But to go back to the pursuer, in his berth, baffled and frantic and
raging. With hands that fumbled because of their very eagerness he
sought to get into his garments, and find his shoes from the melée of
blankets and other articles in the berth, all the time keeping one eye
out of the window, for he must not let his prey get away from him now.
He must watch and see what they were going to do. How fortunate that he
had wakened in time for that. At least he would have a clue. Where was
this? A station?
He stopped operations once more to gaze off at the landscape, a
desolate country scene to his city hardened eyes. Not a house in sight,
nor a station. The spires of the distant village seemed like a mirage
to him. This couldn’t be a station. What were those two doing down
there anyway? Dared he risk calling the conductor and having him hold
them? No, this affair must be kept absolutely quiet. Mr. Holman had
said that if a breath of the matter came out it was worse than death
for all concerned. He must just get off this train as fast as he could
and follow them if they were getting away. It might be he could get the
man in a lonely place--it would be easy enough to watch his chance
and gag the lady--he had done such things before. He felt far more
at home in such an affair than he had the night before at the Holman
dinner-table. What a pity one of the others had not come along. It
would be mere child’s play for two to handle those two who looked as
if they would turn frightened at the first threat. However, he felt
confident that he could manage the affair alone.
He panted with haste and succeeded in getting the wrong legs into
his trousers and having to begin all over again, his efforts greatly
hampered by the necessity for watching out the window.
Then came the distant rumble of an oncoming train, and an answering
scream from his own engine. The two on the ground had crossed quickly
over the second track and were looking down the steep embankment.
Were they going down there? What fate that he was not ready to follow
them at once! The train that was coming would pass--their own would
start--and he could not get out. His opportunity was going from him and
he could not find his shoes!
Well what of it? He would go without! What were shoes in a time like
this? Surely he could get along barefoot, and beg a pair at some
farmhouse, or buy a pair at a country store. He must get out at any
cost, shoes or no shoes. Grasping his coat which contained his money
and valuables he sprang from his berth straight into the arms of the
porter who was hurrying back to his car after having been out to gossip
with a brakeman over the delay.
“What’s de mattah, sah?” asked the astonished porter, rallying quickly
from the shock and assuming his habitual courtesy.
“My shoes!” roared the irate traveller. “What have you done with my
shoes?”
“Quiet, sah, please sah, you’ll wake de whole cyah,” said the porter.
“I put yoh shoes under de berth sah, right whar I allus puts ’em aftah
blackin’ sah.”
The porter stooped and extracted the shoes from beneath the curtain and
the traveller, whose experience in Pullmans was small, grabbed them
furiously and made for the door, shoes in hand, for with a snort and a
lurch and a preliminary jar the train had taken up its motion, and a
loud rushing outside proclaimed that the other train was passing.
The porter, feeling that he had been treated with injustice, stood
gazing reproachfully after the man for a full minute before he followed
him to tell him that the wash-room was at the other end of the car and
not down past the drawing-room as he evidently supposed.
He found his man standing in stocking feet on the cold iron platform,
his head out of the opening left in the vestibuled train, for when the
porter came in he had drawn shut the outer door and slammed down the
movable platform, making it impossible for anyone to get out. There was
only the little opening the size of a window above the grating guard,
and the man clung to it as if he would jump over it if he only dared.
He was looking back over the track and his face was not good to see.
He turned wildly upon the porter.
“I want you to stop this train and let me off,” he shouted. “I’ve lost
something valuable back there on the track. Stop the train quick, I
tell you, or I’ll sue the railroad.”
“What was it you lost?” asked the porter respectfully. He wasn’t sure
but the man was half asleep yet.
“It was a--my--why it was a very valuable paper. It means a fortune to
me and several other people and I must go back and get it. Stop the
train, I tell you, at once or I’ll jump out.”
“I can’t stop de train sah, you’ll hev to see de conductah sah, ’bout
dat. But I specks there’s mighty little prospec’ o’ gettin’ dis train
stopped foh it gits to its destinashun sah. We’s one hour a’hind time
now, sah, an’ he’s gotta make up foh we gits to Buff’lo.”
The excited passenger railed and stormed until several sleepers were
awakened and stuck curious sleepy countenances out from the curtains
of their berths, but the porter was obdurate, and would not take any
measures to stop the train, nor even call the conductor until the
passenger promised to return quietly to his berth.
The thick-set man was not used to obeying but he saw that he was only
hindering himself and finally hurried back to his berth where he
hastily parted the curtains, craning his neck to see back along the
track and over the green valley growing smaller and smaller now in
the distance. He could just make out two moving specks on the white
winding ribbon of the road. He felt sure he knew the direction they
were taking. If he only could get off that train he could easily catch
them, for they would have no idea he was coming, and would take no
precautions. If he had only wakened a few seconds sooner he would have
been following them even now.
Fully ten minutes he argued with the conductor, showing a wide
incongruity between his language and his gentlemanly attire, but the
conductor would do nothing but promise to set him down at a water
tower ten miles ahead where they had to slow up for water. He said sue
or no sue he had his orders, and the thick-set man did not inspire him
either to sympathy or confidence. The conductor had been many years on
the road and generally knew when to stop his train and when to let it
go on.
Sullenly the thick-set man accepted the conductor’s decision and
prepared to leave the train at the water tower, his eye out for the
landmarks along the way as he completed his hasty toilet.
He was in no pleasant frame of mind, having missed a goodly amount of
his accustomed stimulants the night before, and seeing little prospect
of either stimulants or breakfast before him. He was not built for a
ten-mile walk over the cinders and his flabby muscles already ached at
the prospect. But then, of course he would not have to go far before
he found an automobile or some kind of conveyance to help him on his
way. He looked eagerly from the window for indications of garages or
stables, but the river wound its silver way among the gray green willow
fringes, and the new grass shone a placid emerald plain with nothing
more human than a few cows grazing here and there. Not even a horse
that might be borrowed without his owner’s knowledge. It was a strange,
forsaken spot, ten whole miles and no sign of any public livery! Off
to the right and left he could see villages, but they were most of them
too far away from the track to help him any. It began to look as if
he must just foot it all the way. Now and then a small shanty or tiny
dwelling whizzed by near at hand, but nothing that would relieve his
situation.
It occurred to him to go into the dining-car for breakfast, but even as
he thought of it the conductor told him that the train would stop in
two minutes and he must be ready to get off, for they did not stop long.
He certainly looked a harmless creature, that thick-set man as he stood
alone upon the cinder elevation and surveyed the landscape o’er. Ten
miles from his quarry, alone on a stretch of endless ties and rails
with a gleaming river mocking him down in the valley, and a laughing
sky jeering overhead. He started down the shining track his temper a
wreck, his mind in chaos, his soul at war with the world. The worst
of it all was that the whole fault was his own for going to sleep. He
began to fear that he had lost his chance. Then he set his ugly jaw and
strode ahead.
The morning sun poured down upon the thick-set man on his pilgrimage,
and waxed hotter until noon. Trains whizzed mercilessly by and gave him
no succor. Weary, faint, and fiercely thirsty he came at last to the
spot where he was satisfied his quarry had escaped. He could see the
marks of their rough descent in the steep cinder bank, and assaying the
same himself came upon a shred of purple silk caught on a bramble at
the foot.
Puffing and panting, bruised and foot-sore, he sat down at the very
place where Celia had stopped to have her shoes fastened, and mopped
his purple brow, but there was triumph in his ugly eye, and after a few
moment’s rest he trudged onward. That town over there ought to yield
both conveyance and food as well as information concerning those he
sought. He would catch them. They could never get away from him. He was
on their track again, though hours behind. He would get them yet and no
man should take his reward from him.
Almost spent he came at last to the village, and ate a surprisingly
large dish of beef and vegetable stew at the quaint little house where
Celia and Gordon had breakfasted, but the old lady who served it to
them was shy about talking, and though admitting that a couple of
people had been there that morning she was non-committal about their
appearance. They might have been young and good-looking and worn
feathers in their hats, and they might not. She wasn’t one for noticing
people’s appearance if they treated her civilly and paid their bills.
Would he have another cup of coffee? He would, and also two more
pieces of pie, but he got very little further information.
It was over at the corner store where he finally went in search
of something stronger than coffee that he further pursued his
investigations.
The loungers were still there. It was their only business in life
and they were most diligent in it. They eyed the newcomer with a
relish and settled back on their various barrels and boxes to enjoy
whatever entertainment the gods were about to provide to relieve their
monotonous existence.
A house divided against itself cannot stand. This man’s elegant
garments assumed for the nonce did not fit the rest of his general
appearance which had been accentuated by his long, hot, dusty tramp.
The high evening hat was jammed on the back of his head and bore a
decided dent where it had rolled down the cinder embankment, his collar
was wilted and lifeless, his white laundered tie at half mast, his coat
awry, and his fine patent leather shoes which pinched were covered
with dust and had caused a limp like the hardest tramp upon the road.
Moreover, again the speech of the man betrayed him, and the keen-minded
old gossips who were watching him suspiciously sized him up at once the
minute he opened his mouth.
“Saw anything of a couple of young folks walking down this way?”
he enquired casually, pausing to light a cigar with which he was
reinforcing himself for further travel.
One man allowed that there might have passed such people that day. He
hardly seemed willing to commit himself, but another vouchsafed the
information that “Joe here driv two parties of thet description to
Milton this mornin’--jes’ got back. Mebbe he could answer fer ’em.”
Joe frowned. He did not like the looks of the thick-set man. He still
remembered the forget-me-not eyes.
But the stranger made instant request to be driven to Milton, offering
ten dollars for the same when he found that his driver was reluctant,
and that Milton was a railroad centre. A few keen questions had made
him sure that his man had gone to Milton.
Joe haggled, allowed his horse was tired, and he didn’t care about the
trip twice in one day, but finally agreed to take the man for fifteen
dollars, and sauntered off to get a fresh horse. He had no mind to be
in a hurry. He had his own opinion about letting those two “parties”
get out of the way before the third put in an appearance, but he had
no mind to lose the fifteen dollars. It would help to buy the ring he
coveted for his girl.
In due time Joe rode leisurely up and the impatient traveller climbed
into the high spring wagon and was driven away from the apathetic gaze
of the country loungers, who unblinkingly took in the fact that Joe
was headed toward Ashville, and evidently intended taking his fare to
Milton by way of that village, a thirty-mile drive at least. The man
would get the worth of his money in ride. A grim twinkle sat in their
several eyes as the spring wagon turned the curve in the road and was
lost to sight, and after due silence an old stager spoke:
“Do you reckon that there was their sho-fur?” he requested languidly.
“Naw!” replied a farmer’s son vigorously. “He wouldn’t try to showf all
dolled up like that. He’s the rich dad comin’ after the runaways. Joe
don’t intend he shell get ’em yet awhile. I reckon the ceremony’ll be
over ’fore he steps in to interfere.” This lad went twice a month to
Milton to the “movies” and was regarded as an authority on matters of
romance. A pause showed that his theory had taken root in the minds of
his auditors.
“Wal, I reckon Joe thinks the longest way round is the shortest way
home,” declared the old stager. “Joe never did like them cod-fish
swells--but how do you ’count fer the style o’ that gal? She wan’t
like her dad one little bit.”
“Oh, she’s ben to collidge I ’spose,” declared the youth. “They get all
that off’n collidge.”
“Serves the old man right fer sendin’ his gal to a fool collidge when
she ought to a ben home learnin’ to house-keep. I hope she gits off
with her young man all right,” said a grim old lounger, and a cackle
of laughter went round the group, which presently broke up, for this
had been a strenuous day and all felt their need of rest; besides they
wanted to get home and tell the news before some neighbor got ahead of
them.
All this time Celia and Gordon were touring Milton, serenely
unconscious of danger near, or guardian angel of the name of Joe.
Investigation disclosed the fact that there was a train for Pittsburgh
about three in the afternoon. Gordon sent a code telegram to his chief,
assuring him of the safety of the message, and of his own intention
to proceed to Washington as fast as steam could carry him. Then he
took the girl to a restaurant, where they mounted two high stools, and
partook with an unusually ravenous appetite of nearly everything on the
menu--corn soup, roast beef, baked trout, stewed tomatoes, cold slaw,
custard, apple, and mince pies, with a cup of good country coffee and
real cream--all for twenty-five cents apiece.
It was a very merry meal. Celia felt somehow as if for the time all
memory of the past had been taken from her, and she were free to think
and act happily in the present, without any great problems to solve or
decisions to make. Just two young people off having a good time, they
were, at least until that afternoon train came.
After their dinner, they took a short walk to a tiny park where two
white ducks disported themselves on a seven-by-nine pond, spanned by a
rustic bridge where lovers had cut their initials. Gordon took out his
knife and idly cut C. H. in the rough bark of the upper rail, while
his companion sat on the little board seat and watched him. She was
pondering over the fact that he had cut her initials, and not his own.
It would have been like the George of old to cut his own and never once
think of hers. And he had put but one H. Probably he thought of her now
as Celia Hayne, without the Hathaway, or else he was so used to writing
her name Celia Hathaway, that he was not thinking at all.
Those letters! How they haunted her and clouded every bright experience
that she fain would have grasped and held for a little hour.
They were silent now, while he worked and she thought. He had finished
the C. H., and was cutting another C, but instead of making another
H, he carefully carved out the letter G. What was that for? C. G.?
Who was C. G.? Oh, how stupid! George, of course. He had started a C
by mistake. But he did not add the expected H. Instead he snapped his
knife shut, laid his hand over the carving, and leaned over the rail.
“Some time, perhaps, we’ll come here again, and remember,” he said,
and then bethought him that he had no right to hope for any such
anniversary.
“Oh!” She looked up into his eyes, startled, troubled, the haunting of
her fears in the shadows of the blue.
He looked down into them and read her trouble, read and understood, and
looked back his great desire to comfort her.
His look carried further than he meant it should. For the third time
that day a thrill of wonder and delight passed over her and left her
fearful with a strange joy that she felt she should put from her.
It was only an instant, that look, but it brought the bright color to
both faces, and made Gordon feel the immediate necessity of changing
the subject.
“See those little fishes down there,” he said pointing to the tiny lake
below them.
Through a blur of tears, the girl looked down and saw the tiny,
sharp-finned creatures darting here and there in a beam of sun like a
small search-light set to show them off.
She moved her hand on the rail to lean further over, and her soft
fingers touched his hand for a moment. She would not draw them away
quickly, lest she hurt him; why, she did not know, but she could
not--would not--hurt him. Not now! The two hands lay side by side for
a full minute, and the touch to Gordon was as if a roseleaf had kissed
his soul. He had never felt anything sweeter. He longed to gather the
little hand into his clasp and feel its pulses trembling there as he
had felt it in the church the night before, but she was not his. He
might not touch her till she had her choice of what to do, and she
would never choose him, never, when she knew how he had deceived her.
That one supreme moment they had of perfect consciousness,
consciousness of the drawing of soul to soul, of the sweetness of that
hovering touch of hands, of the longing to know and understand each
other.
Then a sharp whistle sounded, and a farmer’s boy with a new rake and a
sack of corn on his shoulder came sauntering briskly down the road to
the bridge. Instantly they drew apart, and Celia felt that she had been
on the verge of disloyalty to her true self.
They walked silently back to the station, each busy with his own
thoughts, each conscious of that one moment when the other had come so
near.