AT BAY SOFTLY
Stafford had at frequent intervals during the day been in communication
with the relief train and had received neither encouragement nor the
opposite. There had been a sharp questioning of a new man in charge, a
person who seemed to know his business thoroughly, but who was far from
voluble in conversation. Evidently the emergency had been thought such
as to require the presence of someone of greater versatility than was
likely to be possessed by the train crew, but from this new overseer the
questioner received but little satisfaction. In fact the boss had seemed
not altogether open and candid in his statements and Stafford had become
a trifle irritated. He put the case lightly, for the man to whom he was
talking was evidently bright:
"I'm not altogether satisfied with your answers. We people imprisoned
here have a right to know exactly what the outlook is. Why don't you
come to me more like a child to its mother? We are cutting wood for
fuel, and the food supply is getting low. What are you doing over
there?"
"Are you a railroad man?"
"Well, I've seen a railroad."
"You ought to know what this job is then. It's a pretty tough one."
"I know it, but why don't you answer my questions more definitely? Have
you anything up your sleeve?"
"Possibly; my sleeves are pretty big. This I'll tell you, though, that I
think we're all right. I'd tell you more if I felt sure myself. We're
going to try something. That's all."
Somehow, this elated Stafford. He felt that he had been talking to a man
who knew what he was about and he became confident that release was
close at hand. But was he elated, after all? Release would mean that
there would remain but two more days of Her, for, in such event, within
two days the train would be in Chicago. He was in a most uncertain mood.
He was restless and unreasonable. Why to him should come such perplexity
in life, such trial to one who had banished himself to avoid temptation?
Yet, here it was, thrust in his way again, and he must be once more a
Tantalus. He became mightily impatient as he brooded and wished that he
had Fate where he could punish her. Just what he would do with that lady
in such contingency he hardly knew. He got to speculating upon that and
had all sorts of fancies. He conceived the grotesque idea that the
ducking-stool would be about the thing. The association of Fate with the
ducking-stool seemed somewhat incongruous, it is true, something in the
way of an anachronism, it was such a far cry from Homer to New England,
but that didn't matter. She certainly deserved the ducking-stool,--and
then he could not but laugh at himself and his vexed fancies. It was a
trait of Stafford that, whatever the situation, he was certain in
turning it over in his mind, to give it some fantastic sidelight, which
diverted his attention, and that generally relieved him. The idea of
having Fate in the ducking-stool appealed to him just now and smoothed
his mood. How would that arbitrary lady, she who had had her own way
with the world so long, conduct herself under such trying circumstances,
for trying he inferred they were, from old prints which he had studied
with great interest in his childhood. He imagined the way in which her
long hair would float out upon the water as the shore end of the board
went up and she, in the chair at the other end, went down and under
water, and, in imagination, he could hear her gasp a little, stubborn as
she is reputed to be. How would she behave and comport herself after the
third or fourth dip? Would she prove amenable and, when she had got her
breath, pledge herself to be henceforth and for all time a little more
considerate of the comfort of humanity? For lovers especially would she
exhibit a more kindly and understanding regard? If not, why, then, under
she must go again!
So he ambled on foolishly and to his own relief. An admirable thing for
Stafford was it that these whimsies so often seized upon him, equally
when he was enraged or distressed, it didn't matter which. They helped
to tide him over the mental emergency. Happy the man who has such an odd
streak in the composition of his under-nature.
"Still," Stafford laughed to himself, "I am an abused man. I am a victim
of atrocious circumstances. I'm an injured being, and I'm at bay! I'm
going to turn and make the best of it savagely. I'll have, at least,
the comfort of looking into a pair of eyes and listening to a voice.
I'll go and talk to Her."
And he went into the next car and seated himself beside the Far Away
Lady, who received him kindly. He resolved to indulge himself in her
companionship for a time, though against his better judgment. He knew
that he was but making his trial the harder to bear.
"Do you know," he said, after the first greeting, "that I wish I could
sing?"
"And why do you wish that?" she queried.
"Because, if I could, I would get off the train and wade through the
snow away out to that clump of evergreens you see there two-thirds of
the way up the slope--which would be out of hearing from here--and I
would get behind the evergreens, out of sight, and sing something
dolorous."
"Why would you do that?"
"I hardly know myself. I suppose it would be something in the mood and
the way of the old troubadours, who, when things went wrong, murmured
'Alack' and sought the silent places and engaged in dismal vocalism."
"But don't you think it was rather foolish of them?" ventured the Far
Away Lady.
"I don't know about that. It must have been a sort of relief. Groaning
is a great relief when you are hurt. I noticed that particularly among
my workmen in Siberia, whenever one of them had been injured in an
accident. Very fine groaners they were, too."
"But what nonsense you are talking"--there was a note of more than
anxiety in her voice--"has something happened? Tell me, John. Has
anything occurred to-day to disturb you?"
"Nothing, madam, nothing at all. Do you know what is meant by
'cumulative repression?' Well I'm suffering from 'cumulative
repression.' That's all. There are different kinds of the disease and
mine is of the sort for which there is nothing one can take."
"I don't understand you, John."
"No? Well, I don't seem to make myself very clear, it is true. I didn't
explain 'cumulative' as thoroughly as I might have done. It's this way:
Suppose you were compelled to take some drug the effect of which is
known as 'cumulative.' The first dose would have little effect, and so
on, up to a certain time. Then something would happen, and that
something would be a result just the same as if you had taken all the
doses at once--mighty serious, possibly. In my case I don't, as yet,
know just how serious the effect is. I think--at least I hope--that I
will recover. I seem to feel it wearing off a shade, but I'm not quite
sure. The consequences of 'cumulative repression' are sometimes most
serious. Insanity has been known to come. But, as for me, 'I am not mad,
I am not mad,' I'm only a little--I'm only wandering in my mind."
Then, all at once, his mood changed to something absolutely earnest and
his look was pitifully appealing as he leaned toward her:
"Oh, Lady Leech, can you do nothing for me?"
She did not answer him. She understood. She knew, as well as if he had
told her in simpler words, that he had almost failed in his high resolve
and that he had come to her, feverish, in a half madness, to be upheld
and strengthened, or otherwise to be dealt with, as she would. She
realized it all, and thought silently, struggling with herself as he
might never know. But the good, both for his sake and hers, was strong
within her and finally came her soft reply:
"You know, John, that I would help you if I could, but you know that I
cannot, that I must not, even a little."
Her's was a great sympathy, yet, in the midst of it all, there was
something she could not understand. She had heard that of him, from
China, which made this scene incomprehensible. She knew that there was
not a trace of acting, that there was no craft nor design about him, and
she was but lost in a maze of troubled doubt. There was her own heart.
An overwhelming pity overcame her, but she could not express it.
He sat looking at her, silent, sad, studying. Then, suddenly, he
returned to earth again; his face lightened:
"What nonsense I've been talking to you! I will go into the other car
and encourage the Colonel in the arena," and so he left her.
But there was a mist in her eyes as he went out. How he had reminded her
of the Stafford of old, in the days when they were careless!