VII
It rained that morning. A steady drizzle continued to fall in the aftermath of the thunderstorm. At the breakfast table Nathan had looked his father straight in the eye and announced:
“Dad, Carol Gardner’s leaving town for Ohio this morning. I’m going down to see her off!”
Johnathan was angered by the way his son spoke. But he decided, after all, he could afford to be magnanimous. A boy Nat’s age ought to begin to have a few privileges.
“I understand,” the father answered. And he prepared to leave for the shop as though it was quite the usual thing.
So Nathan went to the depot to spend a last few minutes—wildly sweet, bitterly poignant—with the first girl he had loved with the maturing affection of a man.
The clouds never dripped a more depressing, groggy rain. The station platform was a long, greasy puddle. Bobbing umbrellas were everywhere as the down train to the junction pulled in.
“Well Carrie—good-by,” he said at last.
“Good-by, Nathan,” she answered.
“Till we meet again.”
“Yes! Till we meet again!”
That was all either had the chance to say. A crowd of rain-soaked travelers bore the girl away from him, into a small umbrella-closing mob around the car steps. Carol managed a last wave from the platform of the coach. Then she had to attend to the business of finding a seat. The train pulled out.
“My God! Have I done the right thing—letting her go?” the heartbroken boy cried hoarsely, as the train drew slowly from the platform, gathering speed as it clicked on shining rails down the yards. But there was no one to answer his heart-cry.
The train had gone. Carol had gone. The town remained—the factory—work—memories!
It rained that morning!