The Minor Dramas. William Dean Howells
No, indeed! If you expect me to laugh, now, you must say something particularly funny.”
Miss Galbraith: “I was not going to say anything funny, as you call it, and I will say nothing at all, if you talk in that way.”
Mr. Richards: “Well, I won’t, then. But do you know what I suspect, Lucy? I wouldn’t mention it to everybody, but I will to you—in strict confidence: I suspect that you’re rather ashamed of your grievance, if you have any. I suspect it’s nothing at all.”
Miss Galbraith, very sternly at first, with a rising hysterical inflection: “Nothing, Allen! Do you call it nothing, to have Mrs. Dawes come out with all that about your accident on your way up the river, and ask me if it didn’t frighten me terribly to hear of it, even after it was all over; and I had to say you hadn’t told me a word of it? ‘Why, Lucy!’”—angrily mimicking Mrs. Dawes,—“‘you must teach him better than that. I make Mr. Dawes tell me everything.’ Little simpleton! And then to have them all laugh—Oh, dear, it’s too much!”
Mr. Richards: “Why, my dear Lucy”—
Miss Galbraith, interrupting him: “I saw just how it was going to be, and I’m thankful, thankful that it happened. I saw that you didn’t care enough for me to take me into your whole life; that you despised and distrusted me, and that it would get worse and worse to the end of our days; that we should grow farther and farther apart, and I should be left moping at home, while you ran about making confidantes of other women whom you considered worthy of your confidence. It all flashed upon me in an instant; and I resolved to break with you, then and there; and I did, just as soon as ever I could go to my room for your things, and I’m glad,—yes,—Oh, hu, hu, hu, hu, hu!—so glad I did it!”
Mr. Richards, grimly: “Your joy is obvious. May I ask”—
Miss Galbraith: “Oh, it wasn’t the first proof you had given me how little you really cared for me, but I was determined it should be the last. I dare say you’ve forgotten them! I dare say you don’t remember telling Mamie Morris that you didn’t like embroidered cigar-cases, when you’d just told me that you did, and let me be such a fool as to commence one for you; but I’m thankful to say that went into the fire,—oh, yes, instantly! And I dare say you’ve forgotten that you didn’t tell me your brother’s engagement was to be kept, and let me come out with it that night at the Rudges’, and then looked perfectly aghast, so that everybody thought I had been blabbing! Time and again, Allen, you have made me suffer agonies, yes, agonies; but your power to do so is at an end. I am free and happy at last.” She weeps bitterly.
Mr. Richards, quietly: “Yes, I had forgotten those crimes, and I suppose many similar atrocities. I own it, I am forgetful and careless. I was wrong about those things. I ought to have told you why I said that to Miss Morris: I was afraid she was going to work me one. As to that accident I told Mrs. Dawes of, it wasn’t worth mentioning. Our boat simply walked over a sloop in the night, and nobody was hurt. I shouldn’t have thought twice about it, if she hadn’t happened to brag of their passing close to an iceberg on their way home from Europe; then I trotted out my pretty-near disaster as a match for hers,—confound her! I wish the iceberg had sunk them! Only it wouldn’t have sunk her,—she’s so light; she’d have gone bobbing about all over the Atlantic Ocean, like a cork; she’s got a perfect life-preserver in that mind of hers.” Miss Galbraith gives a little laugh, and then a little moan. “But since you are happy, I will not repine, Miss Galbraith. I don’t pretend to be very happy myself, but then, I don’t deserve it. Since you are ready to let an absolutely unconscious offence on my part cancel all the past; since you let my devoted love weigh as nothing against the momentary pique that a malicious little rattle-pate—she was vexed at my leaving her—could make you feel, and choose to gratify a wicked resentment at the cost of any suffering to me, why, I can be glad and happy too.” With rising anger, “Yes, Miss Galbraith. All is over between us. You can go! I renounce you!”
Miss Galbraith, springing fiercely to her feet: “Go, indeed! Renounce me! Be so good as to remember that you haven’t got me to renounce!”
Mr. Richards: “Well, it’s all the same thing. I’d renounce you if I had. Good-evening, Miss Galbraith. I will send back your presents as soon as I get to town; it won’t be necessary to acknowledge them. I hope we may never meet again.” He goes out of the door towards the front of the ear, but returns directly, and glances uneasily at Miss Galbraith, who remains with her handkerchief pressed to her eyes. “Ah—a—that is—I shall be obliged to intrude upon you again. The fact is”—
Miss Galbraith, anxiously: “Why, the cars have stopped! Are we at Schenectady?”
Mr. Richards: “Well, no; not exactly; not stopped exactly at Schenectady”—
Miss Galbraith: “Then what station is this? Have they carried me by?” Observing his embarrassment, “Allen, what is the matter? What has happened? Tell me instantly! Are we off the track? Have we run into another train? Have we broken through a bridge? Shall we be burnt alive? Tell me, Allen, tell me,—I can bear it!—are we telescoped?” She wrings her hands in terror.
Mr. Richards, unsympathetically: “Nothing of the kind has happened. This car has simply come uncoupled, and the rest of the train has gone on ahead, and left us standing on the track, nowhere in particular.” He leans back in his chair, and wheels it round from her.
Miss Galbraith, mortified, yet anxious: “Well?”
Mr. Richards: “Well, until they miss us, and run back to pick us up, I shall be obliged to ask your indulgence. I will try not to disturb you; I would go out and stand on the platform, but it’s raining.”
Miss Galbraith, listening to the rain-fall on the roof: “Why, so it is!” Timidly, “Did you notice when the car stopped?”
Mr. Richards: “No.” He rises and goes out at the rear door, comes back, and sits down again.
Miss Galbraith, rises, and goes to the large mirror to wipe away her tears. She glances at Mr. Richards, who does not move. She sits down in a seat nearer him than the chair she has left. After some faint murmurs and hesitations, she asks, “Will you please tell me why you went out just now?”
Mr. Richards, with indifference: “Yes. I went to see if the rear signal was out.”
Miss Galbraith, after another hesitation: “Why?”
Mr. Richards: “Because, if it wasn’t out, some train might run into us from that direction.”
Miss Galbraith, tremulously: “Oh! And was it?”
Mr. Richards, dryly: “Yes.”
Miss Galbraith returns to her former place, with a wounded air, and for a moment neither speaks. Finally she asks very meekly, “And there’s no danger from the front?”
Mr. Richards, coldly: “No.”
Miss Galbraith, after some little noises and movements meant to catch Mr. Richards’s attention: “Of course, I never meant to imply that you were intentionally careless or forgetful.”
Mr. Richards, still very coldly: “Thank you.”
Miss Galbraith: “I always did justice to your good-heartedness, Allen; you’re perfectly lovely that way; and I know that you would be sorry if you knew you had wounded my feelings, however accidentally.” She droops her head so as to catch a sidelong glimpse of his face, and sighs, while she nervously pinches the top of her parasol, resting the point on the floor. Mr. Richards makes no answer. “That about the cigar-case might have been a mistake; I saw that myself, and, as you explain it, why, it was certainly very kind and very creditable to—to your thoughtfulness. It was thoughtful!”
Mr. Richards: “I am grateful for your good opinion.”
Miss Galbraith: “But do you think it was exactly—it was quite—nice, not to tell me that your brother’s engagement was to be kept, when you know, Allen, I can’t bear to blunder in such things?” Tenderly, “Do you? You can’t say it was?”
Mr.