  “Oh, Nan, do let me have my own way for once!” Bumble’s flashing brown eyes looked troubled, but determined. “I know my way perfectly,” she went on. “The car can leave me at the concert and then take you on to your meeting. Then after the concert, I can hop into a taxicab and go right up to Millicent’s without a bit of trouble!” “You could, of course, Helen, if you were like other people. But you’re so rattle-pated, you’d just as likely go down town as up,—and find yourself at the Battery.” “No, I won’t, Nan, honest, I won’t. I’ve only to tell the driver 783 East Ninety-fifth Street, and he’ll take me right there.” “You’ll forget the number.” “I’ll write it on a card, and keep it in my bag. I’m not an infant, you know.” “Well, all right, dear, if you think you won’t get lost. Telephone me as soon as you’re safely at your friend’s, won’t you?” “Yes, I will. What time will you get home, yourself?” “About six. But you see, Patty wants the car at five——” “Oh, I know,—I know all about it, and that’s why I insist on carrying out my own plans.” “You’ve sent your suitcase, haven’t you?” “Yes, that was part of my well-laid plan. You must admit, Nan, I’ve looked out for everything.” “Yes, you have, Helen; and I consent, for I can’t see any way out of it. You see Patty is on the reception committee, and she must——” But Helen had flown off to get ready, so Nan turned to her own affairs. “Good-bye, Patsy Poppet,” Bumble cried, a little later, as in coat and furs she looked in at Patty’s door. “How sweet you look, angel child. Who sent you the violets——” “Philip.” “He did! And none to me?” “He said you had ordered him not to.” “So I have; oh, me, I can’t have flowers from admiring swains any more, at all, at all!” “Don’t pretend you’re sorry, for I know better. You haven’t an idea in your head that isn’t simply and solely about Bill Farnsworth!” “Dear, dear! As bad as that?” Patty smiled a little absently, as she went on writing a letter. “Yes, and you’re writing to him now,—I know by the lovesick way you hold your head on one side! And, moreover, my young friend, if you don’t get dressed pretty soon, you’ll be late for your party. It’s ’most four o’clock.” “Good gracious, Bumble! I thought your concert began at three.” “It does,—but was I ever at the beginning of anything?” Helen calmly accepted her own chronic tardiness as a foregone conclusion, and with a waved farewell, she trotted off. She was going to her friend’s house for the night, but she greatly desired to go to a concert first, and owing to the different engagements of Patty and Nan, it was inconvenient for the Fairfield car to call for her after the performance. But she was more than willing to go to her friend’s in a cab by herself, and she had the address safely tucked away in her purse. The concert was enthralling to Helen’s music-loving soul, and she deeply regretted that her late coming had lost her so much enjoyment. When it was over, she drifted slowly out with the rest of the crowding audience, and reached the curb, still quivering with the exaltation that fine music always aroused in her. In a sort of absent-minded way, she suddenly realised that it was snowing hard,—very hard, indeed. A young but vigorous blizzard had set in, and though shielded by the marquise, Helen found herself well covered with snowflakes. She stepped up to the liveried man at the curb and said: “Will you please call a taxi for me?” The man looked at her. “You’ll have to wait your turn, Miss, there’s twelve ahead of you. This here unexpected snowstorm makes cabs in great demand.” Helen saw that many others were more or less patiently waiting and resigned herself to wait, too. Her mind turned back to the music, and she drew out her programme to regret anew the numbers she had missed. A long time she stood there, studying the names of the performers and their selections,—so absorbed that she did not notice the deepening dusk, the thickening snowflakes and the rapidly rising wind. “It’s fierce, Miss,” the starter said to her, at last. “I’m going to get you that cab the very minute I can,—but I dunno when ’twill be.” “What?” said Bumble, looking up. “Oh, yes,—I do want a cab. Why, how it is snowing! Get one quick, please.” “I say I can’t,” and the man looked honestly anxious, for Helen had an irresponsible air and the hour was growing late. “Can’t you telephone for your own car, Miss,” he said, by way of a hint. “No; I can’t, Patty wants it,—I mean,” she suddenly realised where she was. “I mean, the others of the family need our car. I must have a cab.” “Yes, Miss, I’ll do my best.” “There ain’t no use,” the man told her a few minutes later. “I mean there ain’t no telling when I can get you a taxi; but here’s a hansom cab, don’t you think now, you’d better take this?” “What? A hansom? Oh, I never do.” “I know, Ma’am, but it’s a chance, and you might have to wait a lot longer——” “Oh, all right, perhaps it would be the best thing to do.” “And you’re lucky to get me,” observed the driver from his high perch, “there ain’t many vacant cabs tonight.” The starter put Helen into the little vehicle, tucked the robe about her, and closed the doors, with a feeling of relief at seeing the young lady en route for home. Then, before he had the glass lowered he asked for the address. “Oh, yes,” and Helen opened her bag. “Wait a minute.” But a hasty and fluttering search failed to produce the written paper. “I had it,” she murmured; “I must have jerked it out with my programme. Won’t you look around on the pavement, please?” The man obligingly looked, but the snow had fallen so thickly, that there was no sign of the lost paper. “Never mind,” Helen said, “I know the number. It’s 783 West Ninety-fifth Street. I remember, because it’s the same number as some one’s house in Philadelphia.” “You’re sure, Miss?” “Yes, I’m sure. And it’s on the third floor. My friend told me so.” “All right,” and the glass slid down, and the hansom started uptown. The progress was slow, for the street traffic was enormous at that hour and greatly impeded by the storm beside. At last they turned into Central Park, and Helen, looking out, thought that now their gait would be a little faster. But it was decidedly slower, and after a few moments the driver opened the little trap in the roof, and called down. “Can’t make the Park, Ma’am,—too slippery.” “What?” asked Helen, not at all comprehending. “I say, the horse can’t go through the Park. The ice under the snow is too treacherous,—he’ll fall down.” “What are you going to do, then?” “Gotter go back out again, and get over to Broadway.” “Very well, do that.” It was all Greek to Helen, for she had no idea of the position of the New York streets, and it was now so dark that the lights glimmering through the storm only made a more bewildering outlook than ever. She had no idea where she was, or where she was going, but her optimistic nature felt no fear, only annoyance at the elements. Faster fell the snow, and slower went the horse. He stumbled frequently, and almost fell several times. At last he did fall, and Helen was pitched forward against the glass. Luckily, it did not break, and as she crouched in a heap, the driver reassured her from above. “Sit tight, Miss! We’ll get him up. Don’t open the doors!” Helen was thoroughly scared now, but her good sense told her that to obey the driver’s advice was the best thing she could do. And sure enough, after a time, with the help of policemen and others, the horse was somehow again on his feet and apparently uninjured. “Now we’re off,” the cheery driver called down. “It’s a terrible storm, but I can get you there, if we go slowly.” “Go slowly, then,” Helen answered, greatly reassured by his honest, kindly accents, “but do get there!” So they went on, now merely crawling, as the poor horse cautiously picked his steps, and now stopping altogether, as the traffic forced them to. Helen’s watch had stopped, because she had forgotten to wind it. They passed few pedestal clocks, and those she could not see for the whirling flakes. She wanted to ask the driver how late it was getting, but couldn’t make him hear. So they kept on, and at last the cab drew up to a curb and the driver got down. “Well, Miss,” he said, “you was lucky to have me,—you sure was! For, I see you was young and didn’t know New York at all hardly. And I’m mighty glad to get you here without any broken bones,—I am that!” Helen appreciated his solicitude for her welfare, and though she well knew it was, in part, a hint for a goodly fee above his regular fare, she felt that he deserved it. She paid him generously, and bade him good night with courteous thanks. “You all right, now?” he asked, as he looked at the brightly-lighted entrance of the apartment house. “Oh, yes,” said Helen, glancing at the number to be sure it was 783. “This is Ninety-fifth Street, isn’t it?” “Yes, Ma’am,—good night.” “Good night and thank you.” The hansom drove away through the storm and as Helen approached the house, the door was swung open by a liveried doorman. She went in, smiling with gladness to be once more indoors amid light and warm surroundings, and going at once to the elevator, she said, “Third floor, please.” To the maid who answered her ring at the door of the apartment, she nodded pleasantly, and said: “I’m Miss Barlow.” Then she looked around for her friend, Millicent Wheeler. But she saw no sign of her, and instead, a strange lady came from one of the rooms, and stared at Helen. “What is it?” she said, politely but coldly. “I am Miss Barlow,” repeated Helen, “to see Mrs. Wheeler.” “Mrs. Wheeler? There is no such person in this house.” “What! Isn’t this 783, Ninety-fifth?” “Yes; are you looking for some friend?” The voice was kinder now, for Helen’s was an appealing personality, and she was evidently in a quandary, but still the strange hostess did not invite her guest to sit down. “Yes; oh, what can be the trouble? I’m to visit Mrs. Charles Wheeler, and her address is this house,—but I’m sure she said third floor.” “There’s no Mrs. Wheeler in this house at all, that I know of. You must have the wrong number.” “No; I’m sure of the number.” “May I ask your name?” “I’m Helen Barlow, and I live in Philadelphia. I’m visiting friends in the city, and I’m to spend tonight with another friend. Oh, what shall I do?” “I don’t see what you can do, but stay here till morning. It’s nearly eight o’clock now, and I can’t send any one out in a storm like this!” “Nearly eight! Oh, Nan will be crazy! She said I’d get lost!” The lady smiled. She was beginning to believe Helen’s story, though at first she had felt wary. “I am Mrs. Lummis,” she said. “I live here and have lived here a long time. I’m sorry for you, and I’ll keep you over night. I won’t say, with pleasure, for as a matter of fact it will put me out considerably. But I’ve a little too much humanity to turn you out in this storm.” Helen overlooked the coldness of the courtesy, in her relief at having found a safe, if not very hospitable shelter. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said; “I hate to put anybody out——” “It seems to be a question between putting me out,—or, putting you out!” laughed Mrs. Lummis, “and I think it might as well be me. Come into my little drawing-room.” Helen followed her into a small but prettily furnished room and Mrs. Lummis helped her take off her wraps. “Now wait a minute, and we’ll ferret out the mystery.” The hostess took a telephone book from a stand. “What’s the name of the friend you’re after?” “Mrs. Wheeler, but she has a private wire. You can’t get her number. I had it but I lost it, and Central positively refused to tell it to me.” Again Mrs. Lummis looked a bit suspicious. Then, with a whole-souled burst of enthusiasm, she said, “I don’t care if your story is fishy,—I believe in you, and I won’t ask you any more questions.” “Oh, you think I’m an impostor!” Helen exclaimed, the fact just dawning on her. “Oh, how funny!” Her laugh was so honest and so infectious that Mrs. Lummis laughed too, and the two became instant friends. “But I hate to intrude worse than ever, now,” declared Helen. “Oh, never mind. It can’t be helped. You can have my room, and I’ll bunk on the davenport. I live alone, and—and I expected a few friends this evening——” “Oh, I see. But I’m no spoilsport. Just tuck me into bed—oh, I wonder if I couldn’t go home——” She ran to the window and looked out. “No; it’s a regular blizzard! And I must call up Nan! She’ll be frantic!” “Who’s this Nan?” Mrs. Lummis was a bit blunt, but she was kindly now, and Helen replied, “Oh, that’s where I’m staying. Mrs. Fairfield. I know her number, may I call her?” “You’ll scare the wits out of her, if you tell her you’re in some strange house. But,—would she send for you?” “I don’t know. It’s such a storm! She’d probably say if I’m safe under cover to stay here.” “Well, tell her then.” “But I know she’ll worry. She told me, you see, I’d get lost,—and I did. I don’t see how it happened!” “I do. You got the wrong house. That’s certain. Maybe the wrong number or street—oh, say, didn’t you want East Ninety-fifth?” “Why I don’t know! Maybe I did! I always forget that East or West matters!” “Oh, you little goose! Why did they let you out alone?” “They said I oughtn’t to come alone,—but I begged so hard.” “Well, that’s it. You wanted East and you got West.” “Can’t I go over East now?” “Gracious, no! It’s across the Park!” “No; I can’t cross the Park. The horse tried, and had to come out.” “Well, I see it all, now. And I’ll take care of you. Do you want to tell your Fairfield friends?” Helen considered. “I think I’ll tell them that I’m all right,” she said at last. “I mean, I won’t tell them what really has happened,—but let them think for tonight that I’m at Mrs. Wheeler’s.” Again that look of suspicion crossed Mrs. Lummis’ face. “Now stop!” Helen laughed. “I’m only doing it to save them anxiety. Mrs. Fairfield will worry all night, and my cousin will nearly go crazy.” “Well, do as you like. Then I’ll give you some supper and put you to bed, for I’m telling you frankly, I’m not asking you to spend the evening with me.” She bustled away and Helen called up Nan. “For goodness sake, Bumble, why didn’t you call sooner? I’ve feared all sorts of things!” “Nonsense, it’s all right, Nan. I called you as soon as I could get around to it. Good night, now, I’m in a hurry. Bye-bye!” Helen hung up the receiver, knowing that Nan couldn’t call her back. Then, with her usual acceptance of circumstances she shook off all worry, and sat down to the pleasant little supper Mrs. Lummis offered her. And not long after, knowing that her hostess so wished it, Helen suggested that she should retire. “I’m giving you my room,” said Mrs. Lummis, “and I hope you’ll sleep well. You must be pretty much exhausted.” “I’m not,” returned Helen, “I think it’s a lark! But don’t fear, I won’t intrude. Give me a magazine or book to read, and I’ll disappear till morning. Lock me in, if you like.” “Oh, no,” and the lady laughed; “I’m not afraid of your appearing at my party. Good night, my dear.” |
|
