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Page 36
Elizabeth--that was all he had of her. He did not know the rest of her
name, nor where she was going. He did not even know where she had come
from, just "Elizabeth" and "Montana." If anything happened lo her, he
would never know. Oh! why had he left her? Why had he not _made_ her go
with him? In a case like that a man should assert his authority. But,
then, it was true he had none, and she had said she would run away. She
would have done it too. O, if it had been anything but sickness and
possible death at the other end--and his mother, his own little mother!
Nothing else would have kept him from staying to protect Elizabeth.
What a fool he had been! There were questions he might have asked, and
plans they might have made, all those beautiful days and those
moon-silvered nights. If any other man had done the same, he would have
thought him lacking mentally. But here he had maundered on, and never
found out the all-important things about her. Yet how did he know then how
important they were to be? It had seemed as if they had all the world
before them in the brilliant sunlight. How could he know that modern
improvements were to seize him in the midst of a prairie waste, and whirl
him off from her when he had just begun to know what she was, and to prize
her company as a most precious gift dropped down from heaven at his feet?
By degrees he came out of his hysterical frenzy, and returned to a
somewhat normal state of mind. He reasoned himself several times into the
belief that those men were not in the least like the men he had seen
Sunday. He knew that one could not recognize one's own brother at that
distance and that rate of passing speed. He tried to think that Elizabeth
would be cared for. She had come through many a danger, and was it likely
that the God in whom she trusted, who had guarded her so many times in her
great peril, would desert her now in her dire need? Would He not raise up
help for her somewhere? Perhaps another man as good as he, and as
trustworthy as he had tried to be, would find her and help her.
But that thought was not pleasant. He put it away impatiently. It cut him.
Why had she talked so much about the lady? The lady! Ah! How was it the
lady came no more into his thoughts? The memory of her haughty face no
more quickened his heart-beats. Was he fickle that he could lose what he
had supposed was a lifelong passion in a few days?
The darkness was creeping on. Where was Elizabeth? Had she found a refuge
for the night? Or was she wandering on an unknown trail, hearing voices
and oaths through the darkness, and seeing the gleaming of wild eyes low
in the bushes ahead? How could he have left her? How could he? He must go
back even yet. He must, he must, _he must_!
And so it went on through the long night.
The train stopped at several places to take on water; but there seemed to
be no human habitation near, or else his eyes were dim with his trouble.
Once, when they stopped longer than the other times, he got up and walked
the length of the car and down the steps to the ground. He even stood
there, and let the train start jerkily on till his car had passed him, and
the steps were just sliding by, and tried to think whether he would not
stay, and go back in some way to find her. Then the impossibility of the
search, and of his getting back in time to do any good, helped him to
spring on board just before it was too late. He walked back to his seat
saying to himself, "Fool! Fool!"
It was not till morning that he remembered his baggage and went in search
of it. There he found a letter from his cousin, with other letters and
telegrams explaining the state of affairs at home. He came back to his
seat laden with a large leather grip and a suitcase. He sat down to read
his letters, and these took his mind away from his troubled thoughts for a
little while. There was a letter from his mother, sweet, graceful, half
wistfully offering her sympathy. He saw she guessed the reason why he had
left her and gone to this far place. Dear little mother! What would she
say if she knew his trouble now? And then would return his heart-frenzy
over Elizabeth's peril. O to know that she was protected, hidden!
Fumbling in his pocket, he came upon a slip of paper, the slip the girl
had given Elizabeth in the schoolhouse on Sunday afternoon. "For in the
time of trouble he shall hide me in his pavilion; in the secret of his
tabernacle shall he hide me."
Ah! God had hidden her then. Why not again? And what was that he had said
to her himself, when searching for a word to cover his emotion? "I pray
for you!" Why could he not pray? She had made him pray in the wilderness.
Should he not pray for her who was in peril now? He leaned back in the
hot, uncomfortable car-seat, pulling his hat down closer over his eyes,
and prayed as he had never prayed before. "Our Father" he stumbled through
as far as he could remember, and tried to think how her sweet voice had
filled in the places where he had not known it the other time. Then, when
he was done, he waited and prayed, "Our Father, care for Elizabeth," and
added, "For Jesus' sake. Amen." Thereafter through the rest of his
journey, and for days and weeks stretching ahead, he prayed that prayer,
and sometimes found in it his only solace from the terrible fear that
possessed him lest some harm had come to the girl, whom it seemed to him
now he had deserted in cold blood.
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