CHAPTER II.
SOLD.
On the 14th of May, the Pullman palace, Cleopatra, was waiting on a side-track at London, ready to take its first trip. It had been chartered, John the porter said, by a chap from St. Louis, who was going to take quite a party there. A bridal party it was. How large the party was to be, the porter did not know, though it was important enough to him. But he had dusted the new plush, clean as it was, and had wiped off the wood-work, though he could not stain his cloth on it.
Presently the party came, headed by a dark gentleman talking to the station-master. The station-master introduced him to the conductor as Mr. De Alcantara. The eagle eye of the porter saw that there were twelve in the party. He waited for no introduction, but seized the hand-baggage and distributed it to the different sections. Meanwhile the party entered the car.
But though the porter had assigned to each of their grandeurs a section of four seats, they did not mount each a separate throne. On the contrary, a pleasant-looking young lady, who might perhaps be the bride, and two children, sat down in the middle of the car. The rest were distributed according to their different degrees of lack of acquaintanceship.
"I want to bid you good-by now, dears," said the bride to the children. "You see there'll be a great row when you go to bed, and to-morrow morning I'll have hardly time to kiss you. So while they're setting supper ready, and he's talking to papa, I'll tell you each one of my old stories—no, you're so old now, Edward, that I'll tell Amelia two stories, and you can listen if you want to. Then we'll have just as good a good-by as if it were to-morrow, and two—no, three sets of kisses."
"But it's not so very far to St. Louis—so far as to make much of a fuss about; and we'll come and see you, sha'n't we?" said Edward stoutly.
"Yes, if I stay in St. Louis all the time;" and the poor girl told how often she would have to go down the river, and sometimes even across the ocean to Amsterdam. But presently she began on her stories, and the children at least were happy till they were all called to supper.
And then, to the surprise of the porter, the splendid Mr. De Alcantara took out a dried-up little woman whom he had hardly noticed, while Mr. Bryan and the bride filled up the table.
And such a supper as it was! Though it was past eight, the cook gave them as solid a first course as his French education would allow him before he covered the little tables with salads and ices.
To old Bryan's surprise, Hester took a little of De Alcantara's champagne—not as much as her cousins behind her; but he had never known her to take wine even in his flush times. Not that he cared,—he saw two full bottles opposite,—but yet he noticed it. Perhaps it was that which gave her rosier cheeks than she had had for a month; and perhaps it was that which put her in such good spirits.
"I am quite relieved," said she, as the last waiter went out. "I really expected to see a wedding-cake come on after this luxury, and hear that Mr. Prayerbook was in the next car, ready to marry me or bury me."
"If I had known you expected it," said De Alcantara, "I should have had it ready. And even now, I dare say, there is a priest on the train, my dear."
"Oh no, indeed," said Mrs. Goole, who took everything in earnest; "it will be far better for you to retire now with the children. It's nine o'clock, and just think how hard a day you'll have to-morrow."
"I don't know," said Hester. "I think that it is never so hard to do a thing as to make up one's mind to it; and as for going to bed, I don't care to. Perhaps Mr. De Alcantara has a pack of cards or so with him, and then you can have some whist, aunt, and we— Shall we have Sancho Pedro or euchre, your Grace?"
"Grace me no grace," said De Alcantara, as cards were produced—to his credit, be it said, from a friend's portmanteau. "I vote for euchre, if it be for four hands; Pedro by itself is far from exciting."
"Not when it's played for love, your Grace?" said Hester.
Who shall say how much the Don understood of the gambling terms of Great Britain? He stumbled and said, "Certainly, if you put it in that way."
But Hester would not, and so De Alcantara took the home-bridemaid, Lucy Lander, as his partner, and a "son of St. Louis" sat opposite Hester.
"I didn't quite know what to think," said Lucy Lander, afterward, to her sister. "Sometimes I thought she had made up her mind to it, and then again I thought something awful would happen. You see, he kept calling her 'my dear,' and she never blushed nor anything, except once, when she was leaning back, shading her face with her cards, and then her eyes sort of glittered; it could hardly have been the light, you know. And once she had dealt, and the cards fell ace, two, three, four, and then Mr. Gardner, the St. Louis man, said, in a sort of hesitating way, 'That means kiss the dealer, you know'; and then the duke took up her hand, which was lying on the table, but she pulled it away, and said, 'Wait—till to-morrow.' That could have meant anything, you know."
And as Lucy sat and wondered, Hester sat and played, better than Lucy did, perhaps. She did not let De Alcantara kiss her hand, but she did laugh with him, and at him a little. She asked the St. Louis man if her hands were large enough to pass muster there, and then explained that her father took a Chicago paper. Indeed, so loud was the laughter of the gentlemen that Mrs. Goole kept looking round in an anxious way, and trying to catch Hester's eye. But Hester kept her back resolutely turned, and Lucy would not understand any telegrams from the chaperon; so when Mrs. Goole found, to her joy, that it was eleven, she broke up the somewhat shaky whist-table, and spoke to Hester.
"My dear," said she, "it is really too late for any one to stay up any longer. My girls must go, and you too."
So Hester jumped up, kissed her father good-night, and bade au revoir to De Alcantara. Then she turned to section six, directed by the obsequious John.
"Wait," said De Alcantara, "I have a surprise for you;" and he led her to number nine, where her immense Saratoga stood on the sofa. "If you need anything," said he, "you yourself have been careful that you will find it here." And he kissed his hand and walked forward. As Mr. Bryan was following, Mrs. Goole stopped him. Looking round to see that Hester had disappeared, she said,—
"Fergus, that girl of yours doesn't mean to be married to-morrow."
"How do you know that?" said old Bryan.
"I can see it; I've been watching her," said Mrs. Goole. "You see that you have the forward section; I have the rear one. She won't pass me in the night, whatever she does at your end."
"Do you mean to sit up all night?" said poor Bryan.
"Of course I do, fool!" said his tender sister, "and that you shall sit up all night, too. If you don't, there'll be no wedding to-morrow."
"Well," said Bryan, as his sister left him.
He thought it over with a cigar on the front platform, and decided that his sister was right. So he worked his way back to her section, and found her there, sitting on the edge of the berth, as grim as a sentinel at Pompeii.
"I'll do it," said he.
"You'd better," said she.
And so all night he sat on the edge of his berth and tried to read, and then took another cigar on the platform, and then back and forth, till his cigars were gone; but not a wink of sleep passed his eyes that night.
As for Mrs. Goole, who shall say what passed in her vigils? Certain she was that on that night no one passed her but the two conductors and one brakeman. She was once startled at Chimborazo as a new black face appeared; but it was explained that there was a change of porters, and whether Mungo or John it mattered little to her.
And so morning came. No, it is no business of mine to tell who slept and who did not; who dreamed, or what the dreams portended. Sunrise is sure, or well-nigh sure; and even in a sleeping-car morning comes. Mrs. Goole looked a little more scraggy and haggard than usual. The bridemaids did their best, in the way of toilet, in their somewhat limited dressing-room. Baltasar was radiant in a fresh paper collar,—the utmost that even wealth like his could produce, as one travelled forty miles an hour, on the morning of one's wedding-day. Mungo, the porter, "made up" the several sections one after another. From beds they became elegant sofas again, and only section six, Hester's section, was intact. Its heavy curtains hung as at midnight, secured half-way down, as one might see, by a heavy brooch which Baltasar himself had given her.
"Let her sleep," said Lucy Lander. "Perhaps she did not sleep well at first. I did not."
"Oh, yes," said Mrs. Goole grimly; "let her sleep. I never can sleep in these things. I sat up all night without a wink."
"Oh, yes, let her sleep," said her father; and so they dashed on. Eight o'clock passed, half-past eight, nine o'clock, and yet no sign from number six.
Meanwhile obsequious waiters came in from the kitchen-car. The breakfast would be spoiled,—one breakfast had been spoiled already. De Alcantara consulted with old Bryan.
"Lucy," said old Bryan at last to Lucy Lander, "you must wake her. You girls will faint without your coffee. And in half an hour more there will be no breakfast."
Lucy assented, a little unwillingly, went to number six, withdrew the brooch, and put her head inside the curtains, and then—a shriek from Lucy. She flung the curtains back, and no Hester was there!
What was worse, no Hester had been there. The compartment had not been "made up," it would seem. Here were the two sofas, here was the Wreck of the Grosvenor, here was a faded nosegay, just as they had left them when they fell to playing euchre. But here was no Hester Bryan. Where was the girl? What had she done with herself?
De Alcantara turned on Mrs. Goole like a wild creature. He was ready to throttle her in his rage. "This is some confounded joke of yours, ma'am!" But no; she was no such actress as to feign that dismay and horror.
"It is he," she shrieked, pointing at her speechless brother, "it is he! He fell asleep, and the minx passed him at his door."
No. Old Bryan was no such fool as to sleep at his post. "Sartin" he had not slept a wink since this porter came upon the train at Chimborazo. Porter and brakemen were alike confident that no one had left the car at either door. The brakemen testified for the whole time. The porter was certain after Chimborazo.
Then the window of number six was examined,—a double window, and stuck fast with new varnish. Everyone remembered that they could not start it the day before, when Hester tried to throw out a banana-peel. And if she had opened both windows, not Rebecca of York herself could have closed them after her, poised upon nothing, and the train rushing underneath at the rate of forty miles.
From section nine, however, which had not been made up, and of which the windows were ajar, Miriam Kuh, one of the St. Louis bridemaids, produced a handkerchief. It had lain on the top of the Saratoga trunk. It was Hester's handkerchief,—one of the trousseau handkerchiefs,—and tied in a close knot was the engagement-ring Baltasar de Alcantara had given her. Those windows—the windows of section nine—were ajar. But that proved nothing. Baltasar himself said he started those windows for more air after everyone was asleep. Besides, a hawk could not crowd out of those cracks; and if Hester had opened them further, how did she close them again?
All the same the porter and the brakemen were sure she had flung herself from number nine—most likely when they were crossing "the bridge." The brakeman offered confidentially to show any man for five dollars how it could be done.
Old Bryan was sure Mrs. Goole had slept on her post. Mrs. Goole was sure old Bryan had slept on his.
Baltasar de Alcantara was mad with rage, and the bridemaids were faint with hunger. Miss Kuh gave him the ring and handkerchief, and he flung both out of the open window.
The groomsmen stole forward into the kitchen and ate cold chops and flattened omelets. Some cold coffee was smuggled back to the bridemaids.
And so the express-train arrived at St. Louis, and the loafers at the station watched the arrival of the "special bridal-car," and no bride emerged therefrom! only some very sick bridemaids, some very cross groomsmen, a disgusted bridegroom, an angry father and a frightened aunt, and the gigantic Saratoga trunk.
"Where to?" asked the porters, who staggered under the trunk.
"Nowhere," answered De Alcantara, with a useless oath. "Leave it in your baggage-room till it is called for."
And he went his way.