It was a Montreal, Ottawa and Quebec express, and it ran without stopping t_lbany. By the time it was nearing the latter place Suzanne was going t_ed—and because it was a private car—Mrs. Dale explained that the president o_he road had lent it to her—no announcement of its arrival, which would hav_roused Suzanne, was made by the porter. When it stopped there shortly afte_en o'clock it was the last car at the south end of the train, and you coul_ear voices calling, but just what it was was not possible to say. Suzanne, who had already gone to bed, fancied it might be Poughkeepsie or some waysid_tation. Her mother's statement was that since they arrived so late, the ca_ould be switched to a siding, and they would stay aboard until morning.
Nevertheless, she and Kinroy were alert to prevent any untoward demonstratio_r decision on Suzanne's part, and so, as the train went on, she slept soundl_ntil Burlington in the far northern part of Vermont was reached the nex_orning. When she awoke and saw that the train was still speeding on, sh_ondered vaguely but not clearly what it could mean. There were mountain_bout, or rather tall, pine-covered hills, mountain streams were passed o_igh trestles and sections of burned woodlands were passed where forest fire_ad left lonely, sad charred stretches of tree trunks towering high in th_ir. Suddenly it occurred to Suzanne that this was peculiar, and she came ou_f the bath to ask why.
"Where are we, mama?" she asked. Mrs. Dale was leaning back in a comfortabl_illow chair reading, or pretending to read a book. Kinroy was out on th_bservation platform for a moment. He came back though shortly, for he wa_ervous as to what Suzanne would do when she discovered her whereabouts. _amper of food had been put aboard the night before, unknown to Suzanne, an_rs. Dale was going shortly to serve breakfast. She had not risked a maid o_his journey.
"I don't know," replied her mother indifferently, looking out at a stretch o_urnt woods.
"I thought we were to be in Albany a little after midnight?" said Suzanne.
"So we were," replied Mrs. Dale, preparing to confess. Kinroy came back int_he car.
"Well, then," said Suzanne, pausing, looking first out of the windows and the_ixedly at her mother. It came to her as she saw the unsettled, somewha_ervous expression in her mother's face and eyes and in Kinroy's that this wa_ trick and that she was being taken somewhere—where?—against her will.
"This is a trick, mama," she said to her mother grandly. "You have lied t_e—you and Kinroy. We are not going to Albany at all. Where are we going?"
"I don't want to tell you now, Suzanne," replied Mrs. Dale quietly. "Have you_ath and we'll talk about it afterwards. It doesn't matter. We're going u_nto Canada, if you want to know. We are nearly there now. You'll know fas_nough when we get there."
"Mama," replied Suzanne, "this is a despicable trick! You are going to b_orry for this. You have lied to me—you and Kinroy. I see it now. I might hav_nown, but I didn't believe you would lie to me, mama. I can't do anythin_ust now, I see that very plainly. But when the time comes, you are going t_e sorry. You can't control me this way. You ought to know better. Yo_ourself are going to take me back to New York." And she fixed her mother wit_ steady look which betokened a mastership which her mother felt nervously an_earily she might eventually be compelled to acknowledge.
"Now, Suzanne, what's the use of talking that way?" pleaded Kinroy. "Mama i_lmost crazy, as it is. She couldn't think of any other way or thing to do."
"You hush, Kinroy," replied Suzanne. "I don't care to talk to you. You hav_ied to me, and that is more than I ever did to you. Mama, I am astonished a_ou," she returned to her mother. "My mother lying to me! Very well, mama. Yo_ave things in your hands today. I will have them in mine later. You hav_aken just the wrong course. Now you wait and see."
Mrs. Dale winced and quailed. This girl was the most unterrified, determine_ighter she had ever known. She wondered where she got her courage—from he_ate husband, probably. She could actually feel the quietness, grit, lack o_ear, which had grown up in her during the last few weeks under th_rovocation which antagonism had provided. "Please don't talk that way, Suzanne," she pleaded. "I have done it all for your own good. You know I have.
Why will you torture me? You know I won't give you up to that man. I won't.
I'll move heaven and earth first. I'll die in this struggle, but I won't giv_ou up."
"Then you'll die, mama, for I'm going to do what I said. You can take me t_here this car stops, but you can't take me out of it. I'm going back to Ne_ork. Now, a lot you have accomplished, haven't you?"
"Suzanne, I am convinced almost that you are out of your mind. You have almos_riven me out of mine, but I am still sane enough to see what is right."
"Mama, I don't propose to talk to you any more, or to Kinroy. You can take m_ack to New York, or you can leave me, but you will not get me out of thi_ar. I am done with listening to nonsense and pretences. You have lied to m_nce. You will not get a chance to do it again."
"I don't care, Suzanne," replied her mother, as the train sped swiftly along.
"You have forced me to do this. It is your own attitude that is causing al_he trouble. If you would be reasonable and take some time to think this al_ver, you would not be where you are now. I won't let you do this thing tha_ou want to do. You can stay in the car if you wish, but you cannot be take_ack to New York without money. I will speak to the station agent about that."
Suzanne thought of this. She had no money, no clothes, other than those sh_ad on. She was in a strange country and not so very used to travelling alone.
She had really gone to very few places in times past by herself. It took th_dge off her determination to resist, but she was not conquered by any means.
"How are you going to get back?" asked her mother, after a time, when Suzann_aid no attention to her. "You have no money. Surely, Suzanne, you are no_oing to make a scene? I only want you to come up here for a few weeks so tha_ou will have time to think away from that man. I don't want you to go to hi_n September the fifteenth. I just won't let you do that. Why won't you b_easonable? You can have a pleasant time up here. You like to ride. You ar_elcome to do that. I will ride with you. You can invite some of your friend_p here, if you choose. I will send for your clothes. Only stay here a whil_nd think over what you are going to do."
Suzanne refused to talk. She was thinking what she could do. Eugene was bac_n New York. He would expect her Thursday.
"Yes, Suzanne," put in Kinroy. "Why not take ma's advice? She's trying to d_he best thing by you. This is a terrible thing you are trying to do. Why no_isten to common sense and stay up here three or four months?"
"Don't talk like a parrot, Kinroy! I'm hearing all this from mama."
When her mother reproached her, she said: "Oh, hush, mama, I don't care t_ear anything more. I won't do anything of the sort. You lied to me. You sai_ou were going to Albany. You brought me out here under a pretence. Now yo_an take me back. I won't go to any lodge. I won't go anywhere, except to Ne_ork. You might just as well not argue with me."
The train rolled on. Breakfast was served. The private car was switched to th_racks of the Canadian Pacific at Montreal. Her mother's pleas continued.
Suzanne refused to eat. She sat and looked out of the window, meditating ove_his strange dénouement. Where was Eugene? What was he doing? What would h_hink when she did not come back? She was not enraged at her mother. She wa_erely contemptuous of her. This trick irritated and disgusted her. She wa_ot thinking of Eugene in any wild way, but merely that she would get back t_im. She conceived of him much as she did of herself though her conception o_er real self was still vague as strong, patient, resourceful, able to liv_ithout her a little while if he had to. She was eager to see him, but reall_ore eager that he should see her if he wanted to. What a creature he mus_ake her mother to be!
By noon they had reached Juinata, by two o'clock they were fifty miles west o_uebec. At first, Suzanne thought she would not eat at all to spite he_other. Later she reasoned that that was silly and ate. She made i_xceedingly unpleasant for them by her manner, and they realized that b_ringing her away from New York they had merely transferred their troubles.
Her spirit was not broken as yet. It filled the car with a disturbin_ibration.
"Suzanne," questioned her mother at one point, "won't you talk to me? Won'_ou see I'm trying to do this for your own good? I want to give you time t_hink. I really don't want to coerce you, but you must see."
Suzanne merely stared out of the window at the green fields speeding by.
"Suzanne! Don't you see this will never do? Can't you see how terrible it al_s?"
"Mama, I want you to let me alone. You have done what you thought was th_ight thing to do. Now let me alone. You lied to me, mama. I don't want t_alk to you. I want you to take me back to New York. You have nothing else t_o. Don't try to explain. You haven't any explanation."
Mrs. Dale's spirit fairly raged, but it was impotent in the presence of thi_er daughter. She could do nothing.
Still more hours, and at one small town Suzanne decided to get off, but bot_rs. Dale and Kinroy offered actual physical opposition. They felt intensel_illy and ashamed, though, for they could not break the spirit of the girl.
She ignored their minds—their mental attitude in the most contemptuous way.
Mrs. Dale cried. Then her face hardened. Then she pleaded. Her daughter merel_ooked loftily away.
At Three Rivers Suzanne stayed in the car and refused to move. Mrs. Dal_leaded, threatened to call aid, stated that she would charge her wit_nsanity. It was all without avail. The car was uncoupled after the conducto_ad asked Mrs. Dale if she did not intend to leave it. She was beside herself, frantic with rage, shame, baffled opposition.
"I think you are terrible!" she exclaimed to Suzanne. "You are a little demon.
We will live in this car, then. We will see."
She knew that this could not be, for the car was only leased for the outwar_rip and had to be returned the next day.
The car was pushed on to a siding.
"I beg of you, Suzanne. Please don't make a mockery of us. This is terrible.
What will people think?"
"I don't care what they think," said Suzanne.
"But you can't stay here."
"Oh, yes, I can!"
"Come, get off, please do. We won't stay up here indefinitely. I'll take yo_ack. Promise me to stay a month and I'll give you my solemn word I'll tak_ou back at the end of that time. I'm getting sick of this. I can't stand it.
Do what you like after that. Only stay a month now."
"No, mama," replied Suzanne. "No, you won't. You lied to me. You're lying t_e now, just as you did before."
"I swear to you I'm not. I lied that once, but I was frantic. Oh, Suzanne, please, please. Be reasonable. Have some consideration. I will take you back, but wait for some clothes to arrive. We can't go this way."
She sent Kinroy for the station master, to whom was explained the need of _arriage to take them to Mont Cecile and also for a doctor—this was Mrs.
Dale's latest thought—to whom she proposed to accuse Suzanne of insanity. Hel_o remove her was to be called. She told this to Suzanne, who simply glared a_er.
"Get the doctor, mama," she said. "We will see if I have to go that way. Bu_ou will rue every step of this. You will be thoroughly sorry for every sill_tep you have taken."
When the carriage arrived, Suzanne refused to get out. The country driver, _rench habitant, reported its presence at the car. Kinroy tried to soothe hi_ister by saying that he would help straighten matters out if she would onl_o peacefully.
"I'll tell you, Susie, if it isn't all arranged to suit you within a month, and you still want to go back, I'll send you the money. I have to go bac_omorrow, or next day for ma, but I'll give you my word. In fact, I'l_ersuade mother to bring you back in two weeks. You know I never lied to yo_efore. I never will again. Please come. Let's go over there. We can b_omfortable, anyhow."
Mrs. Dale had leased the lodge from the Cathcarts by phone. It was al_urnished—ready to live in—even wood fires prepared for lighting in th_ireplaces. It had hot and cold water controlled by a hot-water furnac_ystem; acetylene gas, a supply of staples in the kitchen. The service to tak_are of it was to be called together by the caretaker, who could be reached b_hone from the depot. Mrs. Dale had already communicated with him by the tim_he carriage arrived. The roads were so poor that the use of an automobile wa_mpossible. The station agent, seeing a fat fee in sight, was most obliging.
Suzanne listened to Kinroy, but she did not believe him. She did not believ_nyone now, save Eugene, and he was nowhere near to advise her. Still, sinc_he was without money and they were threatening to call a doctor, she though_t might be best perhaps to go peacefully. Her mother was most distracted. He_ace was white and thin and nervous, and Kinroy was apparently strained to th_reaking point.
"Do you promise me faithfully," she asked her mother, who had begun he_leadings anew, corroborating Kinroy in a way, "that you will take me back t_ew York in two weeks if I promise to stay that long?" This was still withi_he date in which she had promised to go to Witla, and as long as she got bac_y that time, she really did not care, provided she could write to her lover.
It was a silly arbitrary thing for her mother to have done, but it could b_ndured. Her mother, seeing no reasonable way to obtain peace, promised. I_he could only keep her there two weeks quietly, perhaps that would help.
Suzanne could think here under different conditions. New York was so exciting.
Out at this lodge all would be still. There was more argument, and, finally, Suzanne agreed to enter the hack, and they drove over toward Mont Cecile an_he Cathcarts' Lodge, now vacant and lonely, which was known as "While-a-Way."