The Chanute times. [volume] (Chanute, Kan.) 1897-1913, 1897-12-03
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& George Caulfield's Journey y
By Mss E.
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out the sun, street that smelled of
machine oil.
The express had cleared Grandches-
ter by this time, tearing along via
duct above forest of tall chimneys,
and then, with sweeping curve, away
to the windy open country, land as
wild and fresh and free as If there
were no such things as factories and
smoky chimneys in the world. Mr..
Caulfield had, for the first ten minutes
or so, felt revived by his inability to
see his companions face. It had been
a comfort to him to behold her placidly
asleep yonder, requiring no attention,
leaving him free to dip in Tennyson's
latest idyl, which he carried uncut in
his travelling bag. But so variable is
the human mind, so fanciful and alto
gether irrational at times, that now
Mr.. Caulfield began to feel vaguely Gu
rious about the face hidden under the
blue gauze veil. He began to wonder
about it. Was it so very pale, so dead
ly white, as it seemed to him under
that gauze veil, in the dim light of
the oil lamp? No, it was the blue
gauze, no doubt, which gave that ghast-
ly pallor to the sharply-cut features,
the sunken cheeks.
The young lady's eyes were alto
gether hidden by the shadow Of her
hat, but Mr. Caulfield felt sure that she
was asleep. She was breathing so
quietly that he could scarcely see any
indication of the faint breath that must
be stirring her breast in gentle undu-
lations. Sometimes he fancied he saw
the folds of the Rob Roy shawl rise
and fall IN regular pulsations. Some
stirred save the shadows moved by the
Pickering fame of the wind-blown
flame.
He sat and watched that quiet figure
in the corner, only taking his eyes
away now and then to look out at the
dark land through which they were
speeding, to see cosy village, lit by
half a dozen farthing flashlights fit
by like phantom, or town that made
patch Of angry glare on the edge of
the horizon. Useless to think of en-
joying Tennyson by the sickly CLEAN
of that wretched lamp! He stretched
himself up in his warm rug; he closed
his eyes, and tried to sleep. In vain.
He was thinking Of the face under the
blue veil He was broad awake
hopelessly awake. He could do moth
ing but sit and contemplate the figure
reposing so quietly in the opposite cor
ner. How he longed for Milldale juno
ton, He looked at his watch. The
inexorable dial told him that it was
only half an hour since he left Grand
chester. His own sensations told him
that it was long night of agony.
Naturally a nervous man, tonight
his nerves were getting the mastery ov-
er him.
Il never took such miserable jour-
ney," he said to himself. IF she
would only throw back that veil-if
she would only speak to me-if she
would only stir, or make some little
sign of life! 1t is like travelling with
Death personified. Were she to lift
that veil this instant, should expect to
see a grinning skull underneath"
He had been told not to speak to her.
but the inclination to disobey that ir-
junction was every moment intensity
ing. Yet, if she were sleeping as pla-
cidly as she seemed to sleep, it would
be cruel to disturb her; and he was q
man overlooking with the milk of hui
man kindness.
He took out his Tennyson, cut the
leaves, puzzling out few lines here
and there by the uncertain lamp-light.
This helped him to while away quar-
ter of an hour. He looked at his
watch. God be praised! fifteen min
utes more and the train was due at
Milldale. What bliss to deliver that
poor creature into the keeping of her
friends-to have done with that muf-
fled figure and that unseen face for
ever!
The train was fast approaching the
junction; seven minutes more alone re-
manned of the hour, and this night mail
was famed for it's punctuality.
Just at the last that feeling of NOR
bid curiosity, which had been torment
ing the curate for the greater part OF
the Journey became an irresistible i'm
pulse. He changed his seat to that d.
rectly opposite his silent companion.
Here he could see the form of the deli
cate features under the blue veil! How
cruelty illness had sharpened the out
line. The girls ungloved hand hung
listlessly over the morocco-covered
arm, which divided her seat from the
next Such pallid hand, so nerveless
in its attitude! Something, he knew
not what, prompted Mr.. Caulfield to
touch those pale fingers. He bent over
and laid his hand lightly upon them.
Great God, what an icy hand! He
had felt the touch of death on many
sad occasion in the path of duty, but
this was colder than death itself. A
cry of horror burst from his lips. He
snatched aside the gauze veil, and saw
a face purpled by the awful shadow OF
death.
"Milldale Junctioni Change here for