From his eyne did the glamour of Faerie pass
And the Rymour lay on Eildon grass.
He lay in the heather on Eildon Hill;
He gazed on the dour Scots sky his fill.
His staff beside him was brash with rot;
The weed grew rank in his unthatch'd cot:
"Syne gloaming yestreen, my shepherd kind,
What hath happ'd this cot we ruin'd find?"
"Syne gloaming yestreen, and years twice three,
Hath wind and rain therein made free;
Ye sure will a stranger to Eildon be,
And ye know not the Rymour's in Faerie!"
--_The Trewe Tale of Trewe Thomas_.
As Mr. Amidon sensed the forward movement of the train in which he so
strangely found himself, he had fits of impulse to leap out and take
the next train back. But, back where? He had the assurance of his
colored friend and brother that forward was New York. Backward was the
void conjectural. Slowly the dawn whitened at the window. He raised
the curtain and saw the rocks and fences and snow of a winter's
landscape--saw them with a shock which, lying prone as he was, gave him
the sensation of staggering. It was true, then: the thing he had still
suspected as a nightmare was true. Where were all the weeks of summer
and autumn? And (question of some pertinency!) where was Florian
Amidon?
He groped about for his clothes. They were strange in color and
texture, but, in such judgment as he could form while dressing in his
berth, they fitted. He never could bear to go half-dressed to the
toilet-room as most men do, and stepped out of his berth fully
appareled--in a natty business sack-suit of Scots-gray, a high
turn-down collar, fine enamel shoes and a rather noticeable tie.
Florian Amidon had always worn a decent buttoned-up frock and a
polka-dot cravat of modest blue, which his haberdasher kept in stock
especially for him. He felt as if, in getting lost, he had got into
the clothes of some other man--and that other one of much less quiet
and old-fashioned tastes in dress. It made him feel as if it were he
who had made the run to Canada with the bank's funds--furtive,
disguised, slinking.
He looked in the pockets of the coat like an amateur pickpocket, and
found some letters. He gazed at them askance, turning them over and
over, wondering if he ought to peep at their contents. Then he put
them back, and went into the smoking-room, where, finding himself
alone, he turned up his vest as if it had been worn by somebody else
whom he was afraid of disturbing, and looked at the initials on the
shirt-front. They were not "F. A.," as they ought to have been, but
"E. B."! He wondered which of the bags were his. Pressing the button,
he summoned the porter.
"George," said he, "bring my luggage in here."
And then he wondered at his addressing the porter in that drummer-like
way--he was already acting up to the smart suit--or down; he was in
doubt as to which it was.
The bags, when produced, showed those metal slides, sometimes seen,
concealing the owner's name. Sweat stood on Florian's brow as he
slipped the plate back and found the name of Eugene Brassfield,
Bellevale, Pennsylvania! A card-case, his pocketbook, all his linen
and his hat--all articles of expensive and gentlemanly quality, but
strange to him--disclosed the same name or initials, none of them his
own. In the valise he found some business letterheads, finely
engraved, of the Brassfield Oil Company, and Eugene Brassfield's name
was there set forth as president and general manager.
"Great heaven!" exclaimed Florian, "am I insane? Am I a robber and a
murderer? During this time which has dropped out of my life, have I
destroyed and despoiled this gentleman, and--and run off in his
clothes? I must denounce myself!"
The porter came, and, by way of denouncing himself, Mr. Amidon clapped
his waistcoat shut and buttoned it, snapped the catches of the bags,
and pretended to busy himself with the letters in his pockets; and in
doing so, he found in an inside vest-pocket a long thin pocket-book
filled with hundred-dollar bills, and a dainty-looking letter. It was
addressed to Mr. Eugene Brassfield, was unstamped, and marked, "To be
Read En Route."
There was invitation, there was allurement, in the very superscription.
Clearly, it seemed, he ought to open and examine these letters. They
might serve to clear up this mystery. He would begin with this.
"My darling!" it began, without any other form of address--and was not
this enough, beloved?--
"My own darling! I write this so that you may have something of me,
which you can see and touch and kiss as you are borne farther and
farther from me. Distance unbridged is such a terrible thing--any long
distance; and more than our hands may reach and clasp across is
interstellar space to me. You said last night that all beauty, all
sweetness, all things delectable and enticing and fair, all things
which allure and enrapture, are so bound up in little me, that surely
the very giants of steam and steel would be drawn back to me, instead
of bearing you away. Ah, my Eugene! You wondered why I put my hands
behind me, and would not see your out-stretched arms! Now that you are
gone, and will not return for so long--until so near the day when I may
be all that I am capable of becoming to you, let me tell you--I was
afraid!
"Not of you, dearest, not of you--for with all your ardor of wooing
(and no girl ever had a more perfect lover--I shall always thank God
for that mixture of Lancelot and Sir Galahad in you which makes every
moment in your presence a delight), I always knew that you could leave
me like a sensible boy, and, while longing for me, stay away. But
I--whom you have sometimes complained of a little for my coldness--had
I not looked above your eyes, and put my hands behind me, I should have
clung to you, dear, I was afraid, and never have allowed you to go as
you are now going, and made you feel that I am not the perfect woman
that you describe to me, as me. Even now, I fear that this letter will
do me harm in your heart; but all the lover in me--and girls inherit
from their fathers as well as from their mothers--cries out in me to
woo you; and you must forget this, only at such times of tenderness as
you will sometimes have while you are gone, when one embrace would be
worth a world. Then read or remember this, as my return-clasp for such
thoughts.
"Besides, may I not, now that you are away from me, give you a glimpse
of that side of my soul which a girl is taught to hide? This was the
'swan's nest among the reeds' which Little Ellie meant to show to that
lover who, maybe, never came. Ah, Mrs. Browning was a woman, and knew!
(Mind, dear, it's Mrs. Browning I speak of!)
"Sometimes, when the Knight has come, and the wife wishes to show the
glories of her soul, 'the wild swan has deserted, and a rat has gnawed
the reed.' Let the wild and flowery little pool of womanhood which is
yours--yours, dearest--grow somewhat less strange to you than it would
have been--last evening--so that when you see me again you will see it
as a part of me, and, without a word or look from me, know me, even
more than you now do,
"Yours,
"Elizabeth."
Florian read it again and again. Sometimes he blushed--not with shame,
but with the embarrassment of a girl--at the fervid eloquence. And
then he would feel a twinge of envy for this Eugene Brassfield who
could be to such a girl "a perfect lover."
"From one soon to be a bride," said he to himself, "to the man she
loves: it's the sweetest letter ever written. I wonder how long ago
she wrote it! Here's the date: 7th January, 1901. Odd, that she
should mistake the year! But it was the 7th, no doubt. By the way, I
don't know the day of the week or month, or what month it is! Here,
boy! Is that the morning paper?"
He seized the paper feverishly, held it crushed in his hand until the
boy left him, and then spread it out, looking for the date. It was
January the 8th, 1901! The letter had been written the preceding
evening. Whatever had happened to this man Brassfield, had occurred
within the past sixteen hours. And, great God! where had Florian
Amidon been since June, 1896? All was dark; and, in sympathy with it,
blackness came over his eyes, and he rode into New York in a dead faint.