She was thinking of Roy Leighton, and how her staying in Chicago might prevent what she so ardently desired. The living together beneath one roof was a thought of the instant, and nothing she had ever considered for a moment, or ever would. But it answered her purpose just as well; and she smoothed Jack’s hair so lovingly, and looked at him with so soft, beseeching eyes, in which there was a semblance of tears, that Jack began to forgive her, and feel that she was right after all, and it was not of any use to make her unhappy by insisting upon her staying where she did not wish to stay.
This was in Buffalo, where he met her. Then followed the catastrophe, and Jack uttered no word of remonstrance against staying till Russell came, although he knew just how the little girl at home was longing for them. He wrote her a note, telling her to be patient, as sister Georgie was coming, and then gave himself to the suffering ones around him, with Georgie as a most valuable aid. He had no thought of her turning back to Leighton, and the fact that she was intending to do so, came like a thunderbolt. He could see no reason for it, and when she pleaded Mrs. Churchill’s grief, which she could quiet better than any one else, he was guilty of swearing a little about the whole Leighton tribe, Roy not excepted; and he made Georgie cry, and didn’t care either, and would not ask her when she was coming, but received the chocolates, and the doll, and the puzzle in silence, and put them away in his travelling bag, with a half-muttered oath as he thought of Georgie’s selfishness, and a choking lump in his throat as he remembered the little one at home, and her disappointment. Georgie was all sweetness to the last, and her face wore an injured, but still a forgiving, angelic look, as she bade Jack good-by and said to him:
“I shall be with you almost before you know it. Tell Annie not to cry, but be a good girl till sister comes.”
Jack did not reply, and his face was very sad when he went back to Edna, and asked what he could do for her. He had done for her already something she would never know, but which, nevertheless, was just as great a kindness. After hearing from Georgie of Charlie’s entire dependence upon Roy, it had occurred to him to take charge of the dead youth’s pocket-book, and see how much it contained. Ten dollars,—that was all,—and Jack’s heart gave a great throb of pity, as he counted out the little roll, and thought how much Edna would need.
“Oh, I do so wish I was rich,” he said; and then he drew out his own purse and counted its contents,—twenty-five dollars, and twenty of that he had mentally appropriated for the purchase of a coat, to be worn in the store, as the one he was wearing now was getting shabby and old. “Maybe Aunt Luna can fix it up,” he said to himself. “It is not threadbare; it’s only shiny-like in spots. I’ll wear it another quarter, and here goes for that poor, little frightened thing.”
He put fifteen dollars in Charlie’s purse, and ten back into his own; then he looked at Charlie’s watch, but when he saw upon it, “Presented by his mother, Christmas, 18—,” he said this must go back to Leighton, and the watch was reverently laid aside to be given into Russell’s care, but the purse he kept for Edna, telling Georgie that he had it, and when she asked how much was in it, answered, “twenty-five dollars,” but said nothing of his coat and generous self-denial. He was used to such things; he would hardly have known himself with no one to care for, and when Georgie was gone with Charlie’s body, he turned to Charlie’s wife, and began to plan for her comfort. It never occurred to him that much as he desired to be at home, he could leave her alone with only a woman to look after her. If it had, he might have gone that night, but he chose to wait till the next day, when he hoped Edna would be able to bear the journey.
She was very weak and feverish when the morrow came, and Jack lifted her in his arms as if she had been Annie, and carried her into the car, where by turning two seats together he improvised a very comfortable bed, with his own and Mrs. Dana’s travelling shawl. Nor did he say good by until he had carried her into Mrs. Dana’s house, and deposited her upon a lounge around which four little children gathered wonderingly.
“I shall run in and see how you are to-night or to-morrow. Now I must go to Annie,” he said; and Edna felt drearier, more desolate than ever, as the door closed upon him, and she heard his footsteps going from her, and leaving her there in that strange place alone, with the children huddling around her, and the baby screaming loudly at the sight of its mother.
CHAPTER XI.
EDNA’S FIRST WEEKS AT MRS. DANA’S.
