then with a little shock of surprise, like that with which one suddenly
comes upon some old picture of himself, that she remembered she was a
doctor of medicine. The physician was submerged in the woman. And the
woman was alive to her finger-tips with realization of her endowment of
the "eternal feminine."
Adams slept little that night, but lay with his head on his interlocked
hands, staring out of his window at the fleeting shadows of the summer
night, thinking of Elizabeth, remembering what Elizabeth had said
during the day, seeing Elizabeth's face and eyes and the bit of white
throat that showed above her collar, hearing Elizabeth's voice, and
longing to touch, with even a finger-tip, the sweep of soft brown hair
that rippled away from her neck. It seemed to him that morning would
never come. He looked at his watch a score of times, and, finally,
rose at the first flush of dawn.
For a while he moved restlessly back and forth between his section and
the smoking-room, like an uneasy ghost of murdered sleep. But at last
it occurred to him that he ought to stay out until Miss Black was ready
for breakfast, lest he might embarrass her by being near when she
should emerge from behind her curtains in morning dishabille. So he
retired to the smoker, gave the porter a goodly fee to tell him when
the lady in Number 8 arose, and sat down resolutely at the window with
his elbows on the sill and his chin in his hands. He sat there
determinedly, not allowing himself even to turn around, through what
seemed hours and hours of time. Now and then he dozed a little, and
awoke with a start, dreaming he had heard her voice beside him or had
felt the ripple of her dress against his hand.
When at last the porter brought the welcome news, he went back to his
seat and waited for Elizabeth to reappear from the dressing-room. It
seemed to him that it must be near noon, although it was only eight
o'clock, when finally he saw her coming down the aisle. He quickly
bent his head over some memoranda with which he had been trying to
occupy himself, and pretended to be writing very busily as she moved
toward her section. But afterwards, when he looked at the paper he
found on it only some meaningless scrawls. Elizabeth's color deepened
as she saw him and a dark crimson wave swept to his brow as he felt her
draw near.
That day Adams rarely left her side. In his tones, his looks, his
manner, she was able to read his love as plainly as if it had been put
into words. "And of course," she thought, with an inward smile, "he
thinks he is concealing it all from me, and he would be surprised to
find that I know anything about it."
Her own heart throbbed in response so exultantly and so gladly that it
carried her feeling beyond the doors of expression and transformed it
into irradiating feminine charm. It sparkled in her eyes, gave a new
winsomeness to her smile, a softer grace to her movements, and a
penetrating sweetness to her voice.
Once, when Adams had gone to fetch her a glass of water, she leaned her
head upon her hand for a moment and was conscious of a little nervous
catch in her breath. Something he had just said brought back to her
mind a memory of the lawyer to whom she had been engaged and of whom
she had been thinking--was it only three days ago? It seemed as if she
had lived through many months since then. "If I had felt like this
toward him," she thought, "I would not have gone back to college."
Adams gave her the water with adoration in his eyes. For an instant
her glance met his and then quickly dropped. He leaned forward with a
sudden start and barely checked the words of love that were ready to
rush from his tongue. Then he left her for a little while and walked
about restlessly for the few paces that were possible in the end of the
car.
He must keep a closer watch on himself, he mused. What would she think
of him if he dared to speak to her of love after a three days'
acquaintance? By the merest scratch he had kept himself from clamoring
"I love you! I love you!" in her ear. And justly she might have
considered it an insult. What was he to her but a mere car
acquaintance? True, she had seemed to find his company pleasant and
congenial, and perhaps she would allow him to go to see her at her
home. And then, after he had made himself known to her father and
mother and allowed them to find out who and what he was--then, he would
bring his fate to the test.
He went back with a tighter curb upon himself and a determination to
guard his tongue more closely. Elizabeth felt at once the slight
change in his demeanor. But she did not stop to reason about it or to
question herself as to its cause. Conscious only of an instinctive,
imperious desire for him to be again just as he had been before, she
leaned toward him with a jesting remark, and the slow turn of her head,
the witchery of her smile, the way her eyes flashed and dropped,
strained his new resolution almost to the breaking-point. He leaned
back in the seat with his arms rigid and his fists clenched until she,
noticing the tense muscles of his hand, laughingly told him he would
have nervous prostration if he did not learn to relax his nerves.
Presently the train switched and stopped at a small station, and Adams
learned from the conductor that they would wait there, perhaps fifteen
or twenty minutes, for an east-bound train to pass. Most of the
passengers got out to walk up and down while they were waiting, and
when Adams and Elizabeth saw, across the road, beside a restaurant, a
little vine-covered arbor in which were tables and chairs, they decided
that it looked inviting, and went in to see if they could get some
lemonade. It was quite deserted and after a few minutes Adams went out
to see if he could find a waiter.
When he returned, Elizabeth, sitting with her face toward the door,
looked up with a welcoming smile, their eyes met, and hers did not
drop. He rushed toward her, his face shining with love. Scarcely
knowing what she did, she sprang to her feet, all her consciousness
engrossed in the thrilling prescience that in another instant she would
sink into his arms. But at her very side, as he seized her hand, he
stopped with a perceptible rigor of muscles and expression. His
resolution of an hour before had flashed into his mind and he had
pulled himself together with a mighty effort.
A little tremor passed through Elizabeth's body and she drew back a
little as he dropped her hand. "Oh, look! The train is going!" she
exclaimed, and rushed for the door.
They ran at top speed across the road, he lifted her bodily to the
front steps of the last car, and swung himself upon the rear platform.
They gained their seats, flushed and panting, and the conductor, coming
to see if they had got on without injury, explained that the east-bound
train was late and he had been ordered to go on to the next siding and
wait there. He lingered for a few minutes, chatting with them and
denying their charge that he had not rung the bell. After he was gone,
Adams turned to Elizabeth with a paling face and said:
"I hope you will pardon me, Miss Black. I can only throw myself on
your mercy. My only excuse is that I--"
She stopped him with a gesture. "Don't speak of it," she said, in a
low tone, her eyes on the floor, "and don't think of it again. In such
an unusual friendship as ours, unusual incidents must be--"
A thumping jar broke her speech and a sudden stop threw them both
violently forward against the other seat.
"Are you hurt?" Adams asked anxiously as they scrambled to their feet.
"There must have been an accident," he went on, putting his head out of
the window. He drew it back quickly, his face white. "Don't look," he
exclaimed. "There's been a collision! It's horrible! But don't be
alarmed. There 's no more danger now. I 'll go out and see just what
has happened."
"Wait a minute, please! Perhaps you can help me," Elizabeth exclaimed,
reaching for her suit case. "I'll be needed, and I 'll want help."
She was hurriedly opening the case and taking out articles and
packages. With face intent and manner preoccupied she appeared a
different person. The woman had sunk out of sight and the physician
was uppermost.
Adams looked on with an amazed face. "Then you are a physician!" he
exclaimed. "I did not know--"
She nodded, without looking up, absorbed in a search for something.
"That package of bandages," she murmured. "Oh, here it is. Yes, I 'm
a physician, and I 've had practice in surgery. Come, let's get out
there at once. If you will carry these packages I 'll take my surgical
case and my medicine bag. I 'm so glad I put all these things in my
suit case."
It had been a head-on collision between the two trains. In some way,
nobody knew how, there had been a misunderstanding of orders, and the
east-bound train, instead of waiting at the next switch, had come on
toward the usual passing place. In the shock of meeting, its engine
had reared and ploughed its way over the other and the two monsters lay
upon the ground, a mass of twisted scraps of iron. One engineer had
stuck to his post, the other had jumped, as had both the firemen. One
was dead, the other three all severely injured. Among the train crews
and the passengers of the day coaches there were a number of broken
limbs and many severe cuts, bruises, and shocks.
From the east-bound train another physician appeared, and he and
Elizabeth worked over the injured, sometimes together, sometimes
separately. Adams was constantly beside her, ready to carry out her
directions. He brought water, held bandages, helped her to put them
on, handed instruments, and kept her belongings close at hand. She had
cast aside her hat and rolled her sleeves above her elbows, and as she
bent a flushed, perspiring, and absorbed face above her work, forgetful
alike of her own and of his personality, she seemed so utterly unlike
the woman he had known for the last three days that a feeling of
bewilderment and estrangement began to creep over him. Once she
complimented him upon his watchfulness and dexterity, and the smile
with which she did it set his heart to throbbing again and bridged what
had seemed like a chasm between the two Elizabeths.
He watched her long, slender, strong hands as she deftly and rapidly
manipulated the bandages, felt for a broken bone, or used her
instruments, and a great, awed wonder, the homage of intelligence to
skilled capacity, mingled with the adoration that filled his soul.
He began to torture himself with doubts and questions. Could such a
woman care for him? What was there about him that could appeal to so
rare a prize? What had he to offer in character, or personality, or
achievement, or promise? And the more he doubted the more intense
became his desire to know.
Elizabeth rose from her knees beside a man whose crushed foot she had
been bandaging. "Is there anybody else?" she said to Adams. Her hands
and arms were smeared with blood stains, and upon her dress there were
smirches of earth and blood. But Adams saw only that the red sunset
rays gilded her brown hair into a halo.
"No," he answered, "I think not. The last bruise has been cared for
and the last hysterical woman has quit crying. Now you must rest and
refresh yourself and have some dinner. An engine is coming from the
west to take the cars of the east-bound train back to the next station
and all the passengers who wish can go there; and to-night another
train will continue on their way those for California. It will be here
before long, but perhaps it will be possible to get something to eat
first."
They started toward their car and met the other physician. "Will you
do me the honor of exchanging cards with me?" he said to Elizabeth.
"You have shown yourself so competent here this afternoon, and your
work has been so skilfully done that I want to compliment you upon it,
and to say that I am sure you have before you a promising future."
Dr. Black's face flushed and her eyes sparkled with pleasure, as she
read on the card the name of a famous surgeon. "You are very kind,"
she replied, "and I thank you heartily. Praise from one of your skill
and standing is more worth having than anything else I can think of."
Her words carried fresh doubt and despair to Adams's heart. "It can't
be possible," he thought, "that such a woman would care, could care,
for me and my love. And yet, I must know, I must know before this day
ends."
They returned to their car and found it deserted. Adams waited while
Elizabeth went to the dressing-room to remove the stains of her
afternoon's work.
"It can't be possible," he kept saying to himself, "but I must know--I
must know, at once."
With a great effort he forced himself into an appearance of composure.
He feared that he might startle and offend her if he gave expression to
the ardors that throbbed in his heart and brain. "She must be tired
and nervous," he thought, "and I will try to speak and act calmly.
"You would not let me finish my apology a few hours ago," he began, as
soon as she returned, "but now you must listen to the only excuse I
have for my fault--if it was a fault. The only thing I can say for
myself is that I love you--love you so much that I almost forgot
myself. I love you more than I had thought it would be possible to
love any woman--and back there, in the summer-house, when I went in and
saw you sitting there, my love broke from my control and swept over me
like a flood, and for a moment I scarcely knew what I did--I forgot
myself and the respect which was your due. But it was all because I
love you so, and want you for my wife, my mate, more than I want
anything else in the world. I know, we 've only known each other for
three days, but I had to speak to you, now, at once. And if you care
enough for me even to think about it, I won't ask for anything more
until you 've had time, you and your family, to know me better and find
out who and what I am."
Elizabeth listened with her gaze on her lap. She was conscious of a
feeling of resentment, that increased as he went on, because he could
speak so calmly and composedly. It showed in her eyes as she lifted
them to his face, but quickly changed to compassion as she saw there
such suspense and longing as smote her heart with pain.
"You do not need to speak," he said, and she saw his countenance wince
and change. "I have read my answer in your eyes." He rose as if to go.
"Wait a moment," she said hastily. "It is right that you should know
how much I also cared until--" she broke off, hesitating, and then went
on, slowly and thoughtfully, with a puzzled air, as though she herself
did not quite understand. "When you came back to me, in that little
summer-house, and I looked into your eyes, my heart told me that you
were going to seize me in your arms; and I knew that if you did I was
ready to sink into your embrace and to give up everything for your
sake. For you had swept me clean off my feet and had made me not care
for my career, or for anything but you. But when you did n't--believe
me, I don't know how or why it was--somehow the shock of your not doing
it, when I was so ready to give my love--well, the tide seemed to turn
then and go back. And now--I 'm on my feet again, and care
tremendously about my profession and my career."
He looked at her blankly, and as his lips twitched and moved she barely
heard, "And I did n't--I barely kept myself from doing it, because it
seemed unworthy--"
She shrugged her shoulders and interrupted him, in a tone as low as
his. "We who are strong can be taken only by a strength that is
greater than ours."
"Good-bye," he said, rising. "Either my love was not quite great
enough, or my strength was too great. I will send the porter to carry
your bags and help you to find your section in the other train. I
shall stay here until to-morrow. Good-bye."
His voice was very tender as he spoke the last word. She held out her
hand, and he touched it with his lips. She pressed both hands upon her
heart, which seemed bursting with cross-currents of feeling and desire.
He was halfway down the aisle when she sprang to her feet and called to
him to stop, to come back. He turned and saw her slowly take a step or
two toward him. The intent gaze which he bent upon her wavered for an
instant, and then she saw his lips grow tense and white.
"No," he said deliberately, "I shall not come back. I do not want a
wife who would bring to me any less than the greatest love of which she
is capable. Good-bye, Dr. Black."
He was gone, and Elizabeth, sinking back into her seat, saw him walk
away into the hills. The tears gathered in her eyes. She watched him
as his figure disappeared among the twilight shadows.
"I wonder if it would have been different--it might have been
different," she was thinking, "if he--he had been--as he was this
afternoon." She mused a little longer and then her face brightened as
she rose with a triumphant lifting of her head and a half-smile on her
face. "And anyway," she said aloud, "he has my address!"