Short Fiction · A Transaction In Hearts (6/12) (2/2)

“But, Chris, Claire will want to go. Do⁠—”

“Then let her go alone: as for me⁠—” He halted abruptly: an expression in Ruth’s face warned him that he was betraying an obsession of which no sign should be conveyed. “I am tired,” he added, inconsequently.

“Chris, you work so hard⁠—”

To this, with a despondent air, he assented remotely.

“And a little gayety will do you good. Besides⁠—”

“If I could only get away,” he thought. “Is there no place where I can hide?”

“It is one of your duties to go about among your parishioners. I believe it is even a canon in ecclesiastical law.” Ruth laughed as she spoke, and gave her husband a look in which pride and love commingled.

“There,” he said, “do as you will.”

After all, what did it matter? When the time came, Mrs. Manhattan would expect neither him nor Claire. And through his thoughts but one thing fluttered⁠—the longing for a place to hide.

“That is sweet of you, Chris. I will write to Mrs. Manhattan at once.⁠—Come in.”

Someone had rapped on the door, and in a moment Jane entered. “A letter for you, sir,” she said, and extended a note on a salver.

Instinctively he shuddered. It was about that accursed check, he knew. But the superscription reassured him. “It’s from Jones,” he mumbled, and tore the envelope apart.

“Dear Gonfallon,” it ran⁠—“I have just received a telegram from Bronx. My aunt is dying. She begs you to come to her. I go down in the eight-o’clock train. Will you not meet me at the Grand Central?

“It is there,” thought Gonfallon, “there that I can hide.” He turned to the servant and handed the note to Ruth.

“Is anyone waiting? Very good. Tell him to say to Mr. Jones that I will be there.”

He stood up, and added, in an undertone, “Tell Mr. Bucholz⁠—” But whatever message he had wished to send was lost.

“He’s gone, sir,” the woman interrupted.

And Ruth, intent on the note, murmured, as Jane withdrew, “To think that it was in her house we met! It seems but yesterday to me.”

“I must hurry,” said Gonfallon: “it is seven now.”