She looked quickly over the list of killed. There were no familiar names; but at the head of the wounded was:
“John Villard of Shepardtown. Fatally injured. Impossible to recover.”
She turned to Salome, who was already leaving the table.
“Help me to get ready,” she said. “I must go to him immediately.” Marion marveled to see her so calm; but she knew only too well the anguish concealed in the woman’s heart below.
“What is it? What are you going to do? Why does not some one tell me?” asked Mrs. Soule.
“Dear auntie,” and Salome bent and kissed the fair, soft cheek, “there has been a terrible accident to the train that Mr. Villard was coming home on. I am going to him. He is dying.” Then she left the room.
In less than an hour she was at the railway station, waiting for the train to Boston. At the last moment, Mrs. Soule, having recovered from the shock which the news had given her, had tried to dissuade her niece from going.
It seemed to her that this was the strangest thing her unaccountable niece had ever done. She really must remonstrate with her on the impropriety of her conduct. And seeing that Salome would not be restrained from making this erratic trip, she proposed to go, too, as chaperon. Only Salome must wait for the noon train, as she could not possibly get ready for an earlier one.
“The noon train!” exclaimed Salome, buttoning her gloves. “No, auntie, Mr. Villard may not live until then. I shall go to him at once. You forget that I am no longer a young girl. I am a business woman, and my chief assistant lies dying.” She bent over and kissed her aunt, who was still remonstrating, and ran down the steps to the waiting carriage, where Marion had already taken her seat.
Marion, too, had offered to go with her; but Salome had only replied: