Читать книгу The Gordon Elopement - Carolyn Wells - Страница 4

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As they passed the lights of Panwood Robert said: “I hope Nichols isn’t on this train to-night.”

“Who’s Nichols?” asked Grace.

“The conductor. Don’t you know Nichols? Why, he knows every commuter on this road. He knows what their business is and what time they are due at the office, and if he sees me on this train he’ll ask me why.”

On hearing this the man two seats back concluded that his first impression had been correct, and that this was an eloping couple. At first he had thought that there was something mysterious about them from the furtive manner in which they entered the car. But when he observed the careless way in which the young lady’s jacket was tossed up into the rack he felt sure that the man who did it was no eloping lover. The overheard bit of conversation, however, revived his first impression, and he awaited with some interest the arrival of the conductor. He was conscious of a distinct feeling of annoyance when the blue-coated official appeared and it was not Nichols.

But the man behind was destined never to know the truth of his impressions, for he left the train at Elizabeth with the mystery still unsolved, but with a good story to take home to his wife concerning a runaway couple.

It was one o’clock when the Gordons reached the New York side. The solitary cabman seemed to have been waiting for them all through the evening, and Robert felt that a kind fate was watching over them. All through the journey on the train he had wondered what was to be done next, and when the cabman cried, “Hotel, sir!” he came to a realising sense of his absolute inability to decide what was to be done next.

“Certainly,” he said. “Certainly we must have a hotel.”

“Step right in,” said the cabman.

Their bags were placed on top alongside the driver and they rattled off over the cobble-stone pavement which is the glory of New York’s water-front.

Up through West Street, through Bleecker, across Washington Square they drove, and up Fifth Avenue.

In the White Light District the lights were for the most part extinguished, for it was late—even for New York. On through Union and Madison Squares the cab rolled—on up the avenue. Here and there belated travellers glanced at the woman in the cab. Grace shrank back in the corner. “Bobby,” she said, “where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” said Robert.

“Why, we’re away up past Ninetieth Street.”

Robert called to the cabman.

“Where are you taking us?” he asked.

“To Westchester,” replied the cabman.

“I think we’ve gone about far enough in this direction. Please turn back and drive us to the Holland House.”

“Yes, sir!”

* * * * * *

At breakfast next morning Grace asked: “What time does the train start, Robert?”

“Which train?”

“Why, the train we’re going on, of course.”

“Do you know where we’re going?”

“Why, certainly I do.”

“Where?”

“Well, we must go up to the station, and you must buy tickets for the place where the last man ahead of you bought them for.”

“Your method of procedure is as involved as your grammar, but if that’s what we’re to do, come on. Let’s do it.”

The line of ticket-buyers was not very long, but as Robert attempted to take his place at the end of it Grace dragged at his coat sleeve, whispering: “Not there! Wait a minute!”

“But you told me to get at the end of the line,” said Robert.

“Yes, but not there. Wait until that big man with the pearl gloves takes his place, and then get behind him. I like him.”

“You do? I’ll get him for you.”

“No, you needn’t; but get the same kind of ticket that he does.”

“All right.”

Following the big man, Robert heard him say: “Rumford Falls.”

“Two for Rumford Falls,” said Robert a moment later.

“Did you get them?” asked Grace, as Robert came toward her.

Robert handed her the tickets. “Rumford Falls!” she exclaimed. “Where’s Rumford Falls?”

“How do I know? Ask your big man with the pearl gloves. He’s responsible for Rumford Falls.”

“Well, that’s where we’re going, anyway.”

“Yes, that’s where we’re going. We’ll be in Boston this afternoon and we won’t reach the Maine woods till to-morrow—late.”

“What’s Rumford Falls like? Have you ever been there?”

“Yes, I’ve been there. It’s no sort of a place. Just paper mills and spruce trees.”

“What made you get tickets for a place like that?”

“Queen’s orders, my lady. Here we are—that’s our train.”

In Boston that evening at their hotel they met Tom Armstrong, a neighbour of theirs at home. “What are you doing here in Boston?” he asked.

“Oh, I just ran over on business for the day. We are on our way to—”

“Montreal,” said Grace.

“Good,” said Armstrong. “I have just come down from there and I will give you a note to a chap who will put you up at his club and give you no end of good fun.”

“What about me? Is there a woman’s club?” asked Grace.

“Yes, of course there is. When are you going up?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Grace airily. “We may be here two or three days.”

“I wish I could stay over, but I’ve got to go back to New York to-night. Any message to send home?”

“No; nothing special. We’ll be back in a few days.” And much to Robert’s relief Armstrong left them.

“Why did you say we were going to Montreal?” asked Robert.

“Why not?” said Grace.