Chapter IX A Woman in Distress
For a second Lawrence stood rooted to the pavement. His first impulse was to follow her. She was in trouble, and perhaps he could help her. He took a few quick steps back toward the fountain, and stopped still. How could he speak to her? How could he offer to do her a service? She would misconstrue his motives, and be terrified. She would——
A faint cry, which was little more than a startled exclamation of terror, cut short Barry’s mental reasonings, and in a second he was running forward with long, lithe strides. As he approached the fountain he saw another figure scurrying away across the snow toward Madison Avenue. The girl was crouching against the ice-covered railing, steadying herself with one small, gloved hand, and, as Lawrence came straight toward her, he saw that she was trembling violently.
“You called me,” he said quietly.
For a second she made no response. Her fingers still clutched the iron railing; her whole attitude was that of one driven into a corner and standing at bay. From under the shadowy hat brim Barry could see that her lips were pressed tightly together. Her eyes, wide with a desperate sort of fear, were fixed upon his face.
“I heard you call out,” Barry said gently. “I thought you were frightened at something.”
Something in his voice, or perhaps his face—the light was very bright around the snowy fountain—reassured her. Her eyes lost a little of that look of terror, and her fingers relaxed their grip on the iron railing.
“I was,” she answered, in a low, uneven, and charming voice, “terribly frightened. That—man——”
Suddenly she put up both hands to her face, and swiftly turned from him. Scarcely a sound came from her, but the sight of that bowed head and the convulsively heaving shoulders, showing but too plainly through the thin cloth of her short coat, hurt Lawrence desperately, and brought a lump into his throat. She seemed so young and frail and girlish, so utterly unfitted to cope with the world, that a quick impulse came to the man to take her in his arms and comfort her exactly as one does a child. He realized instantly, of course, that such a thing would be impossible.
“Please don’t,” he said softly, after a moment’s silence. “It’s all right now.” He watched her trembling hands searching for a handkerchief, and then he went on, with deliberately forced cheerfulness: “I tell you what we’ll do. If you’ll let me, I’ll walk along with you, so there won’t be a chance of anything like this happening again.”
She ceased dabbing her eyes, and, turning slowly, looked long and searchingly into his face. “You are very kind,” she said at length, and Barry caught again that faint, Southern intonation which he had not been quite sure of before; “but it is a long distance, and I think I can manage by myself. I—am used to going about alone.”
“But you really wouldn’t be taking me out of my way—if that’s what you were thinking,” Lawrence expostulated. “I haven’t a thing to do. I’m out for a walk, and one direction is just as good as another for me. I hate to think of your taking any more chances.”
For a second the girl hesitated. Then her lids drooped a little, and she swayed the least bit, putting out one hand blindly to steady herself against the railing.
Barry stepped swiftly forward, and took her arm.
“Come!” he said, with a whimsical sort of positiveness. “You really must! I know it’s unconventional, and all that, but we’ll probably never see each other after to-night. I’ll leave you wherever you wish, and say good night. You were heading toward Broadway, weren’t you? Well, we’ll go together.”
The girl made no protest. Perhaps it was because she had come to the end of her rope, and had no strength left. Perhaps she sensed intuitively the motives which governed this frank, straightforward stranger who had come to her aid so opportunely. At all events, she let her hand rest upon his arm, and walked with him back through the square, across Twenty-fifth Street, into the dazzling stretch of Broadway.
The touch of her hand brought again to Barry that odd desire to protect and comfort her. By this time he knew that she was almost perishing with cold. In spite of her effort to control herself, he felt she was shaking violently, and every now and then the unconscious weight of her hand on his arm made him wonder whether some other thing than cold had not contributed to her weakness.
He wanted desperately to do something, yet somehow he could not think of any way. He had not asked her where she wished to go, and the girl herself volunteered nothing.
And so they walked on up New York’s great artery, he talking carelessly, lightly, and frequently at random as his brain worked in another totally different direction, she answering him briefly now and then in her soft, tired voice, but more often silent—out of sheer weariness, he guessed.
Suddenly the electric sign of a well-known restaurant blazing before his eyes gave Lawrence the clew he had been seeking, and he stopped abruptly.
“Are you in very much of a hurry?” he asked.
She glanced up at him swiftly, and he was struck anew by the charm of her-wonderful eyes, the delicate beauty of her mouth and chin.
“Not very,” she said, in an odd, restrained tone. “Why?”
“I was wondering whether you’d do me a favor,” Barry returned glibly. “I meant to get a bite of supper here, and I hate to eat alone. If you’d only take pity on me, and keep me company, I’d be everlastingly obliged. After that we can take a car to where you’re going, so’s to make up time.”
Again she sent a long, searching glance into his candid, level gray eyes. Then suddenly she laughed, a curious laugh, which had no mirth in it, but rather held an undercurrent of intense pathos.
“Very well,” she said quietly, with an odd gesture of her hands.
Her manner brought the color into Barry’s cheeks, and made him wonder whether she saw through his clumsy subterfuge. He did not hesitate, however, but stood aside for her to enter the turnstile door, following close behind.
The dining room was almost empty, for it was the quiet interval which comes between dinner and the after-theater supper crowd. They were ushered at once to a table against the wall.
While Barry was slipping out of his coat he noticed the girl glancing into a mirror beside her, touching her hair here and there, and giving the frilly lace thing at her neck an unconscious pat. She was still shaking a little, and when she drew off her gloves he saw that she was gently chafing her hands together beneath the shelter of the white cloth.
Her hair was brown, thick, and dark, with glints of copper in it, and waved attractively above her brow. Her eyes were almost of the same shade, with long, curling lashes, which made them seem almost too large for the delicate, oval face. Her mouth was sensitive, and infinitely appealing with its pathetic downward droop at the corners. There was an unmistakable refinement in everything about her; and, in spite of the fact that she was very tiny, she held herself with an air which made Barry quite forget her forlorn condition.
“How the mischief could I have ever taken her for a child?” he thought, with a faint flush of embarrassment, as he reached for the card. “I suppose it was because she seemed so little and helpless.”