Produced by Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines.
IN THE BISHOP'S CARRIAGE
By
MIRIAM MICHELSON
I.
When the thing was at its hottest, I bolted. Tom, like the darling heis--(Yes, you are, old fellow, you're as precious to me as--as you areto the police--if they could only get their hands on you)--well, Tomdrew off the crowd, having passed the old gentleman's watch to me, andI made for the women's rooms.
The station was crowded, as it always is in the afternoon, and in aminute I was strolling into the big, square room, saying slowly tomyself to keep me steady:
"Nancy, you're a college girl--just in from Bryn Mawr to meet yourpapa. Just see if your hat's on straight."
I did, going up to the big glass and looking beyond my excited face tothe room behind me. There sat the woman who can never nurse her babyexcept where everybody can see her, in a railroad station. There wasthe woman who's always hungry, nibbling chocolates out of a box; andthe woman fallen asleep, with her hat on the side, and hairpinsdropping out of her hair; and the woman who's beside herself with fearthat she'll miss her train; and the woman who is taking notes about theother women's rigs. And--
And I didn't like the look of that man with the cap who opened theswinging door a bit and peeped in. The women's waiting-room is noplace for a man--nor for a girl who's got somebody else's watch insideher waist. Luckily, my back was toward him, but just as the door swungback he might have caught the reflection of my face in a mirror hangingopposite to the big one.
I retreated, going to an inner room where the ladies were having themaid brush their gowns, soiled from suburban travel and the dirtystation.
The deuce is in it the way women stare. I took off my hat and jacketfor a reason to stay there, and hung them up as leisurely as I could.
"Nance," I said under my breath, to the alert-eyed, pug-nosed girl inthe mirror, who gave a quick glance about the room as I bent to wash myhands, "women stare 'cause they're women. There's no meaning in theirlook. If they were men, now, you might twitter."
I smoothed my hair and reached out my hand to get my hat and jacketwhen--when--
Oh, it was long; long enough to cover you from your chin to your heels!It was a dark, warm red, and it had a high collar of chinchilla thatwas fairly scrumptious. And just above it the hat hung, a red-clothtoque caught up on the side with some of the same fur.
The black maid misunderstood my involuntary gesture. I had all my bestduds on, and when a lot of women stare it makes the woman they stare atpeacock naturally, and--and--well, ask Tom what he thinks of my stylewhen I'm on parade. At any rate, it was the maid's fault. She tookdown the coat and hat and held them for me as though they were mine.What could I do, 'cept just slip into the silk-lined beauty and set thetoque on my head? The fool girl that owned them was having anothermaid mend a tear in her skirt, over in the corner; the little place wascrowded. Anyway, I had both the coat and hat on and was out into thebig anteroom in a jiffy.
What nearly wrecked me was the cut of that coat. It positively made meshiver with pleasure when I passed and saw myself in that long mirror.My, but I was great! The hang of that coat, the long, incurving sweepin the back, and the high fur collar up to one's nose--even if it is aturned-up nose--oh!
I stayed and looked a second too long, for just as I was pulling theflaring hat a bit over my face, the doors swung, as an old lady camein, and there behind her was that same curious man's face with the capabove it.
Trapped? Me? Not much! I didn't wait a minute, but threw the doorsopen with a gesture that might have belonged to the Queen of Spain. Ialmost ran into his arms. He gave an exclamation. I looked himstraight in the eyes, as I hooked the collar close to my throat, andswept past him.
He weakened. That coat was too jolly much for him. It was for me,too. As I ran down the stairs, its influence so worked on me that Ididn't know just which Vanderbilt I was.
I got out on the sidewalk all right, and was just about to take a carwhen the turnstile swung round, and there was that same man with thecap. His face was a funny mixture of doubt and determination. But itmeant the Correction for me.
"Nance Olden, it's over," I said to myself.
But it wasn't. For it was then that I caught sight of the carriage.It was a fat, low, comfortable, elegant, sober carriage, wide andwell-kept, with rubber-tired wheels. And the two heavy horses were fatand elegant and sober, too, and wide and well-kept. I didn't know itwas the Bishop's then--I didn't care whose it was. It was empty, andit was mine. I'd rather go to the Correction--being too young to getto the place you're bound for, Tom Dorgan--in it than in the patrolwagon. At any rate, it was all the chance I had.
I slipped in, closing the door sharply behind me. The man on thebox--he was wide and well-kept, too--was tired waiting, I suppose, forhe continued to doze gently, his high coachman's collar up over hisears. I cursed that collar, which had prevented his hearing the doorclose, for then he might have driven off.
But it was great inside: soft and warm, the cushions of dark plum, theseat wide and roomy, a church paper, some notes for the Bishop's nextsermon and a copy of Quo Vadis. I just snuggled down, trust me. Ileaned far back and lay low. When I did peek out the window, I saw theman with the brass buttons and the cap turning to go inside again.
Victory! He had lost the scent. Who would look for Nancy Olden in theBishop's carriage?
Now, you know how early I got up yesterday to catch the train so's Tomand I could come in with the people and be naturally mingling withthem? And you remember the dance the night before? I hadn't had morethan three hours' sleep, and the snug warmth of that coach was justnuts to me, after the freezing ride into town. I didn't dare get outfor fear of some other man in a cap and buttons somewhere on thelookout. I knew they couldn't be on to my hiding-place or they'd havenabbed me before this. After a bit I didn't want to get out, I was sowarm and comfortable--and elegant. O Tom, you should have seen yourNance in that coat and in the Bishop's carriage!
First thing I knew, I was dreaming you and I were being married, andyou had brass buttons all over you, and I had the cloak all right, butit was a wedding-dress, and the chinchilla was a wormy sort of orangeblossoms, and--and I waked when the handle of the door turned and theBishop got in.
Asleep? That's what! I'd actually been asleep.
And what did I do now?
That's easy--fell asleep again. There wasn't anything else to do. Notreally asleep this time, you know; just, just asleep enough to be wideawake to any chance there was in it.
The horses had started, and the carriage was half-way across the streetbefore the Bishop noticed me.
He was a little Bishop, not big and fat and well-kept like the rig, butshort and lean, with a little white beard and the softest eye--and thesoftest heart--and the softest head. Just listen.
"Lord bless me!" he exclaimed, hurriedly putting on his spectacles, andlooking about bewildered.
I was slumbering sweetly in the corner, but I could see between mylashes that he thought he'd jumped into somebody else's carriage.
The sight of his book and his papers comforted him, though, and beforehe could make a resolution, I let the jolting of the carriage, as itcrossed the car-track, throw me gently against him.
"Daddy," I murmured sleepily, letting my head rest on his little, primshoulder.
That comforted him, too. Hush your laughing, Tom Dorgan; I meancalling him "daddy" seemed to kind of take the cuss off the situation.
"My child," he began very gently.
"Oh, daddy," I exclaimed, snuggling down close to him, "you kept mewaiting so long I went to sleep. I thought you'd never come."
He put his ar
m about my shoulders in a fatherly way. You know, I foundout later the Bishop never had had a daughter. I guess he thought hehad one now. Such a simple, dear old soul! Just the same, Tom Dorgan,if he had been my father, I'd never be doing stunts with tipsy men'swatches for you; nor if I'd had any father. Now, don't get mad. Thinkof the Bishop with his gentle, thin old arm about my shoulders, holdingme for just a second as though I was his daughter! My, think of it!And me, Nance Olden, with that fat man's watch in my waist and somegirl's beautiful long coat and hat on, all covered with chinchilla!
"There's some mistake, my little girl," he said, shaking me gently towake me up, for I was going to sleep again, he feared.
"Oh, I knew you were kept at the office," I interrupted quickly. Ipreferred to be farther from the station with that girl's red coatbefore I got out. "We've missed our train, anyway, haven't we? Afterthis, daddy dear, let's not take this route. If we'd go straightthrough on the one road, we wouldn't have this drive across town everytime. I was wondering, before I fell asleep, what in the world I'd doin this big city if you didn't come."
He forgot to withdraw his arm, so occupied was he by my predicament.
"What would you do, my child, if you had--had missed your--your father?"
Wasn't it clumsy of him? He wanted to break it to me gently, and thiswas the best he could do.
"What would I do?" I gasped indignantly. "Why, daddy, imagine mealone, and--and without money! Why--why, how can you--"
"There! there!" he said, patting me soothingly on the shoulder.
That baby of a Bishop! The very thought of Nancy Olden out alone inthe streets was too much for him.
He had put his free hand into his pocket and had just taken out a billand was trying to plan a way to offer it to me and reveal the fact topoor, modest little Nance Olden that he was not her own daddy, when anawful thing happened.
We had got up street as far as the opera-house, when we were caught inthe jam of carriages in front; the last afternoon opera of the seasonwas just over. I was so busy thinking what would be my next move thatI didn't notice much outside--and I didn't want to move, Tom, not abit. Playing the Bishop's daughter in a trailing coat of red, trimmedwith chinchilla, is just your Nancy's graft. But the dear littleBishop gave a jump that almost knocked the roof off the carriage,pulled his arm from behind me and dropped the ten-dollar bill he heldas though it burned him. It fell in my lap. I jammed it into my coatpocket. Where is it now? Just you wait, Tom Dorgan, and you'll findout.
I followed the Bishop's eyes. His face was scarlet now. Right next toour carriage--mine and the Bishop's--there was another; not quite sofat and heavy and big, but smart, I tell you, with the silver harnessjangling and the horses arching their backs under their blue-clothjackets monogrammed in leather. All the same, I couldn't see anythingto cause a loving father to let go his onliest daughter in such ahurry, till the old lady inside bent forward again and gave us anotherlook.
Her face told it then. It was a big, smooth face, withaccordion-plaited chins. Her hair was white and her nose was curved,and the pearls in her big ears brought out every ugly spot on her face.Her lips were thin, and her neck, hung with diamonds, looked like a bedwith bolsters and pillows piled high, and her eyes--oh, Tom, her eyes!They were little and very gray, and they bored their way straightthrough the windows--hers and ours--and hit the Bishop plumb in theface.
My, if I could only have laughed! The Bishop, the dear, prim littleBishop in his own carriage, with his arm about a young woman in red andchinchilla, offering her a bank-note, and Mrs. Dowager Diamonds, hereyes popping out of her head at the sight, and she one of the ladypillars of his church--oh, Tom! it took all of this to make that poorinnocent next to me realize how he looked in her eyes.
But you see it was over in a minute. The carriage wheels wereunlocked, and the blue coupe went whirling away, and we in theplum-cushioned carriage followed slowly.
I decided that I'd had enough. Now and here in the middle of all thesecarriages was a bully good time and place for me to get away. I turnedto the Bishop. He was blushing like a boy. I blushed, too. Yes, Idid, Tom Dorgan, but it was because I was bursting with laughter.
"Oh, dear!" I exclaimed in sudden dismay. "You're not my father."
"No--no, my dear, I--I'm not," he stammered, his face purple now withembarrassment. "I was just trying to tell you, you poor little girl,of your mistake and planning a way to help you, when--"
He made a gesture of despair toward the side where the coupe had been.
I covered my face with my hands, and shrinking over into the corner, Icried:
"Let me out! let me out! You're not my father. Oh, let me out!"
"Why, certainly, child. But I'm old enough, surely, to be, and Iwish--I wish I were."
"You do!"
The dignity and tenderness and courtesy in his voice sort of soberedme. But all at once I remembered the face of Mrs. Dowager Diamonds,and I understood.
"Oh, because of her," I said, smiling and pointing to the side wherethe coupe had been.
My, but it was a rotten bad move! I ought to have been strapped forit. Oh, Tom, Tom, it takes more'n a red coat with chinchilla to make ablack-hearted thing like me into the girl he thought I was.
He stiffened and sat up like a prim little school-boy, his soft eyeshurt like a dog's that's been wounded.
I won't tell you what I did then. No, I won't. And you won'tunderstand, but just that minute I cared more for what he thought of methan whether I got to the Correction or anywhere else.
It made us friends in a minute, and when he stopped the carriage to letme out, my hand was still in his. But I wouldn't go. I'd made up mymind to see him out of his part of the scrape, and first thing you knowwe were driving up toward the Square, if you please, to Mrs. DowagerDiamonds' house.
He thought it was his scheme, the poor lamb, to put me in her chargetill my lost daddy could send for me. He'd no more idea that I wassteering him toward her, that he was doing the only thing possible, theonly square thing by his reputation, than he had that Nance Olden hadbeen raised by the Cruelty, and then flung herself away on the firsthandsome Irish boy she met.
That'll do, Tom.
Girls, if you could have seen Mrs. Dowager Diamonds' face when she camedown the stairs, the Bishop's card in her hand, and into the gorgeousparlor, it'd have been as good as a front seat at the show.
She was mad, and she was curious, and she was amazed, and she wasdisarmed; for the very nerve of his bringing me to her staggered her sothat she could hardly believe she'd seen what she had.
"My dear Mrs. Ramsay," he began, confused a bit by his remembrance ofhow her face had looked fifteen minutes before, "I bring to you anunfortunate child, who mistook my carriage for her father's thisafternoon at the station. She is a college girl, a stranger in town,and till her father claims her--"
Oh, the baby! the baby! She was stiffening like a rod before his veryeyes. How did his words explain his having his arm round theunfortunate child? His conscience was so clean that the dear littleman actually overlooked the fact that it wasn't my presence in thecarriage, but his conduct there that had excited Mrs. Dowager Diamonds.
And didn't the story sound thin? I tell you, Tom, when it comes tolying to a woman you've got to think up something stronger than ittakes to make a man believe in you--if you happen to be female yourself.
I didn't wait for him to finish, but waltzed right in. I dancedstraight up to that side of beef with the diamonds still on it, andflinging my arms about her, turned a coy eye on the Bishop.
"You said your wife was out of town, daddy," I cried gaily. "Have yougot another wife besides mummy?"
The poor Bishop! Do you think he tumbled? Not a bit--not a bit. Hesat there gasping like a fish, and Mrs. Dowager Diamonds, surprised bymy sudden attack, stood bolt upright, about as pleasant to hug as--asyou are, Tom, when you're jealous.
The trouble with the Bishop's set is that it's deadly slow. Now, if I
had really been the Bishop's daughter--all right, I'll go on.
"Oh, mummy," I went on quickly. You know how I said it, Tom--the way Itold you after that last row that Dan Christensen wasn't near sogood-looking as you--remember? "Oh, mummy, you don't know how good itfeels to get home. Out there at that awful college, studying andstudying and studying, sometimes I thought I'd lose my senses. There'sa girl out there now suffering from nervous prostration. She worked sohard preparing for the mid-years. What's her name? I can't think--Ican't think, my head's so tired. But it sounds like mine, a lot likemine. Once--I think it was yesterday--I thought it was mine, and I madeup my mind suddenly to come right home and bring it with me. But itcan't be mine, can it? It can't be my name she's got. It can't be,mummy, say it can't, say it can't!"
Tom, I ought to have gone on the stage. I'll go yet, when you're sentup some day. Yes, I will. You'll be where you can't stop me.
I couldn't see the Bishop, but the Dowager--oh, I'd got her. Not sobad an old body, either, if you only take her the right way. First, shewas suspicious, and then she was scared. And then, bit by bit, thestiffness melted out of her, her arms came up about me, and there Iwas, lying all comfy, with the diamonds on her neck boring rosettes inmy cheeks, and she a-sniffling over me and patting me and telling menot to get excited, that it was all right, and now I was home mummywould take care of me, she would, that she would.
She did. She got me on to a lounge, soft as--as marshmallows, and shepiled one silk pillow after another behind my back.
"Come, dear, let me help you off with your coat," she cooed, bendingover me.
"Oh, mummy, it's so cold! Can't I please keep it on?"
To let that coat off me was to give the whole thing away. My rigunderneath, though good enough for your girl, Tom, on a holiday, wasn'tjust what they wear in the Square. And, d'ye know, you'll say it'ssilly, but I had a conviction that with that coat I should say good-byto the nerve I'd had since I got into the Bishop's carriage,--and fromthere into society. I let her take the hat, though, and I could see bythe way she handled it that it was all right--the thing; her kind, youknow. Oh, the girl I got it from had good taste, all right.
I closed my eyes for a moment as I lay there and she stood stroking myhair. She must have thought I'd fallen asleep, for she turned to theBishop, and holding out her hand, she said softly:
"My dear, dear Bishop, you are the best-hearted, the saintliest man onearth. Because you are so beautifully clean-souled yourself, you mustpardon me. I am ashamed to say it, but I shall have no rest till I do.When I saw you in the carriage downtown, with that poor, dementedchild, I thought, for just a moment--oh, can you forgive me? It showswhat an evil mind I have. But you, who know so well what Edward is,what my life has been with him, will see how much reason I have to besuspicious of all men!"
I shook, I laughed so hard. What a corker her Edward must be! See,Tom, poor old Mrs. Dowager up in the Square having the same devil'sluck with her man as Molly Elliott down in the Alley has with hers. Iwonder if you're all alike. No, for there's the Bishop. He had takenher hand sympathizingly, forgivingly, but his silence made me curious.I knew he wouldn't let the old lady believe for a moment I was luny, ifonce he could be sure himself that I wasn't. You lie, Tom Dorgan, hewouldn't! Well--But the poor baby, how could he expect to see througha game that had caught the Dowager herself? Still, I could hear himwalking softly toward me, and I felt him looking keenly down at me longbefore I opened my eyes.
When I did, you should have seen him jump. Guilty he felt. I could seethe blood rush up under his clear, thin old skin, soft as a baby's, tofind himself caught trying to spy out my secret.
I just looked, big-eyed, up at him. You know; the way Molly's kiddoes, when he wakes. I looked a long, long time, as though I waspuzzled.
"Daddy," I said slowly, sitting up. "You--you are my daddy, ain't you?"
"Yes--yes, of course." It was the Dowager who got between him and me,hinting heavily at him with nods and frowns. But the dear old fellowonly got pinker in the effort to look a lie and not say it. Still, helooked relieved. Evidently he thought I was luny all right, but that Ihad lucid intervals. I heard him whisper something like this to theDowager just before the maid came in with tea for me.
Yes, Tom Dorgan, tea for Nancy Olden off a silver salver, out of a cuplike a painted eggshell. My, but that almost floored me! I was afraidI'd give myself dead away with all those little jars and jugs. So Isaid I wasn't hungry, though, Lord knows, I hadn't had anything to eatsince early morning. But the Dowager sent the maid away and took thetray herself, operating all the jugs and pots for me, and then tried tofeed me the tea. She was about as handy as Molly's little sister iswith the baby--but I allowed myself to be coaxed, and drank it down.
Tea, Tom Dorgan. Ever taste tea? If you knew how to behave yourselfin polite society, I'd give you a card to my friend, the Dowager, up inthe Square.
How to get away! That was the thing that worried me. I'd just made upmy mind to have a lucid interval, when cr-creak, the front door opened,and in walked--
Tom, you're mighty cute--so cute you'll land us both behind bars someday--but you can't guess who came in on our little family party.Yes--oh, yes, you've met him.
Well, the old duffer whose watch was ticking inside my waist that veryminute! Yes, sir, the same red-faced, big-necked fellow we'd spiedgetting full at the little station in the country. Only, he was a bitmellower than when you grabbed his chain. Well, he was Edward.
I almost dropped the cup when I saw him. The Dowager took it from me,saying:
"There, dear, don't be nervous. It's only--only--"
She got lost. It couldn't be my daddy--the Bishop was that. But itwas her husband, so who could it be?
"Evening, Bishop. Hello, Henrietta, back so soon from the opera?"roared Edward, in a big, husky voice. He'd had more since we saw him,but he walked straight as the Bishop himself, and he's a dear littleramrod. "Ah!"--his eyes lit up at sight of me--"ah, Miss--Miss--ofcourse, I've met the young lady, Henrietta, but hang me if I haven'tforgotten her name."
"Miss--Miss Murieson," lied the old lady, glibly. "A--a relative."
"Why, mummy!" I said reproachfully.
"There--there. It's only a joke. Isn't it a joke, Edward?" shedemanded, laughing uneasily.
"Joke?" he repeated with a hearty bellow of laughter. "Best kind of ajoke, I call it, to find so pretty a girl right in your own house, eh,Bishop?"
"Why does he call my father 'Bishop', mummy?"
I couldn't help it. The fun of hearing the Dowager lie and knowing theBishop beside himself with the pain of deception was too much for me.I could see she didn't dare trust her Edward with my sad story.
"Ho! ho! The Bishop--that's good. No, my dear Miss Murieson, if thislady's your mother, why, I must be--at least, I ought to be, yourfather. As such, I'm going to have all the privileges of aparent--bless me, if I'm not."
I don't suppose he'd have done it if he'd been sober, but there's notelling, when you remember the reputation the Dowager had given him.But he'd got no further than to put his arm around me when both theBishop and the Dowager flew to the rescue. My, but they were shocked!I couldn't help wondering what they'd have done if Edward had happenedto see the Bishop in the same sort of tableau earlier in the afternoon.
But I got a lucid interval just then, and distracted their attention.I stood for a moment, my head bent as though I was thinking deeply.
"I think I'll go now," I said at length. "I--I don't understandexactly how I got here," I went on, looking from the Bishop to theDowager and back again, "or how I happened to miss my father. I'mever--so much obliged to you, and if you will give me my hat, I'll takethe next train back to college."
"You'll do nothing of the sort," said the Dowager, promptly. "My dear,you're a sweet girl that's been studying too hard. You must go to myroom and rest--"
"And stay for dinner. Don't you care. Sometimes I don't know how Iget here m
yself." Edward winked jovially.
Well, I did. While the Dowager's back was turned, I gave him thelittlest one, in return for his. It made him drunker than ever.
"I think," said the Bishop, grimly, with a significant glance at theDowager, as he turned just then and saw the old cock ogling me, "theyoung lady is wiser than we. I'll take her to the station--"
The station! Ugh! Not Nance Olden, with the red coat still on.
"Impossible, my dear Bishop," interrupted the Dowager. "She can't bepermitted to go back on the train alone."
"Why, Miss--Miss Murieson, I'll see you back all the way to the collegedoor. Not at all, not at all. Charmed. First, we'll have dinner--or,first I'll telephone out there and tell 'em you're with us, so that ifthere's any rule or anything of that sort--"
The telephone! This wretched Edward with half his wits gave me moretrouble than the Bishop and the Dowager put together. She jumped atthe idea, and left the room, only to come back again to whisper to me:
"What name, my dear?"
"What name? what name?" I repeated blankly. What name, indeed. Iwonder how "Nance Olden" would have done.
"Don't hurry, dear, don't perplex yourself," she whispered anxiously,noting my bewilderment. "There's plenty of time, and it makes nodifference--not a particle, really."
I put my hand to my head.
"I can't think--I can't think. There's one girl has nervousprostration, and her name's got mixed with mine, and I can't--"
"Hush, hush! Never mind. You shall come and lie down in my room.You'll stay with us to-night, anyway, and we'll have a doctor in,Bishop."
"That's right," assented the Bishop. "I'll go get him myself."
"You--you're not going!" I cried in dismay. It was real. I hated tosee him go.
"Nonsense--'phone." It was Edward who went himself to telephone forthe doctor, and I saw my time getting short.
But the Bishop had to go, anyway. He looked out at his horsesshivering in front of the house, and the sight hurried him.
"My child," he said, taking my hand, "just let Mrs. Ramsay take care ofyou to-night. Don't bother about anything, but just rest. I'll seeyou in the morning," he went on, noticing that I kind of clung to him.Well, I did. "Can't you remember what I said to you in thecarriage--that I wished you were my daughter. I wish you were, indeed Ido, and that I could take you home with me and keep you, child."
"Then--to-night--if--when you pray--will you pray for me as if Iwas--your own daughter?"
Tom Dorgan, you think no prayers but a priest's are any good, youbigoted, snickering Catholic! I tell you if some day I cut loose fromyou and start in over again, it'll be the Bishop's prayers that'll doit.
The Dowager and I passed Edward in the ball. He gave me a look behindher back, and I gave him one to match it. Just practice, you know,Tom. A girl can never know when she'll want to be expert in thesethings.
She made me lie down on a couch while she turned the lamp low, and thenleft me alone in a big palace of a bedroom filled with things. And Iwanted everything I saw. If I could, I'd have lifted everything insight.
But every minute brought that doctor nearer. Soon as I could be reallysure she was gone, I got up, and, hurrying to the long French windowsthat opened on the great stone piazza, I unfastened them quietly, andinch by inch I pushed them open.
There within ten feet of me stood Edward. No escape that way. He sawme, and was tiptoeing heavily toward me, when I heard the door clickbehind me, and in walked the Dowager back again.
I flew to her.
"I thought I heard some one out there," I said.
"It frightened me so that I got up to look. Nobody could be out there,could they?"
She walked to the window and put her head out. Her lips tightenedgrimly.
"No, nobody could be out there," she said, breathing hard, "but youmight get nervous just thinking there might be. We'll go to a roomupstairs."
And go we did, in spite of all I could plead about feeling well enoughnow to go alone and all the rest of it. How was I to get out of asecond or third-story window?
I began to think about the Correction again as I followed her upstairs,and after she'd left me I just sat waiting for the doctor to come andsend me there. I didn't much care, till I remembered the Bishop. Icould almost see his face as it would look when he'd be called totestify against me, and I'd be standing in that railed-in prisoner'spen, in the middle of the court-room, where Dan Christensen stood whenthey tried him.
No, I couldn't bear that; not without a fight, anyway. It was for theBishop I'd got into this part of the scrape. I'd get out of it so's heshouldn't know how bad a thing a girl can be.
While I lay thinking it over, the same maid that had brought me the teacame in. She was an ugly, thin little thing. If she's a sample of themaids in that house, the lot of them would take the kink out of yourpretty hair, Thomas J. Dorgan, Esquire, late of the House of Refugeand soon of Moyamensing. Don't throw things. People in my set, mineand the Dowager's, don't.
She had been sent to help me undress, she said, and make mecomfortable. The doctor lived just around the corner and would be inin a minute.
Phew! She wasn't very promising, but she was my only chance. I tookher.
"I really don't need any help, thank you, Nora," I said, chipper as asparrow, and remembering the name the Dowager had called her by. "AuntHenrietta is too fussy, don't you think? Oh, of course, you won't say aword against her. She told me the other day that she'd never had amaid so sensible and quick-witted, too, as her Nora. Do you know, I'vea mind to play a joke on the doctor when he comes. You'll help me,won't you? Oh, I know you will!" Suddenly I remembered the Bishop'sbill. I took it out of my pocket. Yep, Tom, that's where it went. Ihad to choose between giving that skinny maid the biggest tip she evergot in her life--or Nance Olden to the Correction.
You needn't swear, Tom Dorgan. I fancy if I'd got there, you'd gotworse. No, you bully, you know I wouldn't tell; but the police sort ofknow how to pair our kind.
In her cap and apron, I let the doctor in and myself out. And I don'tregret a thing up there in the Square except that lovely red coat withthe high collar and the hat with the fur on it. I'd give--Tom, get mea coat like that and I'll marry you for life.
No, there's one thing I could do better if it was to be done overagain. I could make that dear little old Bishop wish harder I'd beenhis daughter.
What am I mooning about? Oh--nothing. There's the watch--Edward'swatch. Take it.
In the Bishop's Carriage Page 1