In the Bishops Carriage | Page 6

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, I cried:
"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 I wish--I wish I were."
"You do!"
The dignity and tenderness and courtesy in his voice sort of sobered me. 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 where the coupe had been.
My, but it was a rotten bad move! I ought to have been strapped for it. Oh, Tom, Tom, it takes more'n a red coat with chinchilla to make a black-hearted thing like me into the girl he thought I was.
He stiffened and sat up like a prim little school-boy, his soft eyes hurt like a dog's that's been wounded.
I won't tell you what I did then. No, I won't. And you won't understand, but just that minute I cared more for what he thought of me than whether I got to the Correction or anywhere else.
It made us friends in a minute, and when he stopped the carriage to let me out, my hand was still in his. But I wouldn't go. I'd made up my mind to see him out of his part of the scrape, and first thing you know we were driving up toward the Square, if you please, to Mrs. Dowager Diamonds' house.
He thought it was his scheme, the poor lamb, to put me in her charge till my lost daddy could send for me. He'd no more idea that I was steering him toward her, that he was doing the only thing possible, the only square thing by his reputation, than he had that Nance Olden had been raised by the Cruelty, and then flung herself away on the first handsome Irish boy she met.
That'll do, Tom.
Girls, if you could have seen Mrs. Dowager Diamonds' face when she came down the stairs, the Bishop's card in her hand, and into the gorgeous parlor, 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 was disarmed; for the very nerve of his bringing me to her staggered her so that she could hardly believe she'd seen what she had.
"My dear Mrs. Ramsay," he began, confused a bit by his remembrance of how her face had looked fifteen minutes before, "I bring to you an unfortunate child, who mistook my carriage for her father's this afternoon 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 very eyes. How did his words explain his having his arm round the unfortunate child? His conscience was so clean that the dear little man actually overlooked the fact that it wasn't my presence in the carriage, but his conduct there that had excited Mrs. Dowager Diamonds.
And didn't the story sound thin? I tell you, Tom, when it comes to lying to a woman you've got to think up something stronger than it takes 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 danced straight up to that side of beef with the diamonds still on it, and flinging my arms about her, turned a coy eye on the Bishop.
"You said your wife was out of town, daddy," I cried gaily. "Have you got another wife besides mummy?"
The poor Bishop! Do you think he tumbled? Not a bit--not a bit. He sat there gasping like a fish, and Mrs. Dowager Diamonds, surprised by my sudden attack, stood bolt upright, about as pleasant to hug as--as you 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 I told you after that last row that Dan Christensen wasn't near so good-looking as you--remember? "Oh, mummy, you don't know how good it feels to get home. Out there at that awful college, studying and studying and studying, sometimes I thought I'd lose my senses. There's a girl out there now suffering from nervous prostration. She worked so hard preparing for the mid-years. What's her name? I can't think--I can't think, my head's so tired. But it sounds like mine, a lot like mine. Once--I think it was yesterday--I thought it was mine, and I made up my