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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.suredly 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 b.u.t.ters-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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sengers 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 Ca.s.sowary 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 a.s.sured. 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:
[Ill.u.s.tration: "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 G.o.d."
And so he left her.
CHAPTER XXVIII
LOVE"S INSOLENCE
The easy impudence, the loving insolence, the large, feudal lord air of proprietorship, of the man who has just come into possession of the one woman is sometimes a development beyond belief. Reprehensible, certainly.
Stafford had not slept much. All night he had lain awake, trying to realize what it was that had come to him, the beneficence of Providence, the magnitude of what earth has sometimes to give. It was only with dawn that he slept at all, and his dreams were good. As for her, the Far Away Lady, who shall tell what thoughts or dreams were hers?
He came into the dining car that morning, refreshed and exalted, and overlooking and sweeping as an eagle in his first morning swing from his eyrie. He was splendidly intolerable, this triumphant lover who had recovered his equipoise and was himself of the years ago. Any lofty simile would do for him. He came stalking in like a king to a coronation, with but one redeeming feature to the look upon his face, an expression which resembled grat.i.tude. And who was it that entered the car a moment or two after he had seated himself at the breakfast table?
Could this flush-faced, slender creature, bright and almost challenging of eye, be the Far Away Lady, she of the sad and dreamy look! It was she, certainly. Dr. Love, you are a wonder! All the other physicians of the world, all the health resorts of the world, can neither advise nor have effect toward swift recuperation in comparison with you unhampered!
They are but as vapors, or as the things which are not.
The greetings of the morning were exchanged--it was nearly noon, by the way, for they had lain long at Denver--the breakfast was ordered and then he leaned back and looked in her face, smilingly: "Where shall we live?" he asked blandly, as if it were but a resumed conversation. "Have you fallen in love with lotus-eating in Southern California, or are there other regions, still?"
Did my lady lately, so "sober, steadfast and demure," blanche or start at this daring, overbearing opening? Not she. She may have blushed a little, but well she knew the ways of her whimsical, perplexing lover.
Her eyes flashed back at his with the tender, quizzical look in them and she laughed. Then a soberer expression came, and she spoke earnestly and thoughtfully: