Delphi Complete Works of William Dean Howells

by William Dean Howells

  “I’ll walk with you as far as St. Michael’s,” said Wade, when they left the station. “I’m going to my study, there.”

  They set off together, up the middle of the street, which gave them more elbow-room than the sidewalk narrowly blocked out of the snow.

  From a large store as they were passing, a small, dry-looking, pompous little man advanced to the middle of the street, and stopped them. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Wade! I beg your pardon, sir!” he said, nimbly transferring himself, after the quasi self-introduction, from Wade to Matt. “May I ask whether you have received any further information?”

  “No,” said Matt, amiably, “the only answer we have got is that it is impossible to identify the passengers in the parlor-car.”

  “Ah, thank you! Thank you very much, sir! I felt sure it couldn’t be our Mr. Northwick. Er — good-morning, sir.”

  He bowed himself away, and went into his store again, and Matt asked Wade, “Who in the world is that?”

  “He’s a Mr. Gerrish — keeps the large store, there. Rather an unpleasant type.”

  Matt smiled. “He had the effect of refusing to believe that anything so low as an accident could happen to a man of Northwick’s business standing.”

  “Something of that,” Wade assented. “He worships Northwick on the altar of material success.”

  Matt lifted his head and looked about. “I suppose the whole place is simply seething with curiosity.”

  Just after they reached the side-street where Wade left him to go down to his church, he met Sue Northwick driving in her sleigh. She was alone, except for the groom impassive in the rumble.

  “Have you heard anything?” she asked, sharply.

  Matt repeated the dispatch from the operator at Wellwater.

  “I knew it was a mistake,” she said, with a kind of resolute scorn. “It’s perfectly ridiculous! Why should he have been there? I think there ought to be some way of punishing the newspapers for circulating false reports. I’ve been talking with the man who drove my father to the train yesterday morning, and he says he spoke lately of buying some horses at Springfield. He got several from a farm near there once. I’m going down to telegraph the farmer; I found his name among father’s bills. Of course he’s there. I’ve got the dispatch all written out.”

  “Let me take it back to the station for you, Miss Northwick,” said Matt.

  “No; get in with me here, and we’ll drive down, and then I’ll carry you back home. Or! Here, Dennis!” she said to the man in the rumble; and she handed him the telegram. “Take this to the telegraph-office, and tell them to send it up by Simpson the instant the answer comes.”

  The Irishman said, “Yes, ma’am,” and dropped from his perch with the paper in his hand.

  “Get in, Mr. Hilary,” she said, and after he had mounted she skilfully backed the sleigh and turned the horses homeward. “If I hear nothing from my dispatch, or if I hear wrong, I am going up to Wellwater Junction myself, by the first train. I can’t wait any longer. If it’s the worst, I want to know the worst.”

  Matt did not know what to say to her courage. So he said, “Alone?” to gain time.

  “Of course! At such a time, I would rather be alone.”

  At the house Matt found Louise had gone to her room for a moment, and he said he would like to speak with her there.

  She was lying on the lounge, when he announced himself, and she said, “Come in,” and explained, “I just came off a moment, to give my sympathies a little rest. And then, being up late so many nights this week. What have you heard?”

  “Nothing, practically. Louise, how long did you expect to stay?”

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought. As long as I’m needed, I suppose. Why? Must you go back?”

  “No — not exactly.”

  “Not exactly? What are you driving at?”

  “Why, there’s nothing to be found out by telegraphing. Some one must go up to the place where the accident happened. She sees that, and she wants to go. She can’t realize at all what it means to go there. Suppose she could manage the journey, going alone, and all that; what could she do after she got there? How could she go and look up the place of the accident, and satisfy herself whether her father was—”

  “Matt!” shrieked his sister. “If you go on, you will drive me wild. She mustn’t go; that’s all there is of it. You mustn’t think of letting her go.” She sat up on the lounge in expression of her resolution on this point. “She must send somebody — some of their men. She mustn’t go. It’s too hideous!”

  “No,” said Matt, thoughtfully. “I shall go.”

  “You!”

  “Why not? I can be at the place by four or five in the morning, and I can ascertain all the facts, and be able to relieve this terrible suspense for her.”

  “For both of them,” suggested Louise. “It must be quite as bad for that poor, sick old maid.”

  “Why, of course,” said Matt, and he felt so much ashamed of having left her out of the account that he added, “I dare say it’s even worse for her. She’s seen enough of life to realize it more.”

  “Sue was his favorite, though,” Louise returned. “Of course you must go, Matt. You couldn’t do less! It’s magnificent of you. Have you told her, yet, that you would go?”

  “Not yet. I thought I would talk it over with you, first.”

  “Oh, I approve of it. It’s the only thing to do. And I had better stay here till you come back—”

  “Why, no; I’m not sure.” He came a little nearer and dropped his voice. “You’d better know the whole trouble, Louise. There’s great trouble for them whether he’s dead or alive. There’s something wrong in his accounts with the company, and if he was on that train he was running away to Canada to escape arrest.”

  He could see that only partial intelligence of the case reached her.

  “Then if he’s killed, it will all be hushed up. I see! It makes you hope he’s killed.”

  Matt gave a despairing groan. “If he’s killed it makes it just so much the worse. The defalcation has to come out, any way.”

  “When must it come out?”

  “A good many people know of it; and such things are hard to keep. It may come out — some rumor of it — in the morning papers. The question is whether you want to stay till they know it here; whether it would be wise, or useful.”

  “Certainly not! I should want to kill anybody that was by when such a thing as that came out, and I should despise Sue Northwick if she let me get away alive. I must go at once!”

  She slid herself from the lounge, and ran to the glass, where she put up a coil of hair in the knot it had escaped from.

  “I had my doubts,” Matt said, “about letting you come here, without telling you just what the matter was; but mother thought you would insist upon coming, any way, and that you would be embarrassed.”

  “Oh, that was quite right,” said Louise. “The great thing now is to get away.”

  “I hope you won’t let her suspect—”

  “Well, I think you can trust me for that, Matt,” said Louise, turning round upon him, with a hairpin in her mouth, long enough to give him as sarcastic a glance as she could. If her present self-possession was a warrant of future performance, Matt thought he could trust her; but he was afraid Louise had not taken in the whole enormity of the fact; and he was right in this. As a crime, she did not then, or ever afterwards, fully imagine it. It may be doubted whether she conceived of it as other than a great trouble, and as something that ought always to be kept from her friend.

  Matt went down stairs and found Sue Northwick in the library.

  “I feel perfectly sure,” she said, “that we shall hear of my father at Springfield. One of the horses he got there has gone lame, and it would be quite like him to stop and look up another in the place of it on the same farm.”

  The logic of this theory did not strike Matt, but the girl held her head in such a strong way, she drew her short breaths with such a smoothness, she
so visibly concealed her anxiety in the resolution to believe herself what she said that he could not refuse it the tribute of an apparent credence. “Yes, that certainly makes it seem probable.”

  “At any rate,” she said, “if I hear nothing from him there, or we get no news from Wellwater, I shall go there at once. I’ve made up my mind to that.”

  “I shouldn’t wish you to go alone, Sue,” Adeline quavered. Her eyes were red, and her lips swollen as if she had been crying; and now the tears came with her words. “You could never get there alone in the world. Don’t you remember, it took us all day to get to Wellwater the last time we went to Quebec?”

  Sue gave her sister a severe look, as if to quell her open fears at least, and Matt asked aimlessly, “Is it on the way to Quebec?”

  Sue picked up the railroad guide from the desk where she had left it. “Yes; it is, and it isn’t.” She opened the book and showed him the map of the road. “The train divides at Wellwater, and part goes to Montreal and part to Quebec. There are all sorts of stops and starts on the Quebec branch, so that you don’t arrive till next morning, but you get to Montreal in five or six hours. But the whole thing seems perfectly frantic. I don’t see why we pay the slightest attention to it! Of course, papa has stayed over in Springfield for something; only he’s usually so careful about telegraphing us if he changes his plans—”

  She faltered, and let the book drop. Matt picked it up for her, and began to look at the time-table, at first to hide the pain he felt at the self-discouragement in which she ended, and then to see if he might not somehow be useful to her. “I see that a train from Boston meets the Springfield train at Wellwater.”

  “Does there?” She bent to look over the book with him, and he felt the ungovernable thrill at being near the beauty of a woman’s face which a man never knows whether to be ashamed of or glad of, but which he cannot help feeling. “Then perhaps I had better go by way of Boston. What time does it start? Oh, I see! Seven, thirty. I could get that train — if I don’t hear from him at Springfield. But I know I shall hear.”

  A stir of drapery made them aware of Louise at the library door. Suzette went toward her, “Are you going?” she asked, without apparently sharing the surprise Matt felt at seeing his sister with her hat and gloves on, and her jacket over her arm.

  “Yes, I’m going, Sue. I just ran up to see you — I had to do that — but we both know I’m of no use here; and so we won’t make any pretences.” Louise spoke very steadily, almost coldly; her brother did not quite know what to make of her; she was pale, and she looked down, while she spoke. But when she finished buttoning the glove she was engaged with, she went up and put both her hands in Suzette’s. “I don’t need to tell you that I’m going just to get myself out of your way. It isn’t a time for ornamental friend-shipping, and you’ve got all the good you could out of seeing me, and knowing that I’m anxious with you. That’s about all there is of it, and I guess we’d better not spin it out. But remember, Sue, whenever you need me, when you really want me, you can send for me, and if I don’t come again till you do, you’ll know that I’m simply waiting. Will you remember that — whatever happens?”

  Matt gave a long tacit sigh of relief.

  “Yes, I will, Louise,” said Suzette. They kissed each other as if in formal ratification of their compact, which meant so much more to one of them than it could to the other.

  “Come, Matt!” said Louise.

  She added hastily, to prevent insistence against her plan, that they would have time to walk to the station, and she wished to walk. Then Matt said, “I will see you aboard the train, and then I’ll come back and wait till you hear from Springfield, Miss Suzette.”

  “That is a good idea,” said Louise.

  “But,” Adeline urged tremulously, “sha’n’t you be afraid to go to Boston alone? It’ll be dark by the time you get there!”

  “The journey can’t be very dangerous,” said Louise, “and when I arrive, I shall put myself in charge of a faithful Boston hackman, and tell him I’m very valuable, and am to be taken the best of care of. Then I shall be set down at our door in perfect safety.”

  They all had the relief of a little laugh; even Adeline joined reluctantly in it.

  When they were once free of the house, Matt said, “I wonder whether she will remember, after the worst comes, what you said, and whether she will trust you enough to turn to us?”

  “I don’t know. Probably she will be too proud at first. But I shall come, whether she asks me or not. If they had relations or connections, as everybody else has, it would be different. But as it is—”

  “Yes, of course,” said Matt.

  “I wish I could realize that Sue is fond of him, as we are of papa. But I can’t. He always made me feel creepy; didn’t he you?”

  “He was a secret person. But as far as I had anything to do with him at the Mills, when I was there, I found him square enough. He was a country person.”

  “I suppose Sue’s pride is countrified,” said Louise.

  Matt went on, “His secrecy may have been only a sort of shyness; Heaven knows I don’t want to judge him. I suppose that that slow deliberation of his was an effort to maintain himself with dignity. Of course, we see him now in the light of his rascality, poor man, and most of his traits seem ugly.”

  They had a little time after they reached the station, and they walked up and down the platform, talking, and Matt explained how his father might be glad to have him go to Wellwater and settle the question whether Northwick was in the accident or not. It would be a great relief for him to know. He tried to make out that he was going from a divided motive.

  “Oh, you needn’t be at the trouble to say all that to me, Matt,” said Louise. “I don’t blame you for wanting to go, even out of kindness.”

  “No, I suppose there’s no guilt attaching to a thing of that kind,” Matt answered.

  There were a good many loungers about the station, young men and girls, released from the shops for the day; in such towns they find the station an agreeable resort, and enjoy a never-failing excitement in the coming and going of the trains. They watched the Hilarys, as they walked, with envy of that something distinguished which both of them had. They were both tall and handsomely made, and they had the ease before their fellow-beings which perhaps comes as much from the life-long habit of good clothes as from anything else. Matt had a conscience against whatever would separate him from his kind, but he could not help carrying himself like a swell, for all that; and Louise did not try to help it, for her part. She was an avowed worldling, and in this quality she now wore a drab cloth costume, bordered with black fur down the front of the jacket and around it at the hips; the skirt, which fell plain to her feet, had a border of fur there, and it swirled and swayed with her long, dashing stride in a way that filled all those poor girls who saw it, with despair. It seemed to interest almost as painfully a young man with a thin, delicate face, whom she noticed looking at her; she took him at first for one of those educated or half-educated operatives, who are complicating the labor problem more and more. He was no better dressed than others in the crowd, and there was no reason why he should not be a hat-shop or a shoe-shop hand, and yet, at a second glance, she decided that he was not. He stood staring at her with a studious frown, and with the faint suggestion of a sneer on his clean-shaven, fine lips; but she knew that he was admiring her, however he might be hating her, and she spoke to Matt about him as they turned from him in their walk and promised to point him out. But when they came up again to where he had been standing, he was gone. The train came in, and Louise got aboard, and Matt made his way into the station, and went to ask the operator in the telegraph office if she had got anything for Miss Northwick.

  She said, “Something just come. I was waiting for the hack to send it up.”

  “Oh, I will take it, if you please. I am going back to Mr. Northwick’s,” said Matt.

  “All right.”

  Matt took the dispatch, and hurried out t
o find some means of getting quickly to Miss Northwick with it. There was no conveyance about the station, and he started up the street at a gait which was little short of a run, and which exposed him to the ridicule of such small boys as observed his haste, in their intervals of punging. One, who dropped from the runner of a sleigh which came up behind him, jeered him for the awkwardness with which he floundered out of its way in the deep snow of the roadside. The sleigh was abruptly halted, and Sue Northwick called from it, “Mr. Hilary! I couldn’t wait at home; and I’ve just been at the depot by the lower road. You have a dispatch?”

  “Yes, I have a telegram.”

  “Oh, give it to me!”

  He withheld it a moment. “I don’t know what it is, Miss Northwick. But if isn’t what you expected, will you let — will you allow me—”

  As if she did not know what she was doing, she caught the dispatch from his hand, and tore it open. “Well,” she said, “I knew it. He hasn’t been there; now I shall go to Wellwater.” She crumpled the telegram nervously in her hand, and made a motion to lift the reins.

  Matt put his hand on her wrist. “You couldn’t. You — you must let me go.”

  “You?”

  “Me. I can get into Boston in time for that half-past-seven train, and I can do all the things when I get to Wellwater that you couldn’t do. Come; be reasonable! You must see that what I propose is best. I solemnly promise you that nothing shall be left undone, or omitted or forgotten, that could set your mind at rest. Whatever you would wish done, I will do. Go home; your sister needs you; you need yourself; if you have a trial to meet greater than this suspense, which you’ve borne with such courage, you want all your strength for it. I beg you to trust me to do this for you. I know that it seems recreant to let another go in your place on such an errand, but it really isn’t so. You ought to know that I wouldn’t offer to go if I were not sure that I could do all that you could do, and more. Come! Let me go for you!”