A Chariot of Fire Part 1

A Chariot of Fire.

by Elizabeth Stuart Phelps.

When the White Mountain express to Boston stopped at Beverly, it slowed op reluctantly, crashed off the baggage, and dashed on with the nervousness of a train that is unmercifully and unpardonably late.

It was a September night, and the channel of home-bound summer travel was clogged and heaving.

A middle-aged man--a plain fellow, who was one of the Beverly pa.s.sengers--stood for a moment staring at the tracks. The danger-light from the rear of the onrushing train wavered before his eyes, and looked like a splash of blood that was slowly wiped out by the night.

It was foggy, and the atmosphere clung like a sponge.

"No," he muttered, "it's the other way. Batty's the other way."

He turned, facing towards the branch road which carries the great current of North Sh.o.r.e life.

"How soon can I get to Gloucester?" he demanded of one who brushed against him heavily. He who answered proved to be of the baggage staff, and was at that moment skilfully combining a frown and a whistle behind a towering truck; from this two trunks and a dress-suit case threatened to tumble on a bull-terrier leashed to something invisible, and yelping in the darkness behind.

"Lord! This makes 'leven dogs, cats to burn, twenty-one baby-carriages, and a guinea-pig travellin' over this blamed road since yesterday--What's that? _Gloucester?_--6.45 to-morrow morning."

"Oh, but look here!" cried the plain pa.s.senger, "that won't do. I have got to get to Gloucester _to-night_."

"So's this bull-terrier," groaned the baggage-handler. "He got switched off without his folks--and I've got a pet lamb in the baggage-room bleatin' at the corporation since dinner-time. Some galoot forgot the crittur. There's a lost parrot settin' alongside that swears in several foreign languages. I wish to Moses I could!"

The pa.s.senger experienced the dull surprise of one in acute calamity who wonders that another man can jest. He turned without remark, and went to the waiting-room; he limped a little, for he was slightly lame.

The ticket-master was locking the door of the office, and looked sleepy and f.a.gged.

"Where's the train to Gloucester?"

"Gone."

"'Tain't _gone_?"

"Gone half an hour ago."

The official pointed to the clock, on whose face an ominous expression seemed to rest, and whose hands marked the hour of half-past twelve.

"But I have got to get to Gloucester!" answered the White Mountain pa.s.senger. "We had an accident. We're late. I ain't much used to travellin'--I supposed they'd wait for us. I tell you I've got to get there!"

In his agitation he gripped the arm of the other, who threw the grasp off instinctively.

"You'll have to walk, then. You can't get anything now till the newspaper train."

"G.o.d!" gasped the belated pa.s.senger. "I've got a little boy. He's dying."

"Sho!" said the ticket-master. "That's too bad. Can you afford a team? You might try the stables. There's one or two around here."

The ticket-master locked the doors of the station and walked away, but did not go far. A humane uneasiness disturbed him, and he returned to see if he could be of any use to the afflicted pa.s.senger.

"I'll show you the way to the nearest," he began, kindly.

But the man had gone.

In the now dimly lighted town square he was, in fact, zigzagging about alone, with the loping gait of a lame man in a feverish hurry.

"There must be hosses," he muttered, "and places. Why, yes. Here's one, first thing."

Into the livery-stable he entered so heavily that he seemed to fall in.

His cheap straw hat was pushed back from his head; he was flushed, and his eyes were too bright; his hair, which was red and coa.r.s.e, lay matted on his forehead.

"I want a team," he began, on a high, sharp key. "I've got to get to Gloucester. The train's gone."

A sleepy groom, who scowled at him, turned on a suspicious heel.

"You're drunk. It's fourteen miles. It would cost you more'n you're worth."

"I've got a little boy," repeated the lame man. "He's dying."

The groom wheeled back. "That so? Why, that's a pity. I'd like to 'commodate you. See? I'm here alone--see? I da.r.s.en't go so far without orders. Boss is home and abed."

"He got hurt in an accident," pleaded the father. "I come from up to Conway. I went to bury my uncle. They sent me a telegraph about my little boy. I ain't drunk. They sent me the telegraph. I've got to get home."

"I'll let you sleep here along of me," suggested the groom, "but I daresn't leave. I'm responsible to the boss. There's other places you might get one. I'll show you. See? I'd try 'em all if I was you."

But again the man was gone.

By the time he had found another stable his manner had changed; he had become deprecating, servile. He entreated, he trembled; he flung his emergency at the feet of the watchman; he reiterated his phrase:

"I've got a little boy, if you please. He's dying. I've got to get to Gloucester--I live in Squam."

"I don't like to refuse you," protested the night-watchman, "but two of my horses are lame, and one is plumb used up carrying summer folks.

I'm dreadful short. I haven't a team to my name I could put on the road to Gloucester. It's--why, to Squam it's seventeen miles--thirty-four the round trip. It would cost you--"

"I'll pay!" cried the lame man; "I'll pay. I ain't beggin'."

"I'm sorry I haven't got a horse," apologized the watchman. "It would cost you ten dollars if I had. But I hain't."

"Ten _doll_ars?" The traveller echoed the words stupidly.

"I'm sorry; fact, I am," urged the watchman. "Won't you set 'n' rest a spell?"

But the visitor had vanished from the office.

Twenty minutes after, the door-bell of a home in the old residence portion of the town rang violently and pealed through the sleeping house.

It was a comfortable, not a new-fashioned, house, sometimes leased to summer citizens, and modernized in a measure for their convenience; one of the few of its kind within reach of the station, and by no means near.

When the master of the family had turned on all the burglar electricity and could get the screen up, he put his head out of the window, and so perceived on his door-step a huddled figure with a white, uplifted face.