Nothing But the Truth

“This is getting monotonous,” grumbled Bob.

“On the contrary!” breathed the temperamental young thing. “I find it lovely. Maybe you’ll learn how sometime.”

“Don’t want to,” he snapped.

“Oh, yes, you do. But as I was saying, you got yourself put in that sanatorium to mislead everybody. It, too, was a ruse – a part of the game. It’s all very clear – at least, to me!”

He stared at her. And she called that clear? “When did you leave Mrs. Ralston’s?” he demanded.

“About three hours ago. Said I’d a headache and believed I’d go to my room. But I didn’t. I just slipped down to the village and hired a taxi. Maybe we’d better keep our marriage a secret, at first.” Irrelevantly.

“Maybe we had,” answered Bob. And then he called out to the man in front. “Stop a moment.”

Before Miss Dolly had time to expostulate, the driver obeyed. Bob sprang out.

“You aren’t going to leave me, are you?” said the temperamental little thing. “If so – ” She made as if to get out, too.

“No; I’m not going to leave you just yet,” answered Bob. Then to the driver: “See here! Your blamed machine is turned in the wrong direction. You know where you’re going to take us?”

“New York.”

“No; back to Mrs. Ralston’s. You take the first cross-road you come to and steer right for there.”

“You’re not to do any such thing,” called out Miss Dolly. “You’re to go where I tell you.”

“You’re to do nothing of the sort,” said Bob. “You’re to go where I tell you.”

The driver scratched his head.

“Which is it to be?” asked Bob. “This is the place to have an understanding.”

“The lady hired me,” he answered.

“Yes, and I won’t pay you at all, if you don’t mind,” said Miss Dolly in firm musical accents.

“Guess that settles it,” observed the driver.

“You mean – ?” began Bob, eying him.

“It means I obey orders. She’s my ‘fare,’ not you. We just picked you up.”

“And that’s your last word?” Ominously.

“Say, lady” – the driver turned wearily – “have I got to suppress this crazy man you got out of the bughouse?”

“Maybe that would be a good plan,” answered Miss Dolly, militancy now in her tone. “That is, if he doesn’t get in, just sweet and quiet-like.”

“It’ll be twenty dollars extra,” said the man, rising. He was a big fellow, too.

“Make it thirty,” returned Miss Dolly spiritedly. It was an issue and had to be met. There was an accent of “On-to-Parliament!” in her voice. One can’t show too much mercy to a “slave” when he revolts. One has to suppress him. One has to teach him who is mistress. A stern lesson, and the slave learns and knows his place.

“Now mind the lady and get back where you belong,” said the driver roughly to Bob. “Your tiles are loose, and the lady knows what is good for a dingbat like you.” Possibly he thought the display of a little authority would be quite sufficient to intimidate a recent “patient.” They usually became quite mild, he had heard, when the keepers talked right up to them, like that. The effect of his language and attitude upon Bob was not, however, quieting; something seemed to explode in his brain and he made one spring and got a football hold; then he heaved and the big man shot over his shoulder as if propelled from a catapult. He came down in a ditch, where the breath seemed to be knocked out of him. Bob got on in front. As he started the machine, the man sat up and looked after him. He didn’t try to get up though; he just looked. No doubt he had had the surprise of his life.

“I’ll leave the car in the village when I’m through with it,” Bob called back. “A little walk won’t hurt you.”

The man didn’t answer. “Gee! but that’s a powerful lunatic for a poor young lady to have on her hands!” he said to himself.

An hour or so later Bob drew up in front of Mrs. Ralston’s house. He opened the door politely for Miss Dolly and the temperamental young thing sprang out. The guests were still up, indulging in one of those late dances that begin at the stroke of twelve, and the big house showed lights everywhere. There were numerous other taxis and cars in front and Bob’s arrival attracted no particular attention. Miss Dolly gave him a look, militant, but still adoring. She let him see she had claws.

“Maybe I’ll tell,” she said.

“Go ahead,” he answered.

“Aren’t you afraid?”

“No.” He hadn’t done anything wrong.

“Aren’t you even sorry?” she asked, lingering.

“For what?”

“Being so rough to that poor man?”

“I’m not. Good night.”

“Good night – darling.” She threw out that last word as a challenge. It had a tender but sibilant sound. It was a mixture of a caress and a scratch. It meant she hadn’t given up her hold on him. He might have defeated her in one little contest, but she would weave new ways to entrap him. She might even manage to make him out a murderer – he had been so many things since embarking on that mercurial truth-telling career – and then she would give him the choice of the altar or the chair.

He started the machine and she watched him disappear, musingly. There was a steely light, too, in her eyes. He was a mutineer and mutineers should, figuratively, be made to walk the plank. Should she put him in jail and then come and weep penitently? At least, it would be thrilling. Certainly anything was better than that cast-off feeling. She felt no better than cast-off clothes. This great big brute of a handsome man, instead of jumping at the chance to elope with one who had everything to offer such a one as he, had just turned around and brought her back home.

Maybe he thought she wasn’t worthy of him. Oh, wasn’t she? Her small breast arose mutinously, while that cast-off sensation kept growing and growing. After rescuing him and saving him, instead of calling her “his beautiful doll” or other pet names, and humming glad songs to her – how they would “row, row, row” on some beautiful river of love – or stroll, stroll, stroll through pathways of perfume and bliss – instead of regaling her with these and other up-to-date expressions, appropriate to the occasion, he had repudiated her, cast her off, deposited her here on the front steps, unceremoniously, carelessly, indifferently.

Her cheeks burned at the affront. It was too humiliating. The little hands closed. The temperamental fingernails bit into the tender palms. At that moment the monocle-man sauntered out of the house and on to the veranda, near where Miss Dolly was standing. She turned to him quickly. Her temperament had about reached the Borgia pitch.

Bob went on down to the village and to the taxi stand near the station where he had promised to leave the machine. The last train had just passed by, after depositing the last of late-comers from the gay metropolis. Most of them looked fagged; a few were mildly “corned.” Bob regarded them absently and then gave a violent start.

“Gee-gee!” he gasped.

There she was, in truth, the beauteous Gee-gee, and the fair Gid-up, too! Bob gazed in consternation from reddish hair to peroxide. The two carried grips and were dressed in their best – that is to say, each wore the last thing in hats and the final gasp in gowns.

“Guess none of those society dames will have a thing on us, when it comes to rags,” Gid-up murmured to Gee-gee, as they crossed the platform with little teeny-weeny steps and headed toward a belated hack or two and Bob’s machine. That young man yet sat on the driver’s seat of the taxi; he was too paralyzed to move as he watched them approach. Where on earth were Gee-gee and Gid-up going? He feared to learn. He had an awful suspicion.

“Chauffeur!” Gee-gee raised a begloved finger as she hailed Bob. The glove had seen better days, but Gee-gee didn’t bother much about gloves. When she had attained the finality in hats and the ne plus ultra in skirts, hosiery and stilts (you asked for “shoes”) she hadn’t much time, or cash, left for gloves which were always about the same old thing over and over again, anyway. “Chauffeur!” repeated Gee-gee.

“Meaning me?” inquired Bob in muffled tones. Why didn’t she take a hack? He had drawn up his taxi toward the dark end of the platform.

“Yes, meaning you!” replied Gee-gee sharply. “Can’t say I see any other human spark-plug in this one-night burg.”

“What can I do for you?” stammered Bob. He was glad it was so shadowy where he sat, and he devoutly hoped he would escape recognition.