The velvet-cushioned seat on which he sat felt very comfortable, and
the great speed at which he was being carried along was agreeable to
him. He had been busily occupied, with little rest of any kind, and
scarcely any sleep, for nearly three days; and his mind had been all the
time engrossed by the most harrowing thoughts and experiences. It was
all over now; nothing could ever again give him apprehension or anxiety;
the past was dead and never could live again; the future was arranged,
and it was simple enough: he, and the woman who had given him birth,
would sail together for Europe on Monday morning, at twelve o'clock. He
would have abundant wealth--all the property had been converted into
ready money, and would be taken with them--and he might live as
luxuriously, as sensually, as much like a pampered animal as he pleased,
or as he could. He would forget that he had a mind, or a heart, or a
soul; they had none of them served him in good stead; but he had some
reliance on his body. There were few that could compare with it in the
world, and he felt convinced that he should be able to derive a great
deal of enjoyment out of it before the time for its death and decay came
round. At all events, he was resolved that no form of indulgence to his
bodily appetites should go unproved; and when one grew stale he would
try another. With such enormous vitality and capacity to be and to
appreciate being voluptuous, he could hardly fail to avenge himself for
the hardships he had undergone thus far.
So he leaned back on the crimson velvet-cushion of his seat, and felt
very comfortable and composed, thinking of nothing in particular. He
became pleasantly interested, as the daylight began to make things
visible without, in trying to count the number of wires on the
telegraph-poles. It would have been easy enough if they had only kept
along at an invariable level; but they were always rising--rising--then
jumping through the pole with a snap!--then ducking suddenly--sinking,
crossing one another--sometimes scudding along close to the ground,
then flying up beyond the range of the window--anon scooting beneath
a dark arch--now indistinguishable against a pine-wood--then
rising--rising--jumping--ducking--sinking--as before. Though exerting
all his faculties of observation, it was impossible to be quite certain
how many wires there were.
He was nearly alone in the car, and would probably continue to be for an
hour or so at least. He reversed the seat in front of him, and put up
his feet, leaving the telegraph-wires to scud and dodge unnoticed. He
fixed his eyes upon the sweltering stove in the farther corner of the
car. There was a roaring fire within, as he could tell by the vivid red
that glowed through the draught-holes beneath the door, and showed here
and there along the cracks. The sides of the car against which the stove
stood was protected with zinc; a number of short sticks of wood were
piled beside it, ready to replenish the fire, and some of them were
already smoking a little, as if in anticipation. Presently the brakeman
came in, with a flurry of cold air, his neck and head rolled up in a
dirty-brown knit woolen tippet, and clumsy gloves on his hands. He took
the poker, and opened the stove-door with it, peeped into the red-hot
interior a moment, grasped a solid chunk of wood from the pile, and
popped it in cleverly; then he stood for a moment, patting the stove
with his gloved hands, to warm them, till, in response to the whistle,
he dashed out, slamming the doors as only car-doors can be made to slam,
and Bressant could dimly distinguish him, through the frosted window,
working away at the brake.