me. But when we met last summer I knew that if I couldn't have you I should never want anybody. And when--something happened that made you glad for just a minute to be with me, I knew I should never let you go. Then you gave me that last look and I dared to believe that you could be made to care. Dorothy--they were pretty poor letters from a literary point of view that I've been sending you all these months, but I tried to put myself into them so that you could know just what sort of fellow I was. And I tried to make you see, without actually telling you, what you were to me. Did I succeed?"

"They were fine letters," said Dorothy Broughton. "Splendid, manly letters. I liked them very much. I--loved them!"

"Oh!" said Kirke Waldron, and became suddenly silent with joy.

After a minute he looked up at the too brilliant electric lights which flooded the platform. He glanced in at the occupants of the car, nearly all facing forward, except for one or two who were palpably asleep--negligible certainly. Then he put his head inside the door, scanning the woodwork beside it. He reached upward with one hand and in the twinkling of an eye the observation platform was in darkness.

"Oh!" breathed Dorothy in her turn. But the next thing that happened was the thing which might have been expected of a resourceful young mining engineer, trained, as he himself had said, "to action--all the time!"

THE END