Bressant

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.