She had observed the travelers in the parlor cars and the occasional private carriage with raw envy. The hard wooden bench-seats of the common carriage were too short to lie down upon, and if one could sleep, one woke with a stiff neck and a headache from being wedged into an unnatural, upright position. The most comfortable naps she had taken had been in stations, on the benches reserved for waiting passengers, as she also waited for the next train, guarded by the watchful eye of the curiously paternal stationmasters.
At least she had not starved, although she had expected to spend at least part of the time hungry. Her meals were, indeed, taken care of, and she ate as well as anyone else taking the common carriages. Those same stationmasters saw to it that when there was no dining car attached to a train she was provided with a packet of thick ham or cured-tongue sandwiches and a bottle or two of lemonade. This, evidently, was on the orders of Mr. Cameron, since she saw no one else being so provided for, and occasionally her preferential treatment aroused glances of envy akin to those she bestowed on the wealthier travelers.
There had been sights she would never forget: the fury of a prairie thunderstorm, as lightning formed a thousand spidery legs of fire beneath the heavy, black clouds; the brilliant skies at night, with more stars than she had ever seen in her life; the mountains-every day held its share of natural wonders, more astounding than any of the seven wonders of the ancient world. If she had not been so exhausted, she probably would have been able to appreciate them more.
She had been looking forward to her first sight of the Pacific Ocean, but with this boor trying to catch her attention she was unlikely to be able to appreciate this particular vista.
At least she never tired of this book, The Odyssey in the original Greek. The advantage of having the original before her was that she need not be confined to one particular translator's view of things; she was able to discover nuances and new interpretations every time she read it. It never mattered that she was tired, that the long stretches across the empty plains had seemed interminable. Even with the eyes of another upon her, she was able to reach beyond this journey, to a strange and wondrous journey of a different sort, infinitely more perilous than her own, fraught with the machinations of gods and terrible magic's, with-
"Well, excuse me, missy!"
The boor, seeing himself spurned in favor of a mere book, had elected to take things a step further and try to gain her attention directly. She pointedly ignored him, turning away a trifle, although that cast the pages of the book in shadow. Surely he won't persist if I make it clear I want nothing of him.
Undeterred, he persisted. When he got no response from his verbal attempts, actually poking her foot with his toe so that she looked up at him in shock and affrontery before she could stop herself.
"Well, there, missy," the rude fellow said, in a falsely hearty voice. "You sure have been buryin' your nose in that book! What's it you're readin' that's so interestin'?"
She stared at him, appalled by his impoliteness, then replied before she could stop herself, "Homer's Odyssey.
He wrinkled his brow in puzzlement. Evidently his sole exposure to literature had consisted of what lay between the covers of the McGuffy's Readers. "Homer who? Say, missy, that's all Greek to me."
"Precisely," she replied, lowering the temperature of her words as her temper heated, and she turned her attention back to the book. He's been snubbed, surely he won't persist any further.
Only to have the book snatched out of her hands.
Her temper snapped. Outraged, she jumped to her feet while the lout was still puzzling over the Greek letters.
How dare he!
"Conductor!" she shouted at the top of her lungs, and in her most piercing voice.
The lout looked up at her, startled in his turn by her anger and her willingness to stand up to his rudeness. The conductor, who fortunately happened to be at the other end of her car collecting tickets, hurried up the aisle, walking as easily in the swaying car as a sailor would on a swaying deck. Before he could even voice an inquiry, she pointed at the miscreant with an accusatory finger, her face flushed with anger.
"That man is a thief and a masher!" she said indignantly. "He has been bothering me, he would not leave me alone, and now he has stolen my book! Do something about him!"
But the cad was not without a quick wit-probably a necessity when confronted with angry husbands , fiances and fathers. "I don't know what that woman's talking about," he protested, lying so outrageously that her mouth fell open in sheer amazement at his audacity. "I was just sittin' here readin' my book, when she jumps up and screeches for you."
That wolf-in-sheep's-clothing! Her hand closed into a fist as she restrained herself from hitting him. Any other woman might have shrunk from confronting him further, given that it was her word against his, but her blood was up-and besides, the book had been a birthday gift from her first Greek teacher. She was not going to surrender the book, the truth, or the field without a fight. 'Well, then," she said with venom-dripping sweetness, "If it's your book, I presume you can read it. Aloud."
As it happened, he had the book upside down not that it would have mattered to him. If he did not recognize the name of the great poet Homer, he could hardly recognize one Greek letter from another. He gaped at her in shock of his own, and she neatly plucked her prize from his nerveless fingers, turned it right side up, and declaimed the first four lines on the page in flawless tones. By now, everyone in the car was staring at the drama unfolding at her end.
"Translated roughly," she continued, "It says, 'The One-eyed giant howled his anguish as his bleeding eye burned and tormented him. His fellow giants rushed to learn what had befallen him. "No man has blinded me!" he cried to them. "If no man has blinded you," they replied, "Then it must be the punishment of the gods." ' Anyone who has the faintest knowledge of the classics will recognize that scene."
The boor was not to be so easily defeated. "Why, she could make any gabble, say it meant anything!" he cried. "She's a crazy woman!"
She put the book into the conductor's hands. "Look inside the front cover," she ordered imperiously. "On the flyleaf. It reads, 'To little Rose, one of the greatest flowers of literature, from a humble gardener. With affection, Lydia Reuben.' If this is his book, then how could I know that? And while I may or may not be a scholar of Greek, I have never yet met a man named Rose."
Those sitting nearest her giggled at that, as the rogue flushed. The conductor read the dedication, his lips moving silently, and looked up with a nod. "That's what she says, all right," he rumbled, and turned a stern gaze on the masher. The man coughed, and turned pale, and looked around hastily, as if searching for a way to escape.
Rose felt a bit faint, but she was not going to show it in front of him. "Conductor," I she replied, in more normal tones, "Do you normally permit thieves who compound their crime with an attempt to molest honest women to continue traveling on this train?"
The man turned paler still as the conductor seized his collar. "That we don't, miss," the conductor said, handing her book back to her and pulling the man to his feet. "Sometimes, though, we let the train stop before we throws 'em off."
He blew a whistle, which brought two burly train-guards from the next carriage up, and together they removed lout and baggage, hauling both off towards the rear of the train, as he protested every step of the way at the top of his lungs. Curious stares followed this procession down the aisle, and more curious stares were directed at her after they left the car, but she no longer cared about what anyone thought. Now she let her shaking knees give way, and lowered herself back into her seat, holding onto the back with her free hand, precious book clutched in the other.
Now she let the reaction set in. How had she dared to face that man down? She'd never done such a thing before in her life! Oh, she had argued with men, and told them what she thought; she had made free with her opinions on paper, but she had never actually stood up to anyone who was not a gentleman. She had never confronted som
eone who was obviously prepared to do whatever he wanted, and determined to get his way. No lady would ever have faced down someone like that.
The conductor returned to make certain that she was all right. She murmured something appropriate at him, and he went back to his duties, evidently satisfied. She did not ask him what he had done with the boor. She really didn't want to know.
Probably he'd been escorted to a dank, nasty corner of a baggage car and put under lock and key. But she was a bit appalled to find that she hoped he and his case really had been pitched out of the back of the train.
Despite the bent heads and murmurs of delicious shock up and down the car, she must have convinced the conductor that she was properly helpless, for he kept a solicitous eye on her after that. And her first glimpse of the ocean was not marred by any unwelcome and uninvited presence, for no one else would sit with her. Or even near her.
She looked out across the endless expanse of water for as long as it was visible. She had seen Lake Michigan, of course, but this was so much bigger! She forgot her weariness, forgot everything. Huge-and fierce-even over the cacophony of the train, she heard the roar of the waves against the cliff below.
The train rounded a curve and scrolled away from the ocean, which vanished behind the hills. With the vista blocked, the tossing of the train threw her back to the sordid reality of the carriage. She turned back to her book, still feeling rather shaky inside.
And still angry and puzzled by the drummer's behavior. She simply could not divine what had driven him to persist, and that kept her worrying at the subject. Did he really believe that I was only feigning indifference? Did he think I was trying in some perverse way to flirt with him by ignoring him? He was obviously expecting no resistance to his advances. What had been in his mind? Was he so used to having his way with women that he saw everything she did in terms of what he wanted and expected?
What did he think I was reading, anyway? Walter Scott? A dreadful dime novel? A romantic love story? Wuthering Heights, perhaps?
Probably the latter, and the memory of his expression when he tried to read the book sent her into a fit of giggles she tried to stifle with her gloved hand. When he saw the Greek-oh my! I don't think I've ever seen anyone so surprised since-since I proved to Professor Smythe that I was just as conversant with Chretian des Troyes in the original as any of his other students.
It did occur to her, however, that the works of the Bronte sisters would not have been inappropriate reading given her current situation. Or perhaps Jane Austen. There is not much difference between going off to become a governess and going off to become a housekeeper. Perhaps reading the Brontes could prepare me for Jason Cameron.
From a masher to her future employer-both male, both unfathomable. Neither responded to her attempt to analyze them. She simply did not know enough about either of them to grasp them and pin them beneath the white light of intellect. She gave up trying, and read until darkness fell and it became impossible to read any further. There were oil-lamps suspended in each carriage, but they were too far away to cast enough light for comfortable reading-shadows moved as the lamps swayed, obscuring the letters and revealing them in a way that made her eyes ache. So she didn't bother to try; she just propped herself in the corner of the seat and half-dozed. This last leg of the journey, from Los Angeles to San Francisco, had begun before dawn and would continue until well after midnight. Perhaps her stamina had finally been exhausted; perhaps it was just the knowledge that the trip was nearly over and she was about to confront her employer and learn the truth or falsehood about him. Perhaps it was both, but she was conscious of leaden depression that weighed down her spirits.
She both dreaded the moment for the journey to end and longed for it. As the miles and the hours crept by and her fellow-passengers in their turn dozed off, she stared at her own reflection in the window, seeing only two dark holes for eyes in a ghostlike face which, because of her black clothing, seemed to hang suspended in the air, bodiless.
I am a spirit, wandering, without a home, and I shall wander bodiless forever... I shall become a ghost in Jason Cameron's manor, long before I am truly dead.
What would Jason Cameron really be like? What could she expect as his employee? The comfortable and stimulating experience his letter promised? Or something out of a Bronte novel: poverty of spirit, repression and despair?
Would she find herself bundled up into a tiny attic room, waiting like a drudge on a pair of monstrous, spoiled children? Would the promised wage remain only promises, so that she remained trapped here, where she knew no one and had no way to escape, a virtual slave? Would she find herself confined to the grounds of the house unless she was escorting the children on some outing?
Or would Jason Cameron keep his word? Of late, her experiences had not done much to convince her of anything but the perfidy of her fellow man.
She stared at her reflection, and asked it a silent question. Why had she agreed to this?
Her reflection stared back in equal silence, for it had no answer for her.
A squeal of brakes broke into her melancholy thoughts. The train was slowing down, but why?
It had slowed before, of course, to pass around curves and over bridges. It had even stopped on sidings to let other trains pass, going the opposite direction.
But she hadn't felt the slight change in direction that meant a siding, and if there had been a curve ahead, she surely should have felt it by now. Yet the train was still slowing, and there were no lights beside the track, no buildings, nor any sign of habitation, as there would be if they had reached San Francisco.
The train came to a complete stop. In the strange silence, the engine panted, and some canine creature howled in the far distance. A wolf? Or only a farm-dog? She sat up and peered out of the window on her side of the train, and still saw nothing. Where were they and why had they stopped?
Perhaps there is a blockage on the track? That would certainly be tiresome, adding more hours to the journey while they waited for the track to be cleared, even forcing them to get off and walk around it while their baggage was brought to a second train. During the course of the journey this had happened twice, both times in the mountains when land-slips had sent mud and gravel cascading down on the track. Those accidents had each added days to her trip, for it was no easy thing to get word ahead about the blockage and the need for a second train.
When she saw the conductor entering the car, she was sure he was going to tell them all that this was the case. But he did not disturb any of her drowsy fellow-passengers with a general announcement. He came straight to her, as she watched him in surprise.
"This is a special stop for you, Miss Rosalind," he said, when he saw that she was awake and aware of him. "We've already taken your trunk and bag off, if you'll just gather up your valise, we'll have you on your way in no time."
"On my way?" she asked, dazedly, as he picked up her valise from the seat beside her and offered her his hand to rise.
"Of course," he replied, as if this was a matter-of-fact occurrence to him. "Didn't Mr. Cameron tell you he was sending people to meet you at the Pacifica switch?"
"I-I believe so," she said, as he guided her to the end of the car and the stairs there. There's no station here-who is Jason Cameron that he can have trains stopped in the middle of nowhere to let off a single person?
The conductor handed her down as she gathered her skirts up in one hand for the jump to the ground. It was then that she saw what awaited her on the rails beyond a switch that joined a spur-line to the main track.
Lights cut through the darkness, from lanterns suspended on the rear of the vehicle ahead and from the headlights of both engines. The air was cold and damp, and she shivered as it penetrated her clothing. Overhead, the stars were not as huge and bright as they had seemed in the desert and on the open plains, but they were much more impressive than any stars seen from a city street. There were not many sounds besides the panting of the engines; a night-bird or two, some frog
s or insects. Two men with lanterns and a hand-cart approached her from the odd vehicle on the tracks of the spur, and the wheels of the cart grated in the gravel of the right-of-way. Men from the baggage car met them, carrying her trunk and carpetbag. One of the two new men removed his soft cap deferentially and approached her.
"Are you Miss Rosalind Hawkins?" he asked.
"Yes, I am," she said, faintly, with one hand at her throat.
He looked relieved. "Good. Mister Cameron sent us to meet you, ma'am. We'll be taking you right to his door, practically." In the light from the carriage windows above her, and the lantern in his hand, the man smiled reassuringly. "Won't be long now, and you'll be all settled in."
He put his cap back on and offered her his arm. The other man loaded up his cart with all of her baggage, including the valise the conductor handed to him, and headed back to the odd vehicle without uttering a single word. Rose looked doubtfully at the conductor, who nodded and smiled, and made little shooing motions with his hands.
So she took the stranger's arm, and she was glad to have it. The railroad right-of-way was rough and uneven, and she couldn't see where she was putting her feet in the darkness. The conductor mounted back up to the platform of the carriage and signaled to the engineer with a lantern as soon as Rose and her escort were out of the way. Down at the end of the train, another lantern waved in the same signal from the caboose.
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