ON THE ROAD.
Elithe had kept up bravely while the necessity lasted, but when her
mother faded from her sight and she could no longer see the handkerchief
Artie had tied to a stick and was waving after her, she turned her face
to the window and sobbed bitterly. Mr. Pennington, who sat behind her,
paid no attention to her until the sound of her sobbing ceased, and he
knew she was growing calm. Then he took the vacant seat beside her and
began to speak of the scenery and to point out whatever he thought would
please her. Elithe had never been in Helena since she was a child,
consequently everything upon the road was novel, and she soon became
interested in the country through which she was passing and the people
in the car. These Mr. Pennington was studying closely, managing to learn
how far they were going, and trying to single out some one with whom
Elithe would be safe from any annoyance. An old couple, whose
destination was Chicago, was his choice. They were plain, homely people,
with kindness written on every lineament of their honest faces. To these
he introduced himself, telling them of Elithe, who she was, where she
was going, and asking if they would look after her. Instantly the
woman’s heart opened to the young girl, who, she told Mr. Pennington,
was much like her granddaughter, and should be her special care. They
were now very near Helena, where they stopped for a few minutes, and
where Mr. Pennington was to leave. Two or three times he had made up his
mind to go on and changed it as often.
“What use to put my head in the lion’s mouth and lose any chance I may
possibly have in the future? Better wait till I am at least half a man,
if that time ever comes,” he thought. Taking Elithe’s hands in his, he
said: “I was a beast the first time you saw me at the mines, and if I am
anything better now, you have helped to make me so. I don’t want you to
forget me, and as a means of keeping me in your mind take this little
souvenir.”
He slipped the paper box into her hand, hesitated a moment, as if there
were more he would say, then turned quickly and left the car just as it
began to move away. It was growing dark, and Elithe could only faintly
discern the outline of his figure as he stood with his hat off watching
the train, which was bearing away the only human being who had any power
to sway him for good. “I’ll go to the devil now, sure,” he thought, as
he seated himself in the ‘bus which was to take him to the town.
The old lady, who had witnessed the parting, looked for some tears from
Elithe. Seeing none, she concluded she must be feeling too badly to cry,
and, with a view to comfort her, took the seat Mr. Pennington had
vacated.
“I know how you feel,” she began. “When I was young and my man went away
for a week I thought the sun would never shine again until he got back.
That’s before I was married, and we was courtin’.”
Elithe looked at her so astonished that the woman, whose name was Baker,
said: “He was your beau, wasn’t he?”
Elithe’s face was scarlet as she answered, quickly: “No; oh, no; I’m too
young for that. I’m only nineteen. He is my friend,—father’s
friend,—that’s all.”
“Why, how you talk!” the old lady replied. “I s’posed of course he was
your beau. He acted like it. Well, it’s just as well, maybe. He looked
to me as if he was dissipated, and you’d better die than marry a
drunkard. My oldest girl, ’Mandy, did that, and leads a terrible life.
He’s had the tremens two or three times. It’s awful!”
Elithe thought of Stokes’s cabin and the night she spent in it, while
Mrs. Baker rambled on, giving a full history of ’Mandy and ’Mandy’s
children, together with her son and his family.
“Will she never stop?” Elithe thought, “and let me see what is in the
box.”
It was still held tightly in her hand where Mr. Pennington had put it,
and she longed to know what it contained. After a while Mrs. Baker
declared herself hungry, and, telling her husband to bring the big lunch
basket, she invited Elithe to share with her. But Elithe could not eat.
A terrible homesickness had come over her, and she declined the food,
saying she had plenty of her own and her head was aching.
“Poor little girl!” Mrs. Baker said. “You are tired; that’s what’s the
matter. Lucky we hain’t many passengers, so’s you can have two whole
seats to-night. I’ll turn one back and fix you nice.”
She was as good as her word, and Elithe found herself in possession of
two seats, with a very comfortable-looking bed improvised on one of them
from her own wraps and those of Mrs. Baker, who said she did not need
them. Her seat was behind Elithe, who, the moment she was alone, untied
the box and by the dim light of the lamp overhead read the note which
lay upon the top.
It was as follows: “Elithe.—There is so much I want to say to you, but
dare not. You are too pure and good for a man like me to do more than
think of you. If I had known you years ago I should not have been what I
am,—a man broken in his prime from excesses of all kinds. Don’t forget
me, and every time you look at the ring, have a kind thought of me. I
shall never forget you,—never.—J.P.”
“The ring! What ring?” Elithe said to herself, and, lifting up the bit
of jeweler’s cotton, she gave an exclamation of surprise as her eyes
fell upon the costly diamond.
She had some idea of its value, as she had heard Stokes tell how much it
cost, and she had a still more definite idea that it should never have
been given to her, and that she ought not to keep it. There was no way
of returning it now. She must wait until she reached Oak City, when she
would write her father and ask him what to do. Thus deciding, she put
the box in the under pocket of her skirt, where no one could get it
without her knowledge. Then she began to think of the contents of the
note and what Mrs. Baker had said to her. Did Mr. Pennington care for
her in the way the woman had insinuated? It would seem so, and for one
moment something like gratification stirred her pulse, but passed
quickly. There was nothing in her nature which could ever respond to
love from him. She liked him,—that was all. If he cared very much for
her she was sorry, and sorry, too, that he had given her the ring.
By this time she had settled herself for the night, and her thoughts
were growing confused. The whir and pounding of the wheels made her
think of a tornado which had once swept the plain near Samona. Artie was
waving his long stick from the platform, her mother was kissing her and
leaving tears on her cheeks, and Mrs. Baker was holding up ’Mandy as a
warning against girls marrying men who drank. All these thoughts and
more mingled in her dreams, as the train sped on its way, and the air in
the car grew closer and the lamps burned low, with a smell of bad oil,
and the conductor came through now and then with his lantern and looked
at the sleeping crowd. Once, as he stopped near Elithe, whose face was
plainly visible, he pulled over her the shawl which had partially
slipped from her shoulders, and wondered who she was and why she was
alone.
“Young and pretty and innocent. I’ll keep a little watch over her and
speak to Simmons about her when he comes on for duty,” he thought.
Meanwhile the father and mother in the home growing farther and farther
away with every turn of the wheels, were praying silently and constantly
that no harm might befall her. John Pennington, too, who hardly knew
whether he really believed anything or not, said to himself, as he sat
smoking in his room at “The Helena” until far into the night: “If there
is a God, and I suppose there must be, I hope He will take care of
Elithe.” God did take care of her, but did not keep her from being
uncomfortable and tired and sickening of both her own lunch basket and
that of Mrs. Baker, as the food grew stale and old, and the car grew hot
and dusty, and so crowded that her two seats had to be given up, and she
was finally driven to sitting with Mrs. Baker, whose fat shoulder was
her pillow during the night before the train drew into Chicago.
Here she was to part with Mrs. Baker, who waited in the station till she
found the conductor of the Eastern train and told him of Elithe, bidding
him look after her till he reached the terminus of his route.
“Then I suppose the Lord will have to take her in charge,” she said,
with so much concern that the conductor answered, laughingly: “If He
don’t the next conductor will. I’ll tell him about her. Don’t you
worry.”
Thus reassured, Mrs. Baker felt relieved, but stayed by Elithe until her
train was ready to start, talking to her through the window, telling her
not to be afraid when crossing Detroit River or Suspension Bridge, and
to be sure to look at the Falls in the right place and to call on her if
she was ever in Chicago. Then she shook both her plump hands as a
farewell, and Elithe was left alone to accomplish the rest of her
journey, which was done without accident or delay. Everybody was kind to
her, from the conductor to the tall brakeman, who got her out upon the
boat when crossing the river at Detroit, and took her to the best place
for seeing the Falls when nearing Suspension Bridge.
Elithe saw a great deal on that journey, and felt herself quite a
traveled personage, regretting that she could not at once compare notes
with Rob, who had been to Salt Lake City with his father and ever after
boasted of his superior knowledge of the world. She saw the Genesee and
the beautiful Hudson and went out upon the platform in the moonlight to
look at the mountains between Albany and Springfield,—mere hills she
called them when compared with the Rockies, and scarcely worth keeping
awake to look at. She was very tired by this time, and, returning to her
seat, fell into a deep sleep from which she did not waken until the
train stopped in Worcester depot. There was only one change more before
she reached the boat which was to take her to Oak City, and she made it
without mistake, and drew a long breath of relief when she finally left
the car at New Bedford and her journey by rail was ended.