“Good-night, Martin.”
She turned toward the elevators, giving him a nod and a brief smile over her shoulder. As the gate of the cage slid shut, she caught another glimpse of him, standing where she had left him, perplexed, frowning, disconsolate,—staring after her.
§ 6
The train was crowded. Jeannette had chosen one at midday, thinking to have her lunch in the dining-car and so beguile away part of the tedium of the trip. It was Saturday; she had decided to return home at once rather than wait until Sunday; there was nothing to hold her in Philadelphia and she was anxious to get back to the little apartment in Waverly Place. Many other travellers had apparently conceived the same idea of having the noon meal on the way, and Jeannette discovered there were no seats left in the chair-car, so she was obliged to share one in a day coach with a short, plump lady with a prominent bust and short fat arms who sat up very straight beside her and wheezed audibly at every breath. Jeannette’s heavy suit-case was stowed in front of her, and pressed uncomfortably against her knees, while there was no place for her hat-box except in the aisle where it was stumbled over and cursed by every passing passenger. There were cinders embedded in the plush covering of the seat, the car was badly ventilated and smelled of warm, crowded humanity. At Trenton, feeling dirty and dishevelled, she made a swaying progress toward the dining-car only to find twenty people ahead of her. Disheartened, she returned to her seat, concluding to wait until she reached the city before she lunched. Perhaps she would go directly home and persuade Beatrice to make her some tea and toast.
The day was leaden, the country forlorn and dreary; the trees stood bare and black upon bare and blackened ground; the houses seemed cold, desolate and grimy. It began to rain as the train slowed down through smoky Newark, and long diagonal streaks of water slashed the dirty window-panes. Waiting travellers on platforms huddled under station sheds or bent their heads and umbrellas against the sharp wind and driving drops as they struggled toward the cars. The train grew steadily more crowded; people stood in the aisles, swayed and were pitched against those in the seats. Jeannette’s head began to ache dully and at every knock or kick her offending hat-box received she winced as though struck. In the tube beneath the Hudson River, the train came to a standstill and there was a long wait; women grew nervous, and a man said in a loud, laughing voice to a neighbor:
“Say, Bill, it’d be some pickings, all right, if the river came in on us while we were stuck here.”
“Oh, Jesus Mary!” gasped the woman next to Jeannette, and for some minutes the wheeze of her breathing rose to a higher key.
Finally, with much whirring, jerking and dancing of lights, the train rolled into the Pennsylvania Station.
“I’ll go home and get into bed, and Beatrice will bring me some tea and toast,” Jeannette whispered to herself, cramped and weary, fighting the pain in her head that grew steadily worse. She stumbled into a taxi-cab and went bumping and racketing down Seventh Avenue. The rain was now coming down in a forest of lances, and was driven in through the three-inch opening at the top of one of the windows. Jeannette tried to close it; her attempt was pitiful. The taxi skidded violently into Eighth Street and she was thrown to her knees, her hat jammed against the opposite side of the car.
“That’s all right, lady; nothin’ happened!” yelled the driver.