Chapter II: In the Cars

IT was very pleasant riding to the station in the early light of the winter morning. A ride of any sort was a treat to Christie. There was always so much to do in the little home in the morning, and when evening was closing in, that she could rarely be spared to ride to the station with Karl; so that really for the third time in her life did she expect to gaze on the cars!

"It isn't your first ride after the iron horse, by any means," her father said to her. "More than a thousand miles you rode, and you stood it well, too, were just as good as you could be, and gave mother and me no trouble at all. In fact, you seemed to be anxious to amuse Karl, and help him to have a good time. But you were such a little dot, I don't suppose you remember anything about it."

"Why, father," said Karl, "she wasn't three years old then! How could she remember it?"

"Well, I don't know; seems to me I remember my mother, and I wasn't quite three years old when she died. But then folks remember mothers I s'pose, longer than they do anything else. They ought to. Well, Christie, my girl, keep your eyes open to-day, and see what you can learn. My father used to tell me—your old grandfather, you know, who died before you were born—he used to say to me,—

"'Learn all you can, John, about anything and everything; there is no telling when a chance may pop up for you to use what you thought you never "would" use.'

"It's a good rule. I practised on it once when I saw a man making a wagon. I watched just how he fixed the wheel and the holes for the nails, and everything, and I said, right out loud, 'It isn't anyways likely that I shall ever make a wagon, but then I might as well know how you do it.'

"And it wasn't a week after that we broke down going across the prairie, your mother and me and two children. And if I hadn't known just how to fix that wheel, we would have frozen to death likely enough before we could get anywhere."

"Well," Christie said, laughing a little, "I don't suppose I shall ever make a train of cars, but I'll learn how if I can."

"There's no telling," her father said, "what will come of it one day; they are curious things, days are; like enough you may see something to-day that will help you along all your life; and for the matter of that, you might see plenty of things to hinder you all your life; that's what makes such solemn business of living. Only there's one comfort, you can shut your eyes to the evil things, and say: I won't remember one of them; I'll have nothing to do with them. And the good things you can mark and lay away in your mind for future use. Well, here we are, I declare. Old Sam has trotted along pretty fast this morning. Now, my man, you may help Christie out, and get her ticket, and put her on the train all right, and I'll stay here and take care of Sam."

Then did Karl's face glow! But he made a pretence of objection: "Why, father, I can take care of Sam if you want to go."

"No, no, my boy, I can trust you to look after Christie, you'll have plenty of time. They've got a lot of freight to load this morning, and you can go in and find her a seat, and do it all up like a man. Sam and I will tend to each other out here. I'll just set the satchel on the steps there, so you can reach it easy, and then I'll drive around to the shed."

Good, thoughtful father! Putting quietly away his own desire to see his little girl safely launched for her first journey; putting back with resolute hand the vague fear that Karl might not help her properly, or might not get off the train in time, and so harm might come to one or both of them. Well he knew that a whole army of "mights" and "might nots" lay all along life's journey with which to make himself miserable, and there was nothing for it but to seize the doubts with resolute hand and hold them back so that they need not cripple the young lives under his care.

He remembered how, when Karl climbed the tree and swung off in a daring way among the slender-looking boughs, he had to shut his eyes and ask God to take care of the boy, and keep the father from crying out, and so help to make his son a coward. He felt a little bit like that this morning. Only the memory of the apple tree helped; there were no trees now that Karl couldn't climb.

They moved away briskly, that little man and woman; Christie running back once to give father one more kiss, and to assure him that she would certainly be in time for the evening train.

And once he called after her, and ran forward to tell her to say to Uncle Daniel that he could have a cow in the spring, like the one he wanted last fall. And then he went back to his horse, and the boy and girl entered the depot together. Karl went forward, business written on every line of his manly face as he called and paid for a ticket, and stood by protectingly while Christie pinned it in the corner of her handkerchief, and then pinned the handkerchief into her pocket. Then he made a little heap of the basket of apples, and the basket of nuts, and the flowered satchel and the shawl, making business-like comments the while.

"You must have the conductor lift off these baskets for you, Christie; they always do that for folks travelling alone. You don't have to give up your ticket, you know; the conductor makes a little hole in it, and then gives it back. He won't take it until you are almost at the city. And Christie, mother said I was to remind you the last thing, not to get off the cars until you saw Uncle Daniel, and knocked on the window for him to come for you; mother worried about your getting off alone."

"And what," said Christie, "should I do if Uncle Daniel didn't get there in time, and I had to get off?"

She moved closely to Karl as she spoke, and felt as though their ages were reversed, and she were ten and he was twelve, and wished with all her timid little heart that he was going along to take care of her. He had seen the cars so often.

"Oh, well," her protector said reassuringly, "he will be there, of course; he knows just how mother feels. But then if he shouldn't, you needn't be one mite afraid; it is just as easy to step off. I shouldn't mind it at all. I've seen Wells Burton swing himself off with his hands in his pockets; he does it just as easy as you step down from the back stoop. There he is now! Look, Christie, the boy just turning the corner!"

He came leisurely down the snowy walk, whistling a merry tune; a tall, handsome boy, dressed in a well-fitting suit of finest quality and of city make. He nodded his head good-humouredly to a man who stood leaning against the post, and lifted his cap politely to a lady who was approaching from the other end.

"I wonder what he is going in for to-day?" murmured Karl, watching him with fascinated gaze. "There isn't any school for a week; I heard him tell Mr. Lewis so yesterday. Do you suppose he can be going just for the fun of it?"

There was a touch of awe in Karl's voice. It seemed such a wonderful thing for a boy but a few years older than himself to be possibly riding around on the cars "for the fun of it," as he sometimes rode a horse to water! As if in explanation of his wonderment, Wells Burton spoke to the lady who had addressed him.

"No, ma'am, our people are all in town, went in yesterday to spend Christmas at my grandfather's. I was to have gone there last evening, but I didn't get my papa's message in time, and so came home as usual and had to stay here all night.

"Well, no, not alone exactly. The servants are all at home, you know, but it seemed rather lonely.

"Oh, no, they were not frightened. I telegraphed of course as soon as I found out how it was. I thought mamma might be a trifle worried.

"No, ma'am, I walked down this morning, it is such a bore to be always riding. Since there was nobody but myself, I thought I would have the fun of a walk in the snow."

What wonderful talk was this! Karl, looking and listening, forgot for the moment his own importance that morning, and actually gave a sigh. To hear a boy so little older than himself talk so composedly about going in town, and out of town, and spending the night alone, and telegraphing, and dismissing the handsome sleigh and ponies for the fun of a walk, it was almost too much! He looked over at the handsome, well-dressed fellow with a strange wistfulness; and the grey patches on his knees looked larger and coarser than ever before, and the red tippet around his neck seemed almost to choke him. What a difference there was in their lives, to be sure!

"Talk about houses," he said to Christie, speaking some of his thoughts aloud, "you ought to see the inside of their house! I guess Uncle Daniel's is nothing to it. Nick Barton has been there with freight, been upstairs in three or four of their rooms, carrying heavy things, you know. And he says it is perfectly splendid, the furniture and everything. He was telling me about it last night; he says they've got two pianos, or two great big music things in different rooms, and books! Nick says there are books enough to fill the church, he should think."

"I'd like to see the outside of their house," Christie said wistfully. "I don't ever expect to see the inside. But Karl, in the summer, mother said you and I would walk over that way and see all around it. Do you suppose they will be there in the summer?"

"Of course," said Karl, "they built the new house for the summer. They didn't mean to stay here in the winter at all. Nick told me last night; he says they just came down to settle it, and see to things. And the sick young man took a fancy to stay, so they all stayed. Nick said he didn't think it would last long, but he guessed maybe they would stay all winter."

"Is there a sick young man?"

Christie's voice was changing from wistfulness to pity.

"Yes, there is; he can't walk, only on crutches, and looks pale and weak. And when he goes into the city, Nick says some great strong man takes him right in his arms and lifts him into the cars, and he is twenty years old."

"Poor young man!" said Christie.

And she envied the Burton family no more.

"There's the train!" said Karl, his voice full of suppressed excitement. "Now, Christie, don't you touch one of those bundles. I'll tend to them all. And Christie—" this in a lower tone—"if anything should happen that Uncle Daniel shouldn't be there, and you shouldn't see the conductor, this boy would help you off if you should just ask him, and he could tell you just where to go to wait; he knows all about the city, you see."

"Oh," said Christie, shrinking back, and clinging to Karl's tippet, "I couldn't speak to him, Karl; I couldn't indeed. I'd rather get off alone a great deal; and I'm most sure Uncle Daniel will be there."

"So am I. Don't worry! Now come!"

And the great moment had arrived. Karl shouldered the bundles with the air of one used to carrying many things, set them skilfully on the steps of the platform, then came down again for Christie, piloted her safely through the car, found a seat for her, discovered that there was a convenient little wire house above the seat where shawls and parcels were placed, arranged hers for her, and in fact did everything that an experienced traveller could have done for her comfort. He had not used his eyes for nothing.

But now a brakeman was shouting "All aboard!" And he must leave her to herself. He bent down for one last word just as Wells Burton sauntered in with the air of an old traveller who had lingered outside until the latest moment:

"Remember, Christie, if anything 'should' happen—which there won't, it isn't likely—I shouldn't be afraid to ask that boy about things; he looks good-natured. And, Christie, mind and come home to-night, even if you have to walk."

There was a sudden clanging of the bell, a final howl from the locomotive, a jerk which almost threw Christie from her seat, and they were really off. How swiftly the trees and barns and fences flew past them! Everything seemed to be afraid of them, and hurrying to get out of their way. What a queer noise the cars made! And they shook so! As though they were angry, Christie thought. She and Karl had often tried to imagine what riding in the cars felt like, but they certainly had never succeeded.

By degrees, as she became accustomed to the strange motion, our little traveller gained courage to look about her. She had a great desire to act like other people, and in order to do this, it would be necessary to find out how other people acted. Opposite her sat a man with grey hair, and gold spectacles, and a very large gold watch. Christie liked to look at him.

"He is good," she said to herself. "I know he is. I wonder if he's somebody's grandpa going home for Christmas. I suppose he doesn't look like my grandpa out in New York, but I wish he did. I suppose he is taking his grandchildren some nice presents, books, maybe. I wish he would come over here and sit, and tell me about them."

This thought made her look directly in front of her, to see who had the seat which she wanted for her old gentleman. It was a young man with a pale, discontented face. He seemed to be in a great hurry, for he looked at his watch three times during the few minutes that Christie watched him. Yet when a lady who sat in front of him suddenly turned and ask him to please tell her what time it was, he started as though he were not used to being spoken to, and said: "What? I beg your pardon. Oh, the time! I really do not know, but I'll see." And out came the watch again.

How could Christie help giggling? It did seem so funny to her. She did not mean he should hear her, but he did, for he darted at her a quick annoyed look, which, however, softened when he saw what a shy, ashamed little thing it was.

Now Christie was not used to strangers, and felt almost afraid to speak. But she had been brought up to be careful of other people's feelings, and she was afraid she had hurt this young man. She slipped forward on her seat and touched his arm. Her voice trembled a little:

"If you please, sir," she said, "I hope you will forgive me for laughing. I couldn't help it; it seemed so funny to look at such a lovely watch as that without knowing what it said. But I did not mean to be rude. Mother would be ashamed of me."

If the young man had been bewildered when the lady spoke to him, he was too much astonished now to say a word. He just stared for a minute at the burning cheeks, as though he felt like saying:

"What in the world can you be talking about?"

At last he spoke.

"There is no harm done, my little friend. I had already forgotten that you laughed. My thoughts were too busy about other things, and too sad to pay much attention to watches, or to think of anything but getting over the ground as fast as possible."

"We go very fast," said Christie earnestly.

She wanted to comfort the young man, his voice sounded so sad.

He smiled faintly.

"Do you think so? It seems to me that we almost creep."

Christie caught her breath to keep from expressing too great surprise. It seemed to her that they almost flew.

He saw the astonishment on her face, and explained:

"A hundred miles from here I have a very sick friend. If I could get to her in time, I think I might help her. Do you wonder that the train seems to me to move very slowly?"

"No, sir," said Christie, with great sympathetic eyes. "If mother were sick, I should want to fly."

She sat back after that, and the young man took a telegram from his pocket, and seemed to study it. Then he took a newspaper, and seemed to others to be reading it, but Christie saw that part of the time it was upside down. She felt very sorry for him, and could not help glancing at him occasionally with a tender smile on her face; especially as he smiled back, and seemed to like her sympathy.