If she had but known, how quickly the blood would have rushed into the cheek, and the statue would have sprung up and away! Marian was not a girl to pose for stranger eyes, nor any other. It was a little singular that a connoisseur of faces should bestow all his attention upon one, and not have noticed just beyond, the fine old face crowned with snowy hair, and radiant with calm content.
The old lady, between her naps, watched the sleeper, too, feeling a sort of motherly responsibility concerning her, because she was alone. "Dear lamb," she murmured to herself, "she is taking a good sleep."
Marian kept some vigils, too. She straightened herself up after a few hours, wondering vaguely where she was, and why the train was standing still. The ghostly light, the silence and the rough men in a seat not far away—one of them—an evil-faced fellow, happening to glare at her just then, filled her with shudderings. She glanced swiftly over to a certain seat to see if it had changed occupants. It had not, and she felt relieved. The man who sat there might be cold and proud, but he was honorable and chivalrous; he could defend a whole car full of people, she was sure. Then there was the old lady beaming out even in the gloom and darkness, as she just now roused up, saying, "How are you getting on, my dear?" There was a world of comfort in that "my dear."
Mr. Lynde had succumbed to the power of weariness, and was fast asleep himself now, and Marian had opportunity to retaliate, had she but known her grievances. She ventured only a few stolen glances to see if closer scrutiny would confirm her first intuitions. It was a shapely head thrown back against the corner of the seat; the face of a high, fine type, intellectually strong, and yet a trifle marred by something. Perhaps it was the suspicion that the mouth might easily take shape in a satirical smile; and there were other curves and lines suggestive of the idea that sarcasm was one of the weapons of his warfare he was fond of wielding. However, it was, as Marian decided, "a face to trust;" she composed herself to sleep again, comforted by the nearness of her two protectors.
When the day dawned matters had not mended. The rain had come down in sheets through the night; the whole country was flooded, and help had not yet come to the disabled engine. It was truly a dismal outlook for all concerned.
The fortunate ones were those who had some breakfast. The nice old lady had a snug little lunch basket, and she looked about her to see with whom she should share it. This particular car was nearly deserted, the men spending most of their time in the smoking car. Mr. Lynde was moodily gazing through the window upon the watery world, when the old lady trotted briskly over to him and, holding out her lunch basket, begged him to help himself to a sandwich and a doughnut, "for I'm sure you must be all tuckered out by this time," she added sympathetically. But this the gentleman most emphatically declined to do, assuring her that he was not suffering, and that he could not possibly think of depriving her of what she might greatly need before the end of the journey.
She looked disappointed as she went back, and Marian, who saw the refusal, but did not hear the kindly, courteous words, inly resolved that he should have no opportunity to decline any contributions from her stores. She could have furnished him an excellent breakfast, she told herself, without fear of coming to want, either. It was good, too; wonderfully fresh and nice, considering the long time it had been on the way, but then she had providently taken precautions when detained at the hotel to keep it in good condition.
It went sorely against Marian's nature to enjoy her nice breakfast, knowing that one who sat so near was hungry, and not offer to share with him. She would have felt the same if he had been a shaggy old man instead of an attractive young one. If only she were an old lady, now, she would go and insist that he should not starve himself. She might get courage to do it even yet, if, now that he was awake, he did not look so haughty and self-sufficient; the very curl of his moustache, as she glanced at him, was proud. Why would he not decline her kindness, too, with a grand air? No, no! He might go hungry until he attained to more humility.
Stuart Lynde had arrived at some conclusions also. Under half-closed eyelids, he had critically looked his fair neighbor over again by the morning light, after she had made her toilet, by shaking out her wrinkles, twisting her long hair into the smooth coil, running her fingers through the short curls on her temples and setting her little hat in its place. After that she looked fresh, and in order, with none of that forlorn and dishevelled appearance some women take on after having sat up all night in the cars.
But the conclusions: It must be confessed that this face from the first fascinated and attracted him. It was of as fine a type as he had ever seen, but her dress and air stamped her as belonging to the fashionable world; and had he not long ago decided that nothing good could come out of fashionable society, such a hollow, decayed, deceitful mass as it was? How many girls he daily met who had fair faces and innocent eyes, but when they spoke—their lips rarely dropped pearls, oftener slang; they were loud, actually coarse, some of them, or they were inane and silly. Most of them cared for no book except a novel, and even that they knew nothing of when once it was devoured. To give an analysis of a single character would be as impossible as to speak in Chinese. They had no thoughts—not more than humming-birds; they had never been taught to think; the few exceptions—in his experience—were those who possessed no personal attractions. A pretty head was sure to be an empty one; and this girl with a head like Diana, was probably a "society girl," with not an idea above dressing, dancing and flirting. It would be but courteous to address a sympathizing word to her, under these extraordinary circumstances, with this long, tedious day before them, and no companionship of any sort. But then, what good? She would probably reply in a few parroty phrases, and that would be the end, or she would resent his remark as an impertinence from a mere fellow passenger, an utter stranger, or she would imagine him desperately smitten, and would place him on one of her pretty fingers as the tenth one ensnared by her within a fortnight. No, indeed, he should make no advance toward acquaintance whatever. Upon which heroic resolution, he dived into his satchel and brought out piles of depositions, knit his brows over them, and tried to forget that he was hungry and growing more so. An hour or two of hard work on these, then he produced a volume of essays to see what consolation there might be in that for a hungry man. This reminded Marian for the first time that she had two little books herself that she had entirely forgotten. She took out the small package wrapped in brown paper, and another inner wrapping of soft white paper as if it held something precious. There was a little volume of "Daily Food" Scripture texts, arranged for each day in the year, and a copy of Thomas à Kempis' "Imitation of Christ," daintily bound in morocco and gilt. On the fly-leaf of each was written in Aunt Ruth's round cramped hand, "Marian Chester:" "The Lord bless thee and keep thee." "Dear aunt Ruth," she murmured. "What would she say if she knew where I am? And what will they think at home?" She just began to realize how forlorn and lonely she was, and actually two large tears stood on her cheeks.