IN THE CARS
IT was very pleasant riding to the station in the early light of the
winter morning. A ride of any sort was a treat to Christie. There
was always so much to do in the little home in the morning, and when
evening was closing in, that she could rarely be spared to ride to the
station with Karl; so that really for the third time in her life did
she expect to gaze on the cars!
"It isn't your first ride after the iron horse, by any means," her
father said to her. "More than a thousand miles you rode, and you stood
it well, too, were just as good as you could be, and gave mother and me
no trouble at all. In fact, you seemed to be anxious to amuse Karl, and
help him to have a good time. But you were such a little dot, I don't
suppose you remember anything about it."
"Why, father," said Karl, "she wasn't three years old then! How could
she remember it?"
"Well, I don't know; seems to me I remember my mother, and I wasn't
quite three years old when she died. But then folks remember mothers
I s'pose, longer than they do anything else. They ought to. Well,
Christie, my girl, keep your eyes open to-day, and see what you can
learn. My father used to tell me—your old grandfather, you know, who
died before you were born—he used to say to me,—
"'Learn all you can, John, about anything and everything; there is no
telling when a chance may pop up for you to use what you thought you
never "would" use.'
"It's a good rule. I practised on it once when I saw a man making a
wagon. I watched just how he fixed the wheel and the holes for the
nails, and everything, and I said, right out loud, 'It isn't anyways
likely that I shall ever make a wagon, but then I might as well know
how you do it.'
"And it wasn't a week after that we broke down going across the
prairie, your mother and me and two children. And if I hadn't known
just how to fix that wheel, we would have frozen to death likely enough
before we could get anywhere."
"Well," Christie said, laughing a little, "I don't suppose I shall ever
make a train of cars, but I'll learn how if I can."
"There's no telling," her father said, "what will come of it one day;
they are curious things, days are; like enough you may see something
to-day that will help you along all your life; and for the matter of
that, you might see plenty of things to hinder you all your life;
that's what makes such solemn business of living. Only there's one
comfort, you can shut your eyes to the evil things, and say: I won't
remember one of them; I'll have nothing to do with them. And the good
things you can mark and lay away in your mind for future use. Well,
here we are, I declare. Old Sam has trotted along pretty fast this
morning. Now, my man, you may help Christie out, and get her ticket,
and put her on the train all right, and I'll stay here and take care of
Sam."
Then did Karl's face glow! But he made a pretence of objection: "Why,
father, I can take care of Sam if you want to go."
"No, no, my boy, I can trust you to look after Christie, you'll have
plenty of time. They've got a lot of freight to load this morning, and
you can go in and find her a seat, and do it all up like a man. Sam and
I will tend to each other out here. I'll just set the satchel on the
steps there, so you can reach it easy, and then I'll drive around to
the shed."
Good, thoughtful father! Putting quietly away his own desire to see his
little girl safely launched for her first journey; putting back with
resolute hand the vague fear that Karl might not help her properly,
or might not get off the train in time, and so harm might come to
one or both of them. Well he knew that a whole army of "mights" and
"might nots" lay all along life's journey with which to make himself
miserable, and there was nothing for it but to seize the doubts with
resolute hand and hold them back so that they need not cripple the
young lives under his care.
He remembered how, when Karl climbed the tree and swung off in a daring
way among the slender-looking boughs, he had to shut his eyes and ask
God to take care of the boy, and keep the father from crying out, and
so help to make his son a coward. He felt a little bit like that this
morning. Only the memory of the apple tree helped; there were no trees
now that Karl couldn't climb.
They moved away briskly, that little man and woman; Christie running
back once to give father one more kiss, and to assure him that she
would certainly be in time for the evening train.
And once he called after her, and ran forward to tell her to say to
Uncle Daniel that he could have a cow in the spring, like the one he
wanted last fall. And then he went back to his horse, and the boy and
girl entered the depot together. Karl went forward, business written on
every line of his manly face as he called and paid for a ticket, and
stood by protectingly while Christie pinned it in the corner of her
handkerchief, and then pinned the handkerchief into her pocket. Then he
made a little heap of the basket of apples, and the basket of nuts, and
the flowered satchel and the shawl, making business-like comments the
while.
"You must have the conductor lift off these baskets for you, Christie;
they always do that for folks travelling alone. You don't have to give
up your ticket, you know; the conductor makes a little hole in it, and
then gives it back. He won't take it until you are almost at the city.
And Christie, mother said I was to remind you the last thing, not to
get off the cars until you saw Uncle Daniel, and knocked on the window
for him to come for you; mother worried about your getting off alone."
"And what," said Christie, "should I do if Uncle Daniel didn't get
there in time, and I had to get off?"
She moved closely to Karl as she spoke, and felt as though their ages
were reversed, and she were ten and he was twelve, and wished with all
her timid little heart that he was going along to take care of her. He
had seen the cars so often.
"Oh, well," her protector said reassuringly, "he will be there, of
course; he knows just how mother feels. But then if he shouldn't, you
needn't be one mite afraid; it is just as easy to step off. I shouldn't
mind it at all. I've seen Wells Burton swing himself off with his hands
in his pockets; he does it just as easy as you step down from the
back stoop. There he is now! Look, Christie, the boy just turning the
corner!"
He came leisurely down the snowy walk, whistling a merry tune; a tall,
handsome boy, dressed in a well-fitting suit of finest quality and
of city make. He nodded his head good-humouredly to a man who stood
leaning against the post, and lifted his cap politely to a lady who was
approaching from the other end.
"I wonder what he is going in for to-day?" murmured Karl, watching him
with fascinated gaze. "There isn't any school for a week; I heard him
tell Mr. Lewis so yesterday. Do you suppose he can be going just for
the fun of it?"
There was a touch of awe in Karl's voice. It seemed such a wonderful
thing for a boy but a few years older than himself to be possibly
riding around on the cars "for the fun of it," as he sometimes rode a
horse to water! As if in explanation of his wonderment, Wells Burton
spoke to the lady who had addressed him.
"No, ma'am, our people are all in town, went in yesterday to spend
Christmas at my grandfather's. I was to have gone there last evening,
but I didn't get my papa's message in time, and so came home as usual
and had to stay here all night.
"Well, no, not alone exactly. The servants are all at home, you know,
but it seemed rather lonely.
"Oh, no, they were not frightened. I telegraphed of course as soon as I
found out how it was. I thought mamma might be a trifle worried.
"No, ma'am, I walked down this morning, it is such a bore to be always
riding. Since there was nobody but myself, I thought I would have the
fun of a walk in the snow."
What wonderful talk was this! Karl, looking and listening, forgot for
the moment his own importance that morning, and actually gave a sigh.
To hear a boy so little older than himself talk so composedly about
going in town, and out of town, and spending the night alone, and
telegraphing, and dismissing the handsome sleigh and ponies for the
fun of a walk, it was almost too much! He looked over at the handsome,
well-dressed fellow with a strange wistfulness; and the grey patches
on his knees looked larger and coarser than ever before, and the red
tippet around his neck seemed almost to choke him. What a difference
there was in their lives, to be sure!
"Talk about houses," he said to Christie, speaking some of his thoughts
aloud, "you ought to see the inside of their house! I guess Uncle
Daniel's is nothing to it. Nick Barton has been there with freight,
been upstairs in three or four of their rooms, carrying heavy things,
you know. And he says it is perfectly splendid, the furniture and
everything. He was telling me about it last night; he says they've
got two pianos, or two great big music things in different rooms, and
books! Nick says there are books enough to fill the church, he should
think."
"I'd like to see the outside of their house," Christie said wistfully.
"I don't ever expect to see the inside. But Karl, in the summer, mother
said you and I would walk over that way and see all around it. Do you
suppose they will be there in the summer?"
"Of course," said Karl, "they built the new house for the summer. They
didn't mean to stay here in the winter at all. Nick told me last night;
he says they just came down to settle it, and see to things. And the
sick young man took a fancy to stay, so they all stayed. Nick said he
didn't think it would last long, but he guessed maybe they would stay
all winter."
"Is there a sick young man?"
Christie's voice was changing from wistfulness to pity.
"Yes, there is; he can't walk, only on crutches, and looks pale and
weak. And when he goes into the city, Nick says some great strong man
takes him right in his arms and lifts him into the cars, and he is
twenty years old."
"Poor young man!" said Christie.
And she envied the Burton family no more.
"There's the train!" said Karl, his voice full of suppressed
excitement. "Now, Christie, don't you touch one of those bundles. I'll
tend to them all. And Christie—" this in a lower tone—"if anything
should happen that Uncle Daniel shouldn't be there, and you shouldn't
see the conductor, this boy would help you off if you should just ask
him, and he could tell you just where to go to wait; he knows all about
the city, you see."
"Oh," said Christie, shrinking back, and clinging to Karl's tippet,
"I couldn't speak to him, Karl; I couldn't indeed. I'd rather get off
alone a great deal; and I'm most sure Uncle Daniel will be there."
"So am I. Don't worry! Now come!"
And the great moment had arrived. Karl shouldered the bundles with the
air of one used to carrying many things, set them skilfully on the
steps of the platform, then came down again for Christie, piloted her
safely through the car, found a seat for her, discovered that there was
a convenient little wire house above the seat where shawls and parcels
were placed, arranged hers for her, and in fact did everything that an
experienced traveller could have done for her comfort. He had not used
his eyes for nothing.
But now a brakeman was shouting "All aboard!" And he must leave her to
herself. He bent down for one last word just as Wells Burton sauntered
in with the air of an old traveller who had lingered outside until the
latest moment:
"Remember, Christie, if anything 'should' happen—which there won't, it
isn't likely—I shouldn't be afraid to ask that boy about things; he
looks good-natured. And, Christie, mind and come home to-night, even if
you have to walk."
There was a sudden clanging of the bell, a final howl from the
locomotive, a jerk which almost threw Christie from her seat, and they
were really off. How swiftly the trees and barns and fences flew past
them! Everything seemed to be afraid of them, and hurrying to get out
of their way. What a queer noise the cars made! And they shook so! As
though they were angry, Christie thought. She and Karl had often tried
to imagine what riding in the cars felt like, but they certainly had
never succeeded.
By degrees, as she became accustomed to the strange motion, our little
traveller gained courage to look about her. She had a great desire to
act like other people, and in order to do this, it would be necessary
to find out how other people acted. Opposite her sat a man with grey
hair, and gold spectacles, and a very large gold watch. Christie liked
to look at him.
"He is good," she said to herself. "I know he is. I wonder if he's
somebody's grandpa going home for Christmas. I suppose he doesn't look
like my grandpa out in New York, but I wish he did. I suppose he is
taking his grandchildren some nice presents, books, maybe. I wish he
would come over here and sit, and tell me about them."
This thought made her look directly in front of her, to see who had the
seat which she wanted for her old gentleman. It was a young man with
a pale, discontented face. He seemed to be in a great hurry, for he
looked at his watch three times during the few minutes that Christie
watched him. Yet when a lady who sat in front of him suddenly turned
and ask him to please tell her what time it was, he started as though
he were not used to being spoken to, and said: "What? I beg your
pardon. Oh, the time! I really do not know, but I'll see." And out came
the watch again.
How could Christie help giggling? It did seem so funny to her. She did
not mean he should hear her, but he did, for he darted at her a quick
annoyed look, which, however, softened when he saw what a shy, ashamed
little thing it was.
Now Christie was not used to strangers, and felt almost afraid to
speak. But she had been brought up to be careful of other people's
feelings, and she was afraid she had hurt this young man. She slipped
forward on her seat and touched his arm. Her voice trembled a little:
"If you please, sir," she said, "I hope you will forgive me for
laughing. I couldn't help it; it seemed so funny to look at such a
lovely watch as that without knowing what it said. But I did not mean
to be rude. Mother would be ashamed of me."
If the young man had been bewildered when the lady spoke to him, he was
too much astonished now to say a word. He just stared for a minute at
the burning cheeks, as though he felt like saying:
"What in the world can you be talking about?"
At last he spoke.
"There is no harm done, my little friend. I had already forgotten that
you laughed. My thoughts were too busy about other things, and too sad
to pay much attention to watches, or to think of anything but getting
over the ground as fast as possible."
"We go very fast," said Christie earnestly.
She wanted to comfort the young man, his voice sounded so sad.
He smiled faintly.
"Do you think so? It seems to me that we almost creep."
Christie caught her breath to keep from expressing too great surprise.
It seemed to her that they almost flew.
He saw the astonishment on her face, and explained:
"A hundred miles from here I have a very sick friend. If I could get
to her in time, I think I might help her. Do you wonder that the train
seems to me to move very slowly?"
"No, sir," said Christie, with great sympathetic eyes. "If mother were
sick, I should want to fly."
She sat back after that, and the young man took a telegram from his
pocket, and seemed to study it. Then he took a newspaper, and seemed to
others to be reading it, but Christie saw that part of the time it was
upside down. She felt very sorry for him, and could not help glancing
at him occasionally with a tender smile on her face; especially as he
smiled back, and seemed to like her sympathy.