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Chapter 17

  • 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."