Cupid En Route/Chapter 11

by Ralph Henry Barbour

 

XI

 

IT had been about three o'clock when the train had sped away northward leaving Prue marooned at St. Anselme. And now it was past four by her watch. For an hour she had sat on the bench in a corner of the stuffy little room and stared through the snow-dimmed windows. She had removed her coat and had placed it behind her to soften the angles of the uncompromising bench. She had heard from Aunt Mildred by telegraph, a calmly perturbed message which advised her of arrangements to meet her in Quebec on her arrival and threatened dire punishment to the railroad company. The conductor had also wired the agent to "look after young lady left at your station and forward her on Number 1, care of conductor." The agent had translated the first part of the instructions to mean that he was to supply entertainment, but his well-intentined efforts to engage Prue in conversation had met with no success, and he had finally retreated again into his compartment. Once unmistakable sounds had sent Prue hastening to the door. But all that had met her gaze was a snow-plow and locomotive which, after sighing and sobbing in front of the station for a few minutes, had disappeared again into the storm.

It was getting dark now, and the agent reappeared and lighted the solitary bracket lamp beside the ticket window. Prue piled her fur coat behind her, rested her head against it and closed her eyes. Perhaps, she thought, she might be able to sleep away part of the remaining four hours. But, to her disappointment, she found that she was not the least bit sleepy, that her eyes wouldn't even remain closed. She wondered what had become of the obnoxious Mr. Forbes. For awhile he had paced the platform and she had seen his blurred form pass the snow-splashed windows and heard the sound of his steps on the boards. But that had ceased long since. It was too bad that he had behaved so badly, for he was really quite good-looking, and—and attractive, in spite of his sins. She almost wished she had not quarrelled with him; anyone's society would be preferable to this tiresome isolation. Perhaps, after all, she had been unnecessarily harsh with him; and one shouldn't hold Westerners to the civilized standards of the East. Besides—and her cheeks warmed a little at the reflection—she hadn't been absolutely guiltless herself! She had kept one of his roses that evening in the cab and had deliberately let him see it. And there was the note she had written thanking him for the luncheon, with its flirtatious postscript! That he hadn't taken that as an excuse to annoy her with attentions proved at least that he was a gentleman. In fact, until this afternoon he had really done nothing very much out of the way. But to deliberately, maliciously sentence her to five or six hours in this dreary waiting-room—well, that was unforgivable! Even if he had done it—for the reason he said—still it was very wrong of him. And yet, even that sin held the saving grace of courage and audacity. She had witnessed the leap from the moving train, had thrilled with horror at the sight, had stood rooted with anxiety until he had tumbled unscathed from the snowbank and then had unconcernedly turned her back to show him how utterly indifferent she was to his fate! Certainly, she reflected now, it must have taken a good deal of courage to risk neck and limb in that manner, and the fact that he had done it merely because he wanted to—well, to make her acquaintance, was flattering. On the whole, she wasn't sure that even this last and greatest sin might not be forgiven him in time. What annoyed her now was that the sinner apparently cared not a mite whether he was forgiven or not! It was distinctly selfish and unkind of him leave her here all alone!

The agent closed the ticket-window presently appeared muffled to the ears in shaggy bear-skin coat. He locked the office door and mended the fire. He was, he explained, going to his supper. It was customary to close the station while away, but as madame was here he would leave it open. Madame would like supper presently?

"Thank you, no, I am not hungry. I can get something on the train?"

"Of a certainty, if madame desires to wait so long. But the gentleman—madame's husband, perhaps? No? The gentleman would desire supper?"

"I'm sure I don't know," answered Prue indifferently. "He is outside somewhere. You might ask him."

After the agent had gone the place seemed lonelier than ever. The three black windows stared at her gruesomely. When a coal fell-in the stove she started in a panic. She looked at her watch. It was ten minutes past five. There remained almost four hours longer to wait!. The sound of snow-deadened footfalls on the platform sent her heart to beating agitatedly. Supposing one of those awful rough-looking men she had seen on the platform should enter! She would be simply frightened to death! The door opened a little; outside someone stamped heavily; then the door swung wider open and a great red-bearded giant, strode in. He wore a green plaid Mackinaw coat, bound at the waist with a red and yellow sash, a woolen cap hid the upper part of his face, and his trousers were tucked into felt-topped lumberman's boots. A roll of blankets was strapped to his back and he carried a canvas bag. He closed the door, stowed his burdens on the bench, and advanced to the stove. In the act of taking off his big mittens he glanced across and saw the huddled figure in the corner. Off came his cap with a sweep and the red beard and mustache parted over a row of big white teeth.

"Bon jour, madame!"

Prue, with fast-beating heart, managed a murmured response. The giant rubbed his chilled hands together before the stove and beamed amiably about the room. Finally his gaze went back to the girl.

"The snow she come hard," he announced with another flash of white teeth. "This one ver' bad night, no?"

Prue nodded. It would never do to let him suspect that she was afraid. She measured the distance to the door.

"Madame waits for the train? She is late perhaps?"

"Yes."

"Vraiment! She bad track. She bad road, yes, ver' bad road. Me, I come from Lacbas. Forty-two mile, madame. Ver' bad march."

He unwound his sash and opened his thick coat. Into one pocket after another his long fingers dipped. At last he found what he sought and left the stove and came straight toward Prue. She watched his approach with wide, frightened eyes, one hand at her heart. If, she thought, he came near she should scream! What was it he held in his hand? Not a pistol, not a knife; something small; pebbles, they seemed; half a dozen little pebbles. The scream was ready to come, but something in the expression of the big, homely face that smiled down on her held it back. The giant stretched one big hand toward her.

"Madame like the spruce perhaps? Ver' good spruce."

She looked at the little lumps of spruce glum and shook her head dumbly. Then her gaze, passing from the proffered gift to his face, saw a whitish blur at a window. Her hand dropped from her heart and a little laugh of relief escaped her. She held out her two hands and the giant poured the pebbles into the pink bowl of her palms. He laughed with pleasure.

"Aha! Madame like the spruce! All ladies like the spruce. Me, I know, how to please the ladies!" He drew back and

 

"MADAME LIKE THE SPRUCE, PERHAPS?"

 

beamed genially down on her. "You chew her, yes? Put her in the mouth, so. That is it!"

Prue obediently placed one of the pieces between her lips and strove to smile her appreciation. The giant watched delightedly for a moment and then donned his cap and buttoned his jacket.

"Now," he announced, "I go get me my supper. Me, I ver' hungry little boy." He laughed at his joke, glanced at his bundles, bowed impressively to Prue and, with a final display of teeth, went out. She gave a sigh of relief and looked dubiously at the spruce gum.

"It was very silly of me," she thought, "to be frightened. But I didn't know that he was out there." She looked again at the window, but the white blur was gone. She sighed. Then she dropped the spruce gum in a pocket of her coat. And at that moment the door opened again.

This time it was Wade who entered. Inside the door he shook the snow from his shoulders and turned down the collar of his jacket.

"I'm afraid," he said apologetically, "that I shall have to trespass, Miss Burnett. This seems to be the only place there is."

"I fancy," she replied very coldly, "you have as much right here as I have." She watched him approach the stove and stretch his bare hands to the warmth. Even across the room and in the dim light she could see how they shook. Suddenly she sat up very straight on the bench.

"Mr. Forbes!"

"Yes?"

"You haven't any overcoat!"

"Not here," he replied, his teeth chattering.

"And you've been out there all this time?"

"Well, there wasn't anywhere else, Miss Burnett. I tried to break into the baggage room but the door was locked."

"I never heard of anything so—so foolish! You've probably caught a terrible cold!" Then indignation gave way to concern "Oh I'm so sorry, really! It was all my fault. But you oughtn't to have paid any attention to what I said. I didn't mean that you were to—to freeze to death, Mr. Forbes!"

"But it's of no consequence, really, Miss Burnett. I was quite warm until a short while ago. And I'm warm again already. No, please!"

For Prue had seized her coat and was coming toward him determinedly.

"You must put this on," she declared. "Just around your shoulders, Mr. Forbes. Oh, but you must, really! If you should catch cold I'd never forgive myself for being so mean and disagreeable."

"You weren't," declared Wade as he drew the coat around his shivering body.

"I was; absolutely hateful. But I'm sorry. There, that's better, isn't it? Didn't you have any gloves, either?"

Wade shook his head smilingly.

"No, you see I—I left hurriedly; had no time to pack."

"You were very silly. You might have killed yourself."

"No, I had only to land in the snow. It was easy enough." He turned and faced her squarely. "Look here, Miss Burnett, I've been thinking it over out there and I guess you're right about—about the whole thing. I guess I have behaved like a cad all along, and—"

"I never said that," replied Prue hurriedly.

"And jumping off that train was a low-down thing to do. You see, it wouldn't be so bad if I hadn't thought of pulling the signal cord; but I did. I even had my hand on it." He paused and looked anxiously at her face. She was studying the cracked top of the stove.

"I'm—I'm sorry," he muttered.

"Well," she replied with a little laugh, "what's done is done, isn't it? After all, you didn't realize, I suppose—"

"Yes, I did," he said doggedly. "I—I just did it on purpose."

"But why—No, I don't mean why—"

"I guess you know why," he said. "Because ever since I first saw you there at the opera house—"

"Please, Mr. Forbes!"

"Oh, I suppose this isn't the time not the place to tell you this," he hurried on, "but I'm going back in the morning and I guess I shan't see you again. So—so I've just got to."

"Going back?" she interrupted. "Why I thought you were on your way to Quebec."

"I was. I was going where you went. But I was acting like an idiot. You see, Miss Burnett, you—you sort of knocked me in a heap. That first moment. After that I never had any other thought than just to find you again and—and keep after you until—" He shook his shoulders impatiently and the fur coat slid to the floor unnoticed. "I've read about love at first sight, but I never believed in it until that night. Then I knew—there was such a thing. Look here, maybe this is all wrong too? I've been out there so long I don't know much about the—the rules of the game, Miss Burnett. Maybe I oughtn't to tell you this while you're all alone here. Maybe I'm getting in all wrong again. Am I?"

Prue laughed uncertainly.

"It isn't wrong," she said weakly, "but it's—awfully silly."

"I can stand that. I've acted sort of loco from the start. There were the flowers, and the sandwiches—"

"But the sandwiches saved our lives," she murmured demurely.

"I suppose a chap who knew how to behave in society wouldn't have done those things. But I—it seemed as though I had to. It was all off with me the very first second I set my eyes on you. I never knew that women could be so beautiful and—and fine. You see, we don't have many of the nice kind out our way, and I've been there so long I'd forgotten about women I used to know. I just felt as though you were the girl I'd been living for and working for all my life, and that you must feel it and know it. I thought all I had to do was to stay around and—and be nice to you and some day you'd get to like me. That was silly, wasn't it? And I didn't realize that I was making a cad of myself by following you around the country."

"I never said that," replied Prue softly.

"No, but I guess you thought it."

"No." She shook her head at the stove lid slowly. "No, I never once thought that of you. I did think you were—were—"

"Go on," he said with a harsh laugh. "I can stand it."

"Only that you were—sort of silly and—and impetuous."

"Impetuous! What else could I be? You don't understand. You've never been in love like this, I guess!"

"How do you know that?" she asked quietly.

He recalled Gordon's chatter about Kingdon Smith.

"I don't," he answered in sudden dejection. "Perhaps you have. If you have you know how I felt. Well, I guess that's all. I felt as though I had to tell you. It was my only excuse for—for annoying you."

"In Colorado," asked Prue without glancing at him, "are the men usually—affected—so suddenly, Mr. Forbes?"

"I don't know. I am."

"Always?" She turned a look of innocent surprise on him.

"You're making fun of me now," he muttered sadly.

"No, I'm not making fun," she replied gravely. "I confess that I'm—smiling, Mr. Forbes. You surely don't want me to—to think you serious," she added lightly.

"You know I am," he said simply.

He was staring morosely at the stove. Prue stole a look at his face, smiled ever so slightly and was silent. After a moment he looked up quickly and broke into impulsive speech.

"Miss Burnett, if things were different—circumstances, you know—would it have been any good? I mean, could I have made you care, do you think?"

"Are you serious, Mr. Forbes?"

"Serious! Good Lord, yes! I was never more serious in my life! You don't understand." He frowned perplexedly. "Why, tonight, when you go—on that train—I'll feel like—like a dog that's been kicked out into the street to starve. The bottom of things is just falling out completely. It's as though, since I saw you, I'd been going up and up in a bucket, past one level after another with the blue sky and the real world getting nearer and nearer with every wind of the windlass. And now, just when I was beginning to smell the surface and feel the warmth of the sun, the cable's broke and I'm falling straight for the bottom with nothing ahead but a dull thud. You bet it's serious," he ended grimly.

"Then—then I'm sorry," she said gently. After a pause she added; "That is, if you really must go back."

"But I—couldn't go on, could I?" he asked hopelessly.

"Why?"

"Because if I did it would mean that I would still hope."

"Oh."

"And after what you've said—"

"I didn't know that I'd said—anything particular," she murmured.

"You said you didn't want to make my acquaintance or see me again."

"Did I? And you said, didn't you? that it took two to—to say good bye."

"Then you didn't mean it?" he cried eagerly. "Not all of it, that is? You'll let me—"

She laughed.

"Mr. Forbes, how do you expect me to know what I meant or didn't mean when I'm starving to death? Do you suppose there is anything to eat anywhere?"

"Eat?" he echoed vacantly.

"Yes, is eating quite outside your philosophy? Perhaps it does sound prosaic, but I've had nothing since noon but some spruce gum."

Wade rescued her coat from the floor, handed it to her and turned determinedly to the door.

"I'll find something," he said.