# Love Insurance/Chapter 22

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CHAPTER XXII
"WELL, HARDLY EVER—"
MINOT went below and sent two messages, one to Jephson, the other to Thacker. The lobby of the De la Pax was thronged with brilliantly attired wedding guests who, metaphorically, beat their breasts in perplexity over the tidings that had come even as they craned their necks to catch the first glimpse of that distinguished bridal party. The lavishly decorated parlor that was to have been the scene of the ceremony stood tragically deserted. Minot cast one look at it, and hurried again to his own particular cell.
He took a couple of time-tables from his desk and sat down in a chair facing the window. All over now. Nothing to do but return to the North, as fast as the trains would take him. He had won, but he had also lost. He felt listless, weary. He let the time-tables fall to the floor, and sat ​gazing out at that narrow street—thinking-wondering—wishing—
It was late in the afternoon when the clamor of his telephone recalled him to himself. He leaped up, and seized the receiver. Allan Harrowby's voice came over the wire.
"Can you run down to the room, Minot?" he inquired. "The last call, old boy."
Minot went. He found both the Harrowbys there, prepared to say good-by to San Marco forever.
"Going to New York on the Lady Evelyn," said George Harrowby, who was aggressively cheerful "From there I'm taking Allan to Chicago. Going to have him reading George Ade and talking our language in a week."
Lord Harrowby smiled wanly.
"Nothing left but Chicago," he drawled. "I wanted to see you before I went, Minot, old chap. Not that I can thank you for all you did—I don't know how. You stood by me like—like a gentleman. And I realize that I have no claim on Lloyds—it was all my fault—if I'd never let Martin Wall have that confounded policy— ​But what's the use of if-ing? All my fault And—my thanks, old boy." He sighed.
"Nonsense," said Minot. "A business proposition, solely, from my point of view. There's no thanks coming to me."
"It seems to me," said George Harrowby, "that as the only victor in this affair, you don't exhibit a proper cheerfulness. By the way, we'd be delighted to take you north on our boat. Why not—"
But Minot shook his head.
"Can't spare the time—thank you just the same," he replied. "I'd like nothing better—"
Amid expressions of regret, the Harrowbys started for the elevator. Minot walked along the dusky corridor with them.
"We've had a bit of excitement—what?" said Allan. "If you're ever in London, you're to be my guest. Old George has some sort of a berth for me over there—"
"Not a berth, Allan," objected George, pressing the button for the elevator. "You're not going to sleep. A job. Might as well begin to talk ​the Chicago language now. Mr. Minot, I, too, want to thank you—"
They stepped into the elevator, the door slammed, the car began to descend. Minot stood gazing through the iron scroll work until the blond head of the helpless Lord Harrowby moved finally out of sight. Then he returned to his room and the time-tables, which seemed such dull unhappy reading.
Mr. Jack Paddock appeared to invite Minot to take dinner with him. His bags, he remarked, were all packed, and he was booked for the seven o'clock train.
"I've slipped down the mountain of gold," he said in the course of the dinner. "But all good things must end, and I certainly had a good thing. Somehow, I'm not so gloomy as I ought to be."
"Where are you going, Jack?" Minot asked.
Mr. Paddock leaned over confidentially.
"Did I say her father was in the plumbing business?" he inquired. "My error, Dick. He owns a newspaper—out in Grand Rapids. Offered me a job any time I wanted it. Great ​joke then—pretty serious now. For I'm going out to apply."
"I'm glad of it"
"So am I, Dick. I was a fool to let her go back like that. Been thinking it all over—and over—one girl in—how many are there in the world, should you say? The other day I had a chill. It occurred to me maybe she'd gone and married the young man with the pale purple necktie who passes the plate in the Methodist Church. So I beat it to the telegraph counter. And—"
"She's heart whole and fancy free?"
"O. K. in both respects. So it's me for Grand Rapids. And say, Dick, I—er—I want you to know I'd sent that telegram before the accident last night. As a matter of fact, I sent it two days ago."
"Good boy," said Minot "I knew this game down here didn't satisfy you. May I be the first to wish you joy?"
"You? With a face like a defeated candidate? I say, cheer up! She'll stretch out eager arms in your direction yet."
"I don't believe it. Jack."
​"Well, while there's life there's still considerable hope lying loose about the landscape. That's why I don't urge you to take the train with me."
An hour later Mr. Paddock spoke further cheering words in his friend's ear, and departed for the North. And in that city of moonlight and romance Minot was left (practically) alone.
He took a little farewell walk through that quaint old town, then retired to his room to read another chapter in the time-table. At four-twenty in the morning, he noted, a small local train would leave for Jacksonville. He decided he would take it. With no parlor cars, no sleepers, he would not be likely to encounter upon it any of the startled wedding party bound north.
The call he left did not materialize, and it was four o'clock when he awoke. Hastily in the chill dawn he bade farewell to town and hotel. In fifteen minutes he had left both behind, and was speeding toward the small yellow station set on the town's edge. He glanced feverishly at his watch. There was need of haste, for this train was made up in San Marco, and had had as yet no chance to be late.
He rushed through the gate just as it was ​being closed, and caught a dreary little train in the very act of pulling out. Gloomy oil lamps sought vainly to lessen the dour aspect of its two coaches. Panting, he entered the rear coach and threw himself and his bag into a seat.
Five seconds later he glanced across the aisle and discovered in the opposite seat Miss Cynthia Meyrick, accompanied by a very sleepy-eyed family!
"The devil!" said Minot to himself. He knew that she would see in this utter accident nothing save a deliberate act of following. What use to protest his innocence?
He considered moving to another seat. But such a theatric act could only increase the embarrassment. Already his presence had been noted—Aunt Mary had given him a glare, Spencer Meyrick a scowl, the girl a cloudy vague "where have I seen this person before?" glance in passing.
Might as well make the best of it. He settled himself in his seat. Once again, as on another railroad car, he sought to keep his eyes ​on the landscape without—the dim landscape with the royal palms waving like grim ghosts in the half light. The train sped on.
A most uncomfortable situation! If only it would grow light! It seemed so silly to be forced to find the view out the window entrancing while it was still very dark.
Spencer Meyrick went forward to the smoker. Aunt Mary, weary of life, slid gently down to slumber. Her unlovely snore filled the dim car.
How different this from the first ride together! The faint pink of the sky grew brighter. Now Minot could see the gray moss hanging to the evergreens, and here and there a squalid shack where human beings lived and knew nothing of life. And beside him he heard a sound as of a large body being shaken. Also the guttural protest of Aunt Mary at this inconsiderate treatment.
Aunt Mary triumphed. Her snore rose to shatter the smoky roof. Three times Minot dared to look, and each time wished he hadn't. The whole sky was rosy now. Somewhere off ​behind the horizon the good old sun was rising to go to work for the passenger department of the coast railroad.
Some sense in looking out now. Minot saw a shack that seemed familiar—then another. Next a station, bearing on its sad shingle the cheery name of "Sunbeam." And close to the station, gloomy in the dawn, a desiccated chauffeur beside an aged automobile.
Minot turned quickly, and caught Cynthia Meyrick in the act of peering over his shoulder. She had seen the chauffeur too.
The train had stopped a moment, but was under way again. In those brown eyes Minot saw something wistful, something hurt,—saw things that moved him to put everything to a sudden test. He leaped to his feet and pulled madly at the bell cord.
"What—what have you done?" Startled, she stared at him.
"I've stopped the train. I'm going to ride to Jacksonville as I rode to San Marco—ages ago. I'm not going alone."
"Indeed?"
​"Quick. The conductor will be here in a minute. Here's a card and pencil—write a note for Aunt Mary. Say you'll meet them in Jacksonville! Hurry, please!"
"Mr. Minot!" With great dignity.
"One last ride together. One last chance for me to—to set things right if I can.'"
"If you can."
"If—I admit it. Won't you give me the chance? I thought you would be game. I dare you!"
For a second they gazed into each other's eyes. The train had come to a stop, and Aunt Mary stirred fretfully in her sleep. With sudden decision Cynthia Meyrick wrote on the card and dropped it on her slumbering relative.
"I know I'll be sorry—but—" she gasped
"Hurry! This way! The conductor's coming there!"
A moment later they stood together on the platform of the Sunbeam station, while the brief little train disappeared indignantly in the distance.
"You shouldn't have made me do that!" cried ​the girl in dismay. "I'm always doing things on the spur of the moment—things I regret afterward—"
"I know. You explained that to me once. But you can also do things on the spur of the moment that you're glad about all your life. Oh—good morning, Barney Oldfield."
"Good morning'"replied the rustic chauffeur with gleeful recognition. "Where's it to this time, mister?"
"Jacksonville. And no hurry at all." Minot held open the door and the girl stepped into the car.
"The gentleman is quite mistaken," she said to the chauffeur. "There is a very great hurry."
"Ages of time until luncheon," replied Minot blithely, also getting in. "If you were thinking of announcing—something—then."
"I shall have nothing to announce, I'm sure. But I must be in Jacksonville before that train. Father will be furious."
"Where's it to this time?"
He leaped to the wheel, and again that ancient automobile carried Cynthia Meyrick and the representative of Lloyds out of the town of Sunbeam. But the exit was not a laughing one. The girl's eyes were serious, cold, and with real concern in his voice Minot spoke:
"Won't you forgive me—can't you? I was only trying to be faithful to the man who sent me down here—faithful through everything—as I should be faithful to you if you gave me the chance. Is it too late—Cynthia—"
"There was a time," said the girl, her eyes wide, "when it was not too late. Have you forgotten? That night on the balcony, when I threw myself at your feet, and you turned away. Do you think that was a happy moment for me?"
"Was it happy for me, for that matter?"
"Oh, I was humiliated, ashamed. Then your ​silly rescue of my gown—your advice to me to marry Harrowby—"
"Would you have had me throw over the men who trusted me—"
"I—I don't know. I only know that I can't forgive what has happened—in a minute—"
"What was that last?"
"Nothing."
"You said in a minute."
"Your ears are deceiving you."
"Cynthia—you're not going to punish me because I was faithful— Don't you suppose I tried to get some one in my place?"
"Did you?"
"The day I first rode in this car with you. And then—I stopped trying—"
"Why?"
"Because I realized that if some one came in my place I'd have to go away and never see you again—and I couldn't do that I had to be near you, dear girl—don't worry, he can't hear, the motor's too noisy—I had to be where I could see that little curl making a question mark round your ear—where I could hear your voice—I had ​to be near you even if to do it I must break my heart by marrying you to another man. I loved you. I love you now—"
A terrific crash interrupted. Dolefully the chauffeur descended from the car to make an examination. Dolefully he announced the result.
"Busted right off," he remarked. "Say, I'm sorry. I'll have to walk back to the garage at Sunbeam and—and I'm afraid you'll have to jest sit here until I come back."
He went slowly down the road, and the two sat in that ancient car in the midst of sandy desolation.
"Cynthia," Minot cried. "I worship you. Won't you—"
The girl gave a strange little cry.
"I wanted to be cross with you a little longer," she said almost tearfully. "But I can't. I wonder why I can't. I cried all night at the thought of never seeing you again. I wonder why I cried. I guess—it's because—for the first time—I'm really—in love."
"Cynthia!"
​"Oh, Dick—don't let me change my mind again—ever—ever!"
"Only over my dead body!"
With one accord they turned and looked at that quaint southern chauffeur plodding along through the dust and the sunshine. It did not seem to either of them that there was any danger of his looking back.
And, happily, he didn't
THE END