The man slept, and the train rushed on. The night waned. The dawn grew
purple in the east, and streaked itself with gold; then later got out
a fillet of crimson and drew over its cloudy forehead. The breath of
the lilies filled the little room with delicate fragrance, and mingled
strange scenes in the dreams of the man and the woman so strangely
united.
The sad little bride grew restless and stirred, but the man on the
couch did not hear her. He was dreaming of a shooting affray, in
which he carried a bride in a gold pencil and was shot for stealing a
sandwich out of Mr. Holman’s vest-pocket.
The morning light grew clearer. The east had put on a vesture of gold
above her purple robe, and its reflection shone softly in at the
window, for the train was just at that moment rushing northward, though
its general course was west.
The sleeper behind the thick green curtains stirred again and became
conscious, as in many days past, of her heavy burden of sorrow. Always
at first waking the realization of it sat upon her as though it would
crush the life from her body. Lying still with bated breath, she fought
back waking consciousness as she had learned to do in the last three
months, yet knew it to be futile while she was doing it.
The sun shot up between the bars of crimson, like a topaz on a lady’s
gown that crowns the whole beautiful costume. The piercing, jewelled
light lay across the white face, touched the lips with warm fingers,
and the troubled soul knew all that had passed.
She lay quiet, letting the torrent sweep over her with its sickening
realization. She was married! It was over--with the painful parting
from dear ones. She was off away from them all. The new life she so
dreaded had begun, and how was she to face it--the life with one whom
she feared and did not respect? How could she ever have done it but for
the love of her dear ones?
Gradually she came to remember the night before--the parting with
her mother and her brother; the little things that brought the tears
again to her eyes. Then all was blankness. She must have fainted. She
did not often faint, but it must be--yes, she remembered opening her
eyes and seeing men’s faces about her, and George--could it have been
George?--with a kinder look in his eyes than she had ever thought to
see there. Then she must have fainted again--or had she? No, some one
had lifted her into this berth, and she had drunk something and had
gone to sleep. What had happened? Where was everybody? It was good
to have been left alone. She grudgingly gave her unloved husband a
fragment of gratitude for not having tried to talk to her. In the
carriage on the way he had seemed determined to begin a long argument
of some kind. She did not want to argue any more. She had written tomes
upon the subject, and had said all she had to say. He was not deceived.
He knew she did not love him, and would never have married him but for
her mother’s sake and for the sake of her beloved father’s memory. What
was the use of saying more? Let it rest. The deed was done, and they
were married. Now let him have his way and make her suffer as he chose.
If he would but let her suffer in silence and not inflict his bitter
tongue upon her, she would try to bear it. And perhaps--oh, perhaps,
she would not live long, and it would soon be all over.
As the daylight grew, the girl felt an inclination to find out whether
her husband was near. Cautiously she lifted her head, and, drawing back
a corner of the curtain, peered out.
He lay quietly on the couch, one hand under his cheek against the
pillow, the other across his breast, as if to guard something. He
was in the still sleep of the overwearied. He scarcely seemed to be
breathing.
Celia dropped the curtain, and put her hand to her throat. It startled
her to find him so near and so still. Softly, stealthily, she lay down
again and closed her eyes. She must not waken him. She would have as
long a time to herself as was possible, and try to think of her dear
mother and her precious brother. Oh, if she were just going away from
them alone, how well she could bear it! But to be going with one whom
she had always almost hated----
Her brother’s happy words about George suddenly came to her mind.
Jefferson had thought him fine. Well, of course the dear boy knew
nothing about it. He had not read all those letters--those awful
letters. He did not know the threats--the terrible language that had
been used. She shuddered as she thought of it. But in the same breath
she was glad that her brother had been deceived. She would not have it
otherwise. Her dear ones must never know what she had gone through to
save them from disgrace and loss of fortune--disgrace, of course, being
the first and greatest. She had feared that George would let them see
through his veneer of manners, and leave them troubled, but he had made
a better appearance than she had hoped. Ten years had made a greater
change in him than she had expected. He really had not been so bad as
her conjured image of him.
Then a sudden desire to look at him again seized her, to know once for
all just how he really did seem. She would not want to notice him awake
any more than she could help, nor dare, lest he presume upon her sudden
interest, to act as if he had never offended; but if she should look
at him now as he lay asleep she might study his face and see what she
really had to expect.
She fought the desire to peer at him again, but finally it gained
complete possession of her, and she drew back the curtain once more.
He was lying just as quietly as before. His heavy hair, a little
disordered on the pillow, gave him a noble, interesting appearance. He
did not seem at all a fellow of whom to be afraid. It was incredible
that he could have written those letters.
She tried to trace in his features a likeness to the youth of ten
years ago, whom she had known when she was but a little girl, who had
tied her braids to her chair, and put raw oysters and caterpillars
down her back, or stretched invisible cords to trip her feet in dark
places; who made her visits to a beloved uncle--whom he also had the
right to call uncle, though he was no cousin of hers--a long list of
catastrophes resulting in tears; who had never failed to mortify her on
all occasions possible, and once---- But the memories were too horrible
as they crowded one upon another! Let them be forgotten!
She watched the face before her keenly, critically, yet she could see
no trace of any such character as she had imagined the boy George must
have developed as a man; of which his letters had given her ample
proof. This man’s face was finely-cut and sensitive. There was nothing
coarse or selfish in its lines. The long, dark eyelashes lay above dark
circles of weariness, and gave that look of boyishness that always
touches the maternal chord in a woman’s heart. George used to have a
puffy, self-indulgent look under his eyes even when he was a boy. She
had imagined from his last photograph that he would be much stouter,
much more bombastic; but, then, in his sleep, perhaps those things fell
from a man.
She tried to turn away indifferently, but something in his face held
her. She studied it. If he had been any other man, any stranger, she
would have said from looking at him critically that kindness and
generosity, self-respect and respect for women, were written all over
the face before her. There was fine, firm modelling about the lips
and the clean-shaven chin; and about the forehead the look almost of
a scholar; yet she thought she knew the man before her to be none of
these things. How deceptive were looks! She would probably be envied
rather than pitied by all who saw her. Well, perhaps that was better.
She could the easier keep her trouble to herself. But stay, what was
there about this man that seemed different? The smooth face? Yes.
She had the dim impression that last night he wore a mustache. She
must have been mistaken, of course. She had only looked at him when
absolutely necessary, and her brain was in such a whirl; but still
there seemed to be something different about him.
Her eyes wandered to the hand that lay across his breast. It was the
fine white hand of the professional man, the kind of hand that somehow
attracts the eye with a sense of cleanness and strength. There was
nothing flabby about it. George as a boy used to have big, stumpy
fingers and nails chewed down to the quick. She could remember how
she used to hate to look at them when she was a little girl, and yet
somehow could not keep her eyes away. She saw with relief that the
nails on this hand were well shaped and well cared for.
He looked very handsome and attractive as he lay there. The sun shot
one of its early daring bolts of light across his hair as the train
turned in its course and lurched northward around a curve. It glinted
there for a moment, like a miniature search-light, travelling over the
head, showing up every wave and curve. He had the kind of hair which
makes a woman’s hand instinctively long to touch it. Celia wondered
at the curious thoughts that crowded through her mind, knowing that
all the while there was the consciousness that when this man should
wake she would think of nothing but his hateful personality as she had
known it through the years. And she was his wife! How strange! How
terrible! How impossible to live with the thought through interminable
weary years! Oh, that she might die at once before her strength failed
and her mother found out her sorrow! She lay back again on her pillows
very still and tried to think, but somehow a pleasant image of him,
her husband, lingered in her memory. Could it be possible that she
would ever see anything pleasant in him? Ever endure the days of his
companionship? Ever come to the point where she could overlook his
outrageous conduct toward her, forgive him, and be even tolerant of
him? Sharp memories crowded upon her, and the smarting tears stung
their way into her eyes, answering and echoing in her heart, “No, no, a
thousand times, no!” She had paid his price and gained redemption for
her own, but--forget what he had done? _Never!_
The long strain of weariness, and the monotony of the onrushing train,
lulled her half into unconsciousness again, and the man on the couch
slumbered on.
He came to himself suddenly, with all his senses on the alert, as the
thumping noise and motion of the train ceased, and a sudden silence of
open country succeeded, broken now and again by distant oncoming and
receding voices. He caught the fragment of a sentence from some train
official: “It’s a half-hour late, and maybe more. We’ll just have to
lie by, that’s all. Here, you, Jim, take this flag and run up to the
switch----” The voice trailed into the distance, ended by the metallic
note of a hammer doing something mysterious to the underpinning of the
car.
Gordon sat up suddenly, his hand yet across his breast, where his first
waking thought had been to feel if the little pencil-case were safe.
Glancing stealthily toward the curtains of the berth, and perceiving no
motion, he concluded that the girl still slept.
Softly he slipped his feet into his shoes, gave one or two other
touches to his toilet, and stood up, looking toward the curtains. He
wanted to go out and see where they were stopping, but dared he go
without knowing that she was all right?
Softly, reverently, he stooped and brought his face close to the
opening in the curtains. Celia felt his eyes upon her. Her own were
closed, and by a superhuman effort she controlled her breathing,
slowly, gently, as if she were asleep.
He looked for a long moment, thrilled by the delicate beauty of her
sleeping face, filled with an intoxicating joy to see that her lips
were no longer white; then, turning reverently away, he unlocked the
door and stepped forth.
The other occupants of the car were still wrapped in slumber. Loud
snores of various kinds and qualities testified to that. A dim light at
the further end contended luridly, and losingly, with the daylight now
flooding the outside world and creeping mischievously into the transoms.
Gordon closed the door of the compartment noiselessly and went down the
aisle to the end of the car.
A door was open, and he could hear voices outside. The conductor stood
talking with two brakemen. He heard the words: “Three-quarters of an
hour at least,” and then the men walked off toward the engine.
Gordon looked across the country, and for the first time since he
started on his journey let himself remember that it was springtime and
May.
There had been a bitter wind the night before, with a hint of rain in
the air. In fact, it had rained quite smartly during the ride to the
hospital with the hurt child, but he had been so perturbed that he had
taken little notice of the weather. But this was a radiant morning.
The sun was in one of its most charming moods, when it touches
everything with a sort of unnatural glory after the long winter of
darkness and cold. Every tree trunk in the distance seemed to stand out
clearly, every little grass-blade was set with a glowing jewel, and the
winding stream across a narrow valley fairly blazed with brightness.
The very road with its deep, clean wheel-grooves seemed like a
well-taken photograph.
The air had an alluring softness mingled with its tang of winter that
made one long to take a walk anywhere out into the world, just for
the joy of being and doing. A meadow-lark shot up from somewhere to a
telegraph pole, let go a blithe note, and hurried on. It was glorious.
The exhilaration filled Gordon’s blood.
And here was the chance he craved to slip away from the train before
it reached a place where he could be discovered. If he had but thought
to bring his suit-case! He could slip back now without being noticed
and get it! He could even go without it! But--he could not leave her
that way--could he? Ought he? Perhaps he ought---- But it would not do
to leave his suit-case with her, for it contained letters addressed to
his real name. An explanation would of course be demanded, and he could
never satisfy a loving mother and brother for having left a helpless
girl in such a situation--even if he could satisfy his own conscience,
which he knew he never could. He simply could not leave her, and yet he
_must_ get away from that train as soon as possible. Perhaps this was
the only opportunity he would have before reaching Buffalo, and it was
very risky, indeed dangerous, to dare enter Buffalo. It was a foregone
conclusion that there would be private detectives ready to meet the
train in Buffalo with full descriptions and particulars and only too
ready to make way with him if they could do so without being found out.
He looked nervously back at the door of the car. Dared he attempt to
waken her and say that they had made a mistake and must change cars?
Was she well enough? And where could they go?
He looked off toward the landscape for answer to his question.
They were decidedly in the country. The train stood at the top of
a high embankment of cinders, below which was a smooth country road
running parallel to the railroad for some distance till it met another
road at right angles to it, which stretched away between thrifty
meadow-lands to a nestling village. The glorified stream he had first
noticed far up the valley glinted narrower here in the morning light,
with a suggestion of watercress and forget-me-nots in its fringes as
it veered away under a bridge toward the village and hid itself in a
tangle of willows and cat-tails.
How easy it would be to slide down that embankment, and walk out that
road over the bridge to the village, where of course a conveyance of
some sort could be hired to bear him to another railroad town and
thence to--Pittsburgh, perhaps, where he could easily get a train to
Washington. How easy if only he were not held by some invisible hands
to care for the sweet sleeper inside the car! And yet, for her sake as
well as his own, he must do something, and that right speedily.
He was standing thus in deep meditation, looking off at the little
village which seemed so near and yet would be so far for her to walk,
when he was pervaded with that strange sense of some one near. For an
instant he resisted the desire to lift his eyes and prove to himself
that no one was present in a doorway which a moment before he knew had
been unoccupied. Then, frowning at his own nervousness, he turned.
She stood there in all the beauty of her fresh young girlhood, a
delicate pallor on her cheeks, and a deep sadness in her great dark
eyes, which were fixed upon him intently, in a sort of puzzled study.
She was fully dressed, even to her hat and gloves. Every wave of her
golden hair lay exquisitely in place under the purple hat, as though
she might have taken an hour or two at her toilet; yet she had made it
with excited haste, and with trembling fingers, determined to have it
accomplished before the return of her dreaded liege lord.
She had sprung from her berth the instant he closed the door upon her,
and fastened the little catch to bar him out. She had dashed cold water
into her face, fastened her garments hurriedly, and tossed the glory
of her hair into place with a few touches and what hairpins she could
find on the floor. Then putting on her hat, coat, and gloves, she had
followed him into the outer air. She had a feeling that she must have
air to breathe or she would suffocate. A wild desire filled her to go
alone into the great out-of-doors. Oh, if she but dared to run away
from him! But that she might not do, for all his threats would then
probably be made good by him upon her dear mother and brother. No,
she must be patient and bear to the end all that was set down for her.
But she would get out and breathe a little before he returned. He had
very likely gone into the smoker. She remembered that the George of
old had been an inveterate smoker of cigarettes. She would have time
for a taste of the morning while he had his smoke. And if he returned
and found her gone what mattered it? The inevitable beginning of
conversations which she so dreaded would be put off for a time.
She never thought to come upon him standing thus alone, looking off at
the beauty of the morning as if he enjoyed it. The sight of him held
her still, watching, as his sleeping face had held her gaze earlier
in the morning. How different he was from what she had expected! How
the ten years had changed him! One could almost fancy it might have
changed his spirit also--but for those letters--those terrible letters!
The writer of those letters could not change, except for the worse!
And yet, he was handsome, intellectual looking, kindly in his bearing,
appreciative of the beauty about him--she could not deny it. It was
most astonishing. He had lost that baggy look under his eyes, and the
weak, selfish, cruel pout of lip she remembered so keenly.
Then he turned, and a smile of delight and welcome lit up his face. In
spite of herself, she could not keep an answering smile from glimmering
faintly in her own.
“What! You up and out here?” he said, hastening closer to the step.
“How are you feeling this morning? Better, I’m sure, or you would not
be here so early.”
“Oh, I had to get out to the air,” she said. “I couldn’t stand the car
another minute. I wish we could walk the rest of the way.”
“Do you?” he said, with a quick, surprised appreciation in his voice.
“I was just wishing something like that myself. Do you see that
beautiful straight road down there? I was longing to slide down this
bank and walk over to that little village for breakfast. Then we could
get an auto, perhaps, or a carriage, to take us on to another train. If
you hadn’t been so ill last night, I might have proposed it.”
“Could we?” she asked, earnestly. “I should like it so much;” and there
was eagerness in her voice. “What a lovely morning!” Her eyes were
wistful, like the eyes of those who weep and wonder why they may not
laugh, since sunshine is still yellow.
“Of course we could,” he said, “if you were only able.”
“Oh, I’m able enough. I should much rather do that than to go back into
that stuffy car. But wouldn’t they think it awfully queer of us to run
away from the train this way?”
“They needn’t know anything about it,” he declared, like a boy about
to play truant. “I’ll slip back in the car and get our suit-cases. Is
there anything of yours I might be in danger of leaving behind?”
“No, I put everything in my suit-case before I came out,” she said,
listlessly, as though she had already lost her desire to go.
“I’m afraid you are not able,” he said, pausing solicitously as he
scaled the steps.
She was surprised at his interest in her welfare.
“Why, of course I am,” she said, insistently. “I have often taken
longer walks than that looks to be, and I shall feel much better for
being out. I really feel as if I couldn’t stand it any longer in there.”
“Good! Then, we’ll try it!”
He hurried in for the baggage and left her standing on the cinder
roadbed beside the train looking off at the opening morning.