weary of fighting off thoughts, tired with the insistent intrusions of memory, john stafford, who had awakened refreshed and himself again, leaned back in his seat and gave himself up to the bitter-sweet of the home-coming after long absence. landing from the steamer in san francisco, stafford had still felt himself to be in a strange country, though the people proclaimed themselves americans of the americans in every look and turn and voice. but the blue sky and the blue bay, the mountains and the outdoor life of the people, gave stafford still the feeling that he was yet in a foreign land, as he had been for five years or more.
he had not counted the time from the first six weeks after his departure from america.
across mountains, deserts, prairies, plains and rolling hills with peopled cities in their sheltering folds, stafford held his way toward the east. he hardly knew his destination. to new york, or to stop to the central whirlpool of life in[12] america where goes most of what is from the west toward the outer edges of the roaring market place of the indian name, built where the sluggish river flows, juggled by the hand of man out of the great inland sea of michigan into the mississippi valley, where it originally belonged. to one of the two cities he was indifferently bound.
now, with eyes closed, and lips firmly and perhaps grimly set, stafford looked the past in the face, and speculated as to the future. to him it was all undetermined. he could give it no continuous thought, for the past kept haunting him, as it had, more and more, with every mile on the way from the pacific coast.
his had been one of the tragedies of life and love. a strong man, upright, conscientious, brilliant and familiar with social risks, he had yet fallen in love with a married woman, the wife of a brute, an animal unsuited to her in every way, but still the wife.
it had been a love as wonderful as it was blameless. the two had met, and had involuntarily, by the mere force of a natural gravitation, been drawn toward each other, and, since they fitted, the inevitable had taken place. the very fibres of their souls had intertwined.[13] it was the story, old as time, of love barred by the law which men have made for good, a story the material for which exists in all lands and among all races, in all climates and under all conditions, whether it be where gather the softest of the lazy mists which float beneath the palms of the equator or as near the north pole as the musk ox browses. the woman unrighteously married and the man unmarried—or the reverse—will come together. like wire of gold through armorer's bronze, a perfect cloisonné, will come, sometimes, the close relationship. and, where is the fault of loving involuntarily, helplessly, but sinning not at all? nature is god's and has her paths, and love is but the index finger of the two.
but john stafford and mary eversham were not of the sort to violate the conscience by yielding to fond desire. the right was first with this splendid man and woman. one sweet privilege they allowed themselves, that of a full confession to each other of all that was in their hearts, and then they separated, he to seek in russia such forgetfulness as strenuous work might bring, she to bear patiently the weight of a barren life. now he had fought his fight in the frigid northern[14] orient, and had returned, a winning american, but objectless and restless.
the man musing there gloomily at last aroused himself: "i'll think no more," he muttered; "i'll exhibit a little common sense;" and he devoted his attention to what was going on about him.
the storm had passed. as morning neared, it lessened somewhat in its force, and when daylight came, opaque and dim, it ended suddenly. the blizzard groaned and then dropped into nothingness.
it was a curious and impressive sight which was afforded those on the train as they streamed out and massed themselves upon the platforms—for those in the sleepers dressed hurriedly and came out only a little later than the occupants of the other cars, who had slight dressing to do—and it was a sight in no degree encouraging. about them was but an endless reach of dead, unenlivened dreary white, the dull white of a tombstone, and they knew that they were the helpless prisoners of this solitude. they were appalled. it affected them all, though differently, according to their character.
food for days they had, certainly, and heat for the present. this was on the credit side.[15] on the other side were a variety of threatening possibilities. weak people have died in snowbound trains. should they be imprisoned for long there would be no heat, and the cold in the mountains is something that seeks the very marrow. such cold they might have to endure. some one spoke shudderingly of a singular death caused by this bitter enemy in a train stalled years before not far from the place where they were now almost entombed, for the canyons in the rear were filled by this time and by no possibility could the train be moved in one direction or another. the story was that of the death of a wonderful little personage who, though nearly thirty years of age, was only thirty inches in height, most famous of dwarfs, the mexican woman, lucia zerete. wrap her warmly as they would, they could not save her. the frost permeated her slight body and she died upon the unheated train. the allusion brought a shudder. that awful frost in the air seeks all humanity within its limits, and then, for the more fragile, the world may no longer be going round.
the sky lightened gradually, and toward noon the clouds broke so that the sun shone for a brief space, but there came no real brightness. the sun did his best, but it was little. he was trying[16] to send his rays to the depths of the canyon, but was not succeeding very well. he is admirable at straight work, this luminary who gives us heat and light and life—but when it comes to giving quality to rays which have to be again reflected, he is only moderately efficient. the sides of the canyon laughed at him. "you may lighten and heat our enclosed depths somewhat," they said, "but you cannot give to the canyon the real sunshine. you may be lord of our solar system, but we upheaving rocks of this particular region of this particular planet can temper your force beyond all reason!"
incidents enough were occurring in stafford's car. the porter, apparently a white man, and a blonde, was just ushering in a forlorn company of wayside travelers, and gave them seats in the vacant places, of which there were not a few, for travel was light on the line, these short february days of the year when the "great storm" burst, not here alone, but, later, upon the atlantic states, and played with men and all their work for a day and a night, giving to the human pigmy a terrifying lesson of his own insignificance when the forces of nature take hold in earnest to shake and tumble into fragments the[17] cherished works of her ordinarily spoiled darling, man.
"this car has the best accommodations, and so they are bringing the way passengers in here," the porter explained, as he strove to make comfortable a tearful woman, whose whole being seemed to be absorbed in the effort to make the world know that she had left her two children alone at home, while she made the five-mile journey by rail to the nearest town, and back, to buy some family stores, the nature, price and quantity of which she was by no means loth to describe in detail.
"i meant to take the 'commodation," she repeated to whomsoever listened to her, "but the 'commodation didn't come, and they put me on the express, and i thought it was fine to ride on the through passenger, that never stops at our station, but i've got enough of the express, stuck all this time in the snow, and there are my poor children locked up at home."
the men fidgeted in their seats, and the women, one or two of them, went to the wayside passenger and gave her the aid, comfort and support of listening to her, as the one form of consolation possible. by no means alone was the woman in her murmurings. there were[18] others quite as querulous and restless, particularly one man, a stormy mountain character, who was a storekeeper in the town where the complaining woman lived, and who announced that he must get home somehow and at once. the day passed miserably. the prisoners had not yet settled down into a patient acquiescence with what was.
