THE RELEASE
As Stafford concluded his fanciful, dreamy but, seemingly, from his
manner, most earnest story, the Far Away Lady gave him a single
appealing glance and then arose and departed for her own car. As she
passed he saw that there were tears in her eyes. They did not speak nor
did they meet again that day, but he was resolved to breakfast with her
in the morning.
Morning opened brilliantly and as he entered the dining car, at the time
he knew she would be there, he saw that the sun which had but just
climbed lazily above the mountain tops, was engaged in the task of
gilding her hair. He advanced with more courage than he had on the first
occasion.
"Good morning, the world is in a good humor to-day, is it not," was his
comment as he took his seat. "Have you noticed that the sun, whose
business it is to indicate the world's moods, has leaped through the
window and is playing with your head when he isn't dancing on the
table-cloth?"
She looked up smilingly, but before she could answer, there came an
interruption. The door of the car opened and there stalked up to them
the big conductor, owner of the stubby red moustache, with a look in his
eyes which indicated that he had swift remarks to make. He broke out
promptly: "Mr. Stafford, you are wanted at the wire, and, you bet,
there's something doing."
Pleasant to the looker-on, as to them, are the relations and
understandings regarding the little side issues and incidents of life
between a man and woman of intelligence and education when they are in
love with each other, even though that love must be repressed and
unexpressed. The interjection of the conductor was delightful to the
woman in this case, because it was an involuntary compliment to the man
opposite her at the table. It was the breaking in of a fine hireling
upon the man of brains and accomplishments, the call upon him for aid in
this time of casual need. Stafford's heart danced as he caught the look,
because he recognized its full significance.
And then as he rose he grinned, because he saw that the conductor was
evidently in trouble. His face indicated that. There was one
appreciative look into the face of the smiling woman and then he went
out to deal as he might with the existing condition of affairs. He
rather enjoyed these frequent interviews with the coming saviors. They
had a smart operator at the other end of the wire and, as he had
learned, the boss of the rescuing train was assuredly a railroad man of
might and much acuteness. They had, as already told, indulged in a
verbal brush or two. Connection was made and the first thing Stafford
got was:
"Can't you chumps do anything over there?"
"Do anything!" was Stafford's reply. "Do anything! We are a dead train,
lying helpless, with our nose stuck into four hundred thousand million
feet of packed snow! What are you doing, yourselves, with all the
engines you want and a snow-plow, and all the men you want? It strikes
me that as butters-in you are about the worst existing."
And then from the boss of the rescuing train Stafford listened to
clicked language the recollection of which was ever afterward among the
delights of his life. It referred to his personal character and to his
ancestry and to a large variety of things besides. It was an admirable
effort, an oration trimmed with red exclusively.
And Stafford, understanding that something would, naturally, be expected
of him in return, cut loose with his own store of expletives. His four
years' absence from the country had left him somewhat deficient in
modern Americanisms, but, during that time, as became a man handling
lazy coolies, he had acquired a stock of Orientalisms that were not
altogether without merit, and these he launched at the gentleman with
whom he was engaged in conversation.
Evidently the man at the other end was delighted, for this was his
reply:
"I don't know who you are who appear to be running things over there,
but you seem to have some stuff in you."
"That's all right," said Stafford, "but we've got some curiosity over
here. What have you got for a snow-plow, anyhow--a mowing-machine, or a
reaper?"
"We'll show you, my child! Oh, we'll show you! And I've got some mighty
good news for you. Things are doing. We've thrown away the trinket we've
been trying to use, because we've just got a new snow-plow from the
East. She's a monster, and a beauty of the new style. Why, she just
lives on snow--wants a mountain of it for breakfast, two for dinner,
another for supper, throws away what she doesn't eat, and throws it a
mile! She's eating her way toward you now, and she's eating mighty fast.
She was hungrier than usual to-day. Watch our smoke, that is if you can
see it above the snow she throws, and we're making lots of smoke, too.
We'll save your sinful bodies, if we can't your souls, this very day.
Get ready for moving. We'll be with you somewhere between one and four
o'clock. Good-by."
Stafford gave a whoop--he couldn't help it--and imparted the good news
to those about him. In no time it was all over the train, and then, to
the accompaniment of satisfied exclamations, there was bustle and a
gathering together of things everywhere, for during the long wait there
had been much scattering of personal belongings. This was a business
soon accomplished, to be followed by a period of excited waiting.
It was almost precisely three o'clock when the prisoners, listening like
those at Lucknow, heard, faint and far beyond the snowdrifts, something
like the piper's blast. It was the distant triumphant whoop of a
locomotive. Nearer and more loudly it approached and, presently, in the
distance, could be perceived dimly a column of smoke. The advance was
not rapid, as a matter of course, but neither was it very slow, and, at
last, the whooping monster was in sight, or, rather, not the monster
itself, but a cloud of smoke in front of which, swirling, and dense, was
a roaring snowstorm. The end was nearly reached. The relief train, its
engineers still overworking their whistles, came on, the snow-plow still
doing its fierce work, until the two trains stood there close together,
the nozzle of the locomotive resting against the snow-plow lovingly.
There was a scramble of people from the train so long imprisoned as
there was also from the rescuing train, and there followed a general
time of hand-shaking and congratulation. Stafford had the pleasure of
meeting the train boss with whom he had been talking in the morning, and
took a fancy to that rugged and accomplished civil engineer and railroad
man at once, as evidently did the other man to him. Then came business.
The boss explained the situation:
"You are in our way. We have work to do in behind you, and we can't pass
you. We've got to get you back to the siding, about ten miles from here.
We'll have to haul you, I suppose. Have you any coal?"
"Not ten pounds," was the answer of the engineer of the rescued train.
"Used it all up, and mighty carefully, too, for heat. Been using bushes
for wood. Another day and there'd have been trouble. Lucky it hasn't
been very cold."
"Yes, we expected that, and can supply you. We've a flat car load along.
We'll haul you back to the siding and get the coal on there. It's the
only way."
The coupling was made, the slow retreat of the rescuing train to the
siding, taking over an hour, accomplished, as was the transfer of coal
and water, with great difficulty and much work of trainmen, and, at
last, the train from San Francisco was itself again. It moved forward,
its passengers cheering the train on the side track which was also
pulling out, but toward the West. The episode was over. Upon the rear
platform of the last car as the train drew eastward stood, all alone,
the big blonde porter.
The train was whirling toward Denver. There was a great reunion after
supper, presided over by Colonel Livingston, of course, to celebrate, as
the Young Lady expressed it, their providential escape from the largest
island of Juan Fernandez in the world, but the Far Away Lady was not
present. Stafford wondered, and was restless and disappointed. As time
wore on, he could not endure it very well, and, withdrawing quietly,
went forward to her car, adjoining. What he saw as he entered--and the
sight gladdened him, for he feared that she had retired--was the lady
sitting alone by the window, still, and apparently dreaming. He advanced
and seated himself beside her. She looked at him and smiled, but said
nothing.
"Why are you not in the Cassowary with all the rest?" he asked. "They
are rejoicing."
She made no answer to his question: "I hope you are happy, John," she
said gently. "I heard of your marriage to the American girl at the
legation in St. Petersburg, and I prayed that"--but she never finished
the sentence.
"Wh-a-t!" gasped Stafford, "Married! I--What the--"--and he almost
forgot himself, this man fresh from handling coolies--then more gently
and most sadly: "Agnes, you should have known better! Oh, you should
have known better! There was a Stafford married there, it is true, a
relation of mine, a cousin. It was through him I made my Russian
connection--but, Agnes, how could you! Did you think there was room in
my heart for another woman, and so soon? But women are strange
creatures," he concluded bitterly.
She could not answer him at first, though the light which came into her
face should have represented courage; she could but murmur brokenly:
"Forgive me. You must do that--but, oh, John, what could I think? It all
seemed so assured. And I was half insane, and doubting all the world.
And now, now you have made me very happy. I cannot tell you"--and she
failed, weakly, for words.
Every thought and impulse of the man changed on the moment. A great wave
of tenderness swept over him:
"Forgive you? Of course I do," he said impetuously, "I can understand.
Poor girl, you must have suffered. Who wouldn't at the unveiling of such
a man?" Then came the more regardful thought:
[Illustration: "WE SHALL MEET AT BREAKFAST"]
"But how is it with you, Agnes? Is life as black as ever?"
"My husband died two years ago," she barely whispered.
The eyes of those who have been long imprisoned cannot, at first, when
freedom comes, see in the ordinary light of day, much less when it is
glorious sunlight, and it was some moments before the souls' eyes of
these two became accustomed to its splendor. Even then, no word was
said. They were alone. He but gathered her closely in his arms and
kissed her without stint. He had been starving long enough. So he held
her for a time and, when he released her and spoke at last, it was but
to say in a voice by no means modulated:
"Agnes, I cannot talk, and you know why. I am going away now. We shall
meet at breakfast. I but thank God."
And so he left her.