The Adventures of a Modest Man

"What do you think I'd do, Mr. Seabury?"

"Run. I should."

"No; I should make them a speech – a long one – oh, dreadfully long and wearisome. I should talk and talk and talk, and repeat myself, and pile platitude on platitude, and maunder on and on and on. And about luncheon-time I should have a delicious repast served me, and I'd continue my speech as I ate. And after that I'd ramble on and on until dinner-time. And I should dine magnificently up there on the dais, and, between courses, I'd continue my speech – "

"You'd choose the last man to go to sleep," he said simply.

"How did you guess it!" she exclaimed, vexed. "I – it's too bad for you to know everything, Mr. Seabury."

"I thought you were convinced that I didn't know anything?" he said, looking up at her. His voice was quiet – too quiet; his face grave, unsmiling, firm.

"I? Mr. Seabury, I don't understand you."

He folded his hands and rested his chin on the knuckles. "But I understand you, Miss Gay. Tell me" – the odd smile flickered and went out – "Tell me, in whose house am I?"

Sheer shame paralyzed her; wave on wave of it crimsoned her to the hair. She sat there in deathly silence; he coolly lighted another cigarette, dropped one elbow on his knee, propping his chin in his open palm.

"I'm curious to know – if you don't mind," he added pleasantly.

"Oh – h!" she breathed, covering her eyes suddenly with both hands. She pressed the lids for a moment steadily, then her hands fell to her lap, and she faced him, cheeks aflame.

"I – I have no excuse," she stammered – "nothing to say for myself … except I did not understand what a – a common – dreadful – insulting thing I was doing – "

He waited; then: "I am not angry, Miss Gay."

"N-not angry? You are! You must be! It was too mean – too contemptible – "

"Please don't. Besides, I took possession of your sleigh. Bailey did the business for me. I didn't know he had left the Austins, of course."

She looked up quickly; there was a dimness in her eyes, partly from earnestness; "I did not know you had made a mistake until you spoke of the Austins," she said. "And then something whispered to me not to tell you – to let you go on – something possessed me to commit this folly – "

"Oh, no; I committed it. Besides, we were more than half-way here, were we not?"

"Ye-yes."

"And there's only one more train for Beverly, and I couldn't possibly have made that, even if we had turned back!"

"Y-yes. Mr. Seabury, are you trying to defend me?"

"You need no defense. You were involved through no fault of your own in a rather ridiculous situation. And you simply, and like a philosopher, extracted what amusement there was in it."

"Mr. Seabury! You shall not be so – so generous. I have cut a wretchedly undignified figure – "

"You couldn't!"

"I could – I have – I'm doing it!"

"You are doing something else, Miss Gay."

"W-what?"

"Making it very, very hard for me to go."

"But you can't go! You mustn't! Do you think I'd let you go —now? Not if the Austins lived next door! I mean it, Mr. Seabury. I – I simply must make amends – all I can – "

"Amends? You have."

"I? How?"

"By being here with me."

"Th-that is – is very sweet of you, Mr. Seabury, but I – but they – but you – Oh! I don't know what I'm trying to say, except that I like you —they will like you – and everybody knows Lily Seabury. Please, please forgive – "

"I'm going to telephone to Beverly… Will you wait —here?"

"Ye-yes. Wh-what are you going to telephone? You can't go, you know. Please don't try – will you?"

"No," he said, looking down at her.

Things were happening swiftly – everything was happening in an instant – life, youth, time, all were whirling and spinning around her in bewildering rapidity; and her pulses, too, leaping responsive, drummed cadence to her throbbing brain.

She saw him mount the stairs and disappear – no doubt to his room, for there was a telephone there. Then, before she realized the lapse of time, he was back again, seating himself quietly beside her on the broad stair.

"Shall I tell you what I am going to do?" he said after a silence through which the confused sense of rushing unreality had held her mute.

"Wh-what are you going to do?"

"Walk to Beverly."

"Mr. Seabury! You promised – "

"Did I?"

"You did! It is snowing terribly… It is miles and miles and the snow is already too deep. Besides, do you think I – we would let you walk! But you shall not go – and there are horses enough, too! No, no, no! I – I wish you would let me try to make up something to you – if I – all that I can possibly make up."

"At the end of the hall above there's a window," he said slowly. "Prove to me that the snow is too deep."

"Prove it?" She sprang up, gathering her silken skirts and was on the landing above before he could rise.

He found her, smiling, triumphant, beside the big casement at the end of the hallway.

"Now are you convinced?" she said. "Just look at the snowdrifts. Are you satisfied?"

"No," he said, quietly – too quietly by far. She looked up at him, a quick protest framed on her red lips. Something – perhaps the odd glimmer in his eyes – committed her to silence. From silence the stillness grew into tension; and again the rushing sense of unreality surged over them both, leaving their senses swimming.

"There is only one thing in the world I care for now," he said.

"Ye-yes."