Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells

by William Dean Howells

  X.

  In the morning before her sister was astir, Adeline went out to the coachman’s quarters in the stabling, and met the mother of the dead child at the door. “Come right in!” she said, fiercely, as she set it wide. “I presume you want to know if there’s anything you can do for me; that’s what they all ask. Well, there ain’t, unless you can bring him back to life. I’ve been up and doin’, as usual, this mornin’,” she said, and a sound of frying came from the kitchen where she had left her work to let her visitor in. “We got to eat; we got to live.”

  The farmer’s wife came in from the next chamber, where the little one lay; she had her bonnet and shawl on as if going home after a night’s watching. She said, “I tell her he’s better off where he’s gone; but she can’t seem to sense the comfort of it.”

  “How do you know he’s better off?” demanded the mother, turning upon her. “It makes me tired to hear such stuff. Who’s goin’ to take more care of the child where he’s gone, than what his mother could? Don’t you talk nonsense, Mrs. Saunders! You don’t know anything about it, and nobody does. I can bear it; yes, I’ve got the stren’th to stand up against death, but I don’t want any comfort. You want to see Elbridge, Miss Northwick? He’s in the harness room, I guess. He’s got to keep about, too, if he don’t want to go clear crazy. One thing, he don’t have to stand any comfortin’. I guess men don’t say such things to each other as women do, big fools as they be!”

  Mrs. Saunders gave Miss Northwick a wink of pity for Mrs. Newton and expressed that she was hardly accountable for what she was saying.

  “He used to complain of me for lettin’ Arty get out into the stable among the horses; but I guess he won’t be troubled that way much more,” said the mother; and then something in Miss Northwick’s face seemed to stay her in her wild talk; and she asked, “Want I should call him for you?”

  “No, no,” said Adeline, “I’ll go right through to him, myself.” She knew the way from the coachman’s dwelling into the stable, and she found Elbridge oiling one of the harnesses, with a sort of dogged attention to the work, which he hardly turned from to look at her. “Elbridge,” she asked, “did you drive father to the depot yesterday morning?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I did.”

  “When did he say he would be back?”

  “Well, he said he couldn’t say, exactly. But I understood in a day or two.”

  “Did he expect to be anywhere but Ponkwasset?”

  “No, ma’am, I didn’t hear him say as he did.”

  “Then it’s a mistake; and of course I knew it was a mistake. There’s more than one Northwick in the world, I presume.” She laughed a little hysterically; she had a newspaper in her hand, and it shook with the nervous tremor that passed over her.

  “Why, what is it, Miss Northwick?” said Elbridge with a perception of the trouble in her voice through the trouble in his own heart. He stopped pulling the greasy sponge over the trace in his hand, and turned towards her.

  “Oh, nothing. There’s been an accident on the Union and Dominion Railroad; and of course it’s a mistake.”

  She handed him the paper, folded to the column which she wished to show, and he took it between two finger-tips, so as to soil it as little as possible, and stood reading it. She went on saying, “He wouldn’t be on the train if he was at Ponkwasset; I got the paper when I first came down stairs, but I didn’t happen to read the account till just now; and then I thought I’d run out and see what father said to you about where he was going. He told us he was going to the Mills, too, and—” Her voice growing more and more wistful, died away in the fascination of watching the fascination of Elbridge as he first took in the half-column of scare-heads, and then followed down to the meagre details of the dispatch eked out with double-leading to cover space.

  It appeared that the Northern express had reached Wellwater Junction, on the Union and Dominion line, several hours behind time, and after the usual stop there for supper, had joined the Boston train, on the United States and Canada, for Montreal, and had, just after leaving the Junction, run off the track. “The deadly car stove got in its work” on the wreck, and many lives had been lost by the fire, especially in the parlor car. It was impossible to give a complete list of the killed and wounded, but several bodies were identified, and among the names of passengers in the Pullman that of T. W. Northwick was reported, from a telegram received by the conductor at Wellwater asking to have a seat reserved from that point to Montreal.

  “It ain’t him, I know it ain’t, Miss Northwick,” said Elbridge. He offered to give her the paper, but took another look at it before he finally yielded it. “There’s lots of folks of the same name, I don’t care what it is, and the initials ain’t the ones.”

  “No,” she said, doubtfully, “but I didn’t like the last name being the same.”

  “Well, you can’t help that; and as long as it ain’t the initials, and you know your father is safe and sound at the Mills, you don’t want to worry.”

  “No,” said Adeline. “You’re sure he told you he was going to the Mills?”

  “Why, didn’t he tell you he was? I don’t recollect just what he said. But he told me about that note he left for me, and that had the money in it for the fun’al—” Elbridge stopped for a moment before he added, “He said he’d telegraph just which train he wanted me to meet him when he was comin’ back.... Why, dumn it! I guess I must be crazy. We can settle it in half an hour’s time — or an hour or two at the outside — and no need to worry about it. Telegraph to the Mills and find out whether he’s there or not.”

  He dropped his harness, and went to the telephone and called up the Western Union operator at the station. He had the usual telephonic contention with her as to who he was, and what he wanted, but he got her at last to take his dispatch to Ponkwasset Falls, asking whether Northwick was at the Mills.

  “There!” he said, “I don’t believe but what that’ll fix it all right. And I’ll bring you in the answer myself, when it comes, Miss Northwick.”

  “I do hate to trouble you with my foolishness, when—”

  “I guess you needn’t mind about that,” said Elbridge. “I guess it wouldn’t make much difference to me, if the whole world was burnt up. Be a kind of a relief.” He did not mean just the sense the words conveyed, and she, in her preoccupation with her own anxiety, and her pity for him, interpreted them aright.

  She stayed to add, “I don’t know what he could have been on that train for, any way, do you?”

  “No, and he wa’n’t on it; you’ll find that out.”

  “It’ll be very provoking,” she said, forecasting the minor trouble of the greater trouble’s failure. “Everybody will wonder if it isn’t father, and we shall have to tell them it isn’t.”

  “Well, that won’t be so bad as havin’ to tell ’em it is,” said Elbridge, getting back for the moment to his native dryness.

  “That’s true,” Adeline admitted. “Don’t speak to anybody about it till you hear.” She knew from his making no answer that he would obey her, and she hid the paper in her pocket, as if she would hide the intelligence it bore from all the rest of the world.

  She let Suzette sleep late, after the fatigues of her day in Boston and the excitement of their talk at night, which she suspected had prevented the girl from sleeping early. Elbridge’s sympathetic incredulity had comforted her, if it had not convinced her, and she possessed herself in such patience as she could till the answer should come from the mills. If her father were there, then it would be all right; and in the meantime she found some excuses for not believing the worst she feared. There was no reason in the world why he should be on that train; there was no reason why she should identify him with that T. W. Northwick in the burnt-up car; that was not his name, and that was not the place where he would have been.

  XI.

  There was trouble with the telegraph and telephone connections between Hatboro’ and Ponkwasset, and Adeline had to go to the funeral without an answ
er to Elbridge’s message. Below her surface interest in the ceremony and the behavior of the mourners and the friends, which nothing could have alienated but the actual presence of calamity, she had a nether misery of alternating hope and fear, of anxieties continually reasoned down, and of security lost the instant it was found. The double strain told so upon her nerves, that when the rites at the grave were ended, she sent word to the clergyman and piteously begged him to drive home with her.

  “Why, aren’t you well, Miss Northwick?” he asked, with a glance at her troubled face, as he got into the covered sleigh with her.

  “Oh, yes,” she said, and she flung herself back against the cushioning and began to cry.

  “Poor Mrs. Newton’s grief has been very trying,” he said, gently, and with a certain serenity of smile he had, and he added, as if he thought it well to lure Miss Northwick from the minor affliction that we feel for others’ sorrows to the sorrow itself, “It has been a terrible blow to her — so sudden, and her only child.”

  “Oh, it isn’t that,” said Adeline, frankly. “Have — have you seen the — paper this morning?”

  “It came,” said the clergyman. “But in view of the duty before me, I thought I wouldn’t read it. Is there anything particular in it?”

  “No, nothing. Only — only—” Adeline had not been able to separate herself from the dreadful thing, and she took it out of the carriage pocket. “There has been an accident on the railroad,” she began firmly, but she broke down in the effort to go on. “And I wanted to have you see — see—” She stopped, and handed him the paper.

  He took it and ran over the account of the accident, and came at her trouble with an instant intelligence that was in itself a sort of reassurance. “But had you any reason to suppose your father was on the train?”

  “No,” she said from the strength he gave her. “That is the strange part about it. He went up to the Mills, yesterday morning, and he couldn’t have been on the train at all. Only the name—”

  “It isn’t quite the name,” said Wade, with a gentle moderation, as if he would not willingly make too much of the difference, and felt truth to be too sacred to be tampered with even while it had merely the form of possibility.

  “No,” said Adeline, eager to be comforted, “and I’m sure he’s at the Mills. Elbridge has sent a dispatch to find out if he’s there, but there must be something the matter with the telegraph. We hadn’t heard before the funeral; or, at least, he didn’t bring the word; and I hated to keep round after him when—”

  “He probably hadn’t heard,” said the clergyman, soothingly, “and no news is good news, you know. But hadn’t we better drive round by the station, and find out whether any answer has been—”

  “O, no! I couldn’t do that!” said Adeline, nervously. “They will telephone the answer up to Elbridge. But come home with me, if you haven’t something to do, and stay with us till we—”

  “Oh, very willingly.” On the way the young clergyman talked of the accident, guessing that her hysterical conjectures had heightened the horror, and that he should make it less dreadful by exploring its facts with her. He did not declare it impossible her father should have been on the train, but he urged the extreme improbability.

  Elbridge and his wife passed them, driving rapidly in Simpson’s booby, which Adeline had ordered for their use at the funeral; and when she got into the house Elbridge was waiting there for her. He began at once; “Miss Northwick, I don’t believe but what your father’s staid over at Springfield for something. He was talkin’ to me last week about some hosses there—”

  “Isn’t he at the Mills?” she demanded sharply.

  Elbridge gave his hat a turn on his hand, before he looked up. “Well, no, he hain’t been, yet—”

  Adeline made no sound, but she sank down as a column of water sinks.

  At the confusion of movements and voices that followed, Suzette came to the door of the library, and looked wonderingly into the hall, where this had happened, with a book clasped over her finger. “What in the world is the matter?” she asked with a sort of sarcastic amaze, at sight of Elbridge lifting something from the floor.

  “Don’t be alarmed, Miss Suzette,” said Mr. Wade, “Your sister seems a little faint, and—”

  “It’s this sickening heat!” cried the girl, running to the door, and setting it wide. “It suffocates me when I come in from the outside. I’ll get some water.” She vanished and was back again instantly, stooping over Adeline to wet her forehead and temples. The rush of the cold air began to revive her. She opened her eyes, and Suzette said, severely, “What has come over you, Adeline? Aren’t you well?” and as Adeline answered nothing, she went on: “I don’t believe she knows where she is. Let us get her into the library on the lounge.”

  She put her strength with that of the young clergyman, and they carried Adeline to the lounge; Suzette dispatched Elbridge, hanging helplessly about, for some of the women. He sent the parlor-maid, and did not come back.

  Adeline kept looking at her sister as if she were afraid of her. When she was recovered sufficiently to speak, she turned her eyes on the clergyman, and said huskily, “Tell her.”

  “Your sister has had a little fright,” he began; and with his gentle eyes on the girl’s he went on to deal the pain that priests and physicians must give. “There’s the report of a railroad accident in the morning paper, and among the passengers — the missing — was one of the name of Northwick—”

  “But father is at the Mills!”

  “Your sister had telegraphed before the funeral, to make sure — and word has come that he — isn’t there.”

  “Where is the paper?” demanded Suzette, with a kind of haughty incredulity.

  Wade found it in his pocket, where he must have put it instead of giving it back to Adeline in the sleigh. Suzette took it and went with it to one of the windows. She stood reading the account of the accident, while her sister watched her with tremulous eagerness for the help that came from her contemptuous rejection of the calamity.

  “How absurd! It isn’t father’s name, and he couldn’t have been on the train. What in the world would he have been going to Montreal for, at this time of year? It’s ridiculous!” Suzette flung the paper down, and came back to the other two.

  “I felt,” said Wade, “that it was extremely improbable—”

  “But where,” Adeline put in faintly, “could he have been if he wasn’t at the Mills?”

  “Anywhere in the world except Wellwater Junction,” returned Suzette, scornfully. “He may have stopped over at Springfield, or—”

  “Yes,” Adeline admitted, “that’s what Elbridge thought.”

  “Or he may have gone on to Willoughby Junction. He often goes there.”

  “That is true,” said the other, suffering herself to take heart a little. “And he’s been talking of selling his interest in the quarries there; and—”

  “He’s there, of course,” said Suzette with finality. “If he’d been going farther, he’d have telegraphed us. He’s always very careful. I’m not in the least alarmed, and I advise you not to be, Adeline. When did you see the paper first?”

  “When I came down to breakfast,” said Adeline, quietly.

  “And I suppose you didn’t eat any breakfast?”

  Adeline’s silence made confession.

  “What I think is, we’d better all have lunch,” said Suzette, and she went and touched the bell at the chimney. “You’ll stay with us, won’t you, Mr. Wade? We want lunch at once, James,” she said to the man who answered her ring. “Of course, you must stay, Mr. Wade, and help see Adeline back to her right mind.” She touched the bell again, and when the man appeared, “My sleigh at once, James,” she commanded. “I will drive you home, Mr. Wade, on my way to the station. Of course I shall not leave anything in doubt about this silly scare. I fancy it will be no great difficulty to find out where father is. Where is that railroad guide? Probably my father took it up to his room.” She ran upstairs
and came down with the book in her hand. “Now we will see. I don’t believe he could get any train at Springfield, where he would have to change for the Mills, that would take him beyond the Junction at that hour last night. The express has to come up from Boston—” She stopped and ran over the time-table of the route. “Well, he could get a connecting train at the Junction; but that doesn’t prove at all that he did.”

  She talked on, mocking the mere suggestion of such a notion, and then suddenly rang the bell once more, to ask sharply, “Isn’t lunch ready yet? Then bring us tea, here. I shall telegraph to the Mills again, and I shall telegraph to Mr. Hilary in Boston; he will know whether father was going anywhere else. They had a meeting of the Board day before yesterday, and father went to the Mills unexpectedly. I shall telegraph to Ponkwasset Junction, too; and you may be sure I shall not come home, Adeline, till I know something definite.”

  The tea came, and Suzette served the cups herself, with nerves that betrayed no tremor in the clash of silver or china. But she made haste, and at the sound of sleigh-bells without, she put down her own cup, untasted.

  “Oh, must you take Mr. Wade away?” Adeline feebly pleaded. “Stay till she comes back!” she entreated.

  Suzette faltered a moment, and then with a look at Mr. Wade, she gave a harsh laugh. “Very well!” she said.

  She ran into the hall and up the stairs, and in another moment they heard her coming down again; the outer door shut after her, and then came the flutter of the sleigh-bells as she drove away.

  Over the lunch the elder sister recovered herself a little, and ate as one can in the suspense of a strong emotion.

  “Your sister is a person of great courage,” said the clergyman, as if he were a little abashed by it.

  “She would never show that she’s troubled. But I know well enough that she’s troubled, by the way she kept talking and doing something every minute; and now, if she hadn’t gone to telegraph, she’d — I mustn’t keep you here, any longer, Mr. Wade,” she broke off in the sense of physical strength the food had given her. “Indeed, I mustn’t. You needn’t be anxious. I shall do very well, now. Yes! I shall!”