THE FAR AWAY LADY
They called her the "Far Away Lady"--those on the train who had already
met her. Just why the name was bestowed by some one with imagination and
aptness of expression or why it had been so readily adopted by the
others, perhaps none could have clearly told, but it had its fitness.
There was a certain soft dignity and reserve of manner and a "far away"
look in the eyes of this stately, but certainly loveable human being.
She possessed the subtle distinction there is to women of a certain
sort, impressing those about her in spite of themselves, as years
before, she had impressed John Stafford. As has been told he knew her on
the moment, yet in their words was nothing, and, even as they met, they
had not looked into each other's eyes unless, it may be, with a
hungering furtiveness and a dizziness at the marvel of the meeting.
It is hard to describe the Far Away Lady. Her face was exquisite in its
pure womanliness, but in its expression was something which told of a
life unfilled. It was not a protest; it was too good for that, but it
seemed to suggest with this woman a bewildered resignation. The face was
one which, in other times, might, before the end, have been turned
toward and found the cloister. Yet there was all of modern living and
appreciative conception in it. A smile came to the lips at certain
incidents of the story-telling, and interest showed in the soft eyes at
the relation of some striking episode. There was intelligence as there
was sad sweetness in every feature of the lovely face. Yet there
remained always in the look that quality, not of listlessness, but of
abstraction. It was a face as fascinating as it was appealing.
In her own stateroom the Far Away Lady sat at her window, but seeing no
whirling snow, hearing not the plaint of the dying wind. She was
detained in no cold and rugged canyon. Her thoughts were far away.
About her was no scene of pallid desolation. She looked instead, upon
the blue waters of a great calm lake, the wavelets of which splashed at
her feet, while about her all was sunshine. Seated beside her on the
rustic bench was a man, one strong, tender and trustworthy, and they
were about to part, as they thought, forever. Very sad was the man,
almost a weakling for the moment, though talking lightly in an effort to
distract her mind from what was near, blundering and only nurturing
their mutual sorrow, by indulging in foolish fancies of what might have
been.
He was smiling by force of will as he looked across the waters toward
the invisible other shore and dreaming aloud:
"We would build a house upon some high wooded out-jutting point upon the
other side," he said, "a house, it might be, most unpretentious, as near
the southern end of the lake as practicable, so that we would be
conveniently near the city. It might be of almost any material and be a
sort of bungalow or even only what they call a 'shack,' but comfort
would be in and all about it and happiness within its walls. It would
face the lake with an outlook on all its moods, its bright placidity or
its rage in storms, and there would be white sails and the passing
steamers and all that pertains to those who go down to the sea in ships.
And the sun would make yellow bars on the blue in the morning and in the
evening we would see it go down into the water red and 'big as a barn,'
and there would be a crimson pathway from us to it, and when the summer
darkness came, we should sit happily together, listening to the voices
of the night, the katydids and the whippoorwills and all the other
things. Then we would be waked in the morning by the sunlight again and
the songs of all the wild birds instead of by the whistles and the noisy
chattering of city sparrows.
"And the house would have a big front room with a mighty fireplace in
the winter, and the windows would be made wide and high so that ever in
the daytime there would be light--more light--and there would be lamps
a-plenty to make it light when the dark changed into blackness. And
about the sides of all this big room there would be cases with many
books and in the center of a great table, with all the magazines and
everything of passing interest. There would be chairs, cosy, indolent
chairs, to dream in, and light ones and business-like ones, and a great
couch with many cushions.
"Outside you should have your garden, the flowers you love so, and in
the wood there would be a fountain, fed from the lake by a windmill,
where the birds could drink and bathe and quarrel and mate, and where
we could watch and study them. You would become as wise as Linnaeus and
I as Burroughs.
"And there will be dogs,"--unconsciously he changed the tense--"What is
home without a dog! and about the Shack we shall have no limitations.
We'll have as many as we want; there'll be an Irish setter, soft-eyed
and chestnut-coated, the perfect gentleman among dogs; there'll be a
bull terrier, bright and loving; there'll be a collie, wisest and most
observing, and, possibly, a toy dog, for your plaything at times, when
you are tired of me. And, finally, there will be a bulldog, a creature
of such aspect as to give a ghost or burglar spasms, a monster in
appearance, though kind at heart, a thing so hideous as to have a
baneful beauty, with massive bow legs, wide apart, bloodshot and leering
eyes and a countenance generally like that of a huge fanged toad. And
all of these too shall be dogs of lineage, Hapsburgs among dogs, and I
will give each of them to you when a puppy, so that you may rear them
yourself and they will become your adoring vassals and protectors. Eh,
but you will be well guarded, and I shall feel more at ease when I am
away from you, riding over to town for the mail or to get a lemon or
two.
"And what friends we will have, not the casual, conventional, flitting
friends alone, such as some might be content with, but those closest to
us because of that which cannot be defined but which exists, and,
besides them, perhaps less close but hardly less companionable, others
of tastes and inclinations like our own, and who will riot or rest as
suits them in the atmosphere about us. They will be the brothers and
sisters of the time, and there will be doings both whimsical and wise.
There will be a rendezvous for those who know--our author friends, our
artist friends--what a lot of them are ours!--and our musical friends,
to give an added and different flavor. What a piano you'll have! I'll
get the one used by David and Miriam and Orpheus and Apollo and St.
Cecelia and Liszt and Mrs. Zeisler--if I can. Never mind the
anachronisms and solecisms--and we'll let them 'sound the loud timbrel
o'er Egypt's dark sea,' or rather o'er Lake Michigan, or engage in any
other fantasies appropriate to Arcady--land fifty dollars an acre--and,
at times, we will, no doubt, be unentitled to call our souls our own.
"And--so well do I know you--there will be often there some of those
whose lines are not cast in the pleasant places and to whom such
freedom from care, and such taste of home and real companionship about
them will be like an outing in the outskirts, at least, of Paradise. And
we'll try to deserve the Shack! Yes, we'll deserve it all the time--when
buds are bursting, when the green leaves hide the oriole in the maple,
when the maple's leaves are red, and when there are no leaves, and the
fireplace is doing its winter's roaring. What a home it will be! Ah, my
girl, we'll"--but the sorrowful jesting failed him, and he said no more.
Then came the parting.
And now the dreaming woman's thoughts reverted to the present. She could
see the snow and hear the wind and realize existent things. How strange
it was! Years had passed and he and she were together again, he drifting
from another hemisphere, sterner faced, perhaps, but still the same, and
she, changed too, she thought, but doubtless to less advantage. She felt
rebellious. The world was lost. To him and her could never come in life
the close comradeship which is the crown of things, the right to share
good and ill alike, and meet the future, shoulder to shoulder,
laughingly in the enduring love which can become so sublimely a part of
two souls that it is a part of immortality.
And in the next car Stafford, too, was sitting alone and thoughts very
like those of the woman were in his mind. But he was far less patient.
His bonds were chafing him.