She had a pretty gold chain among her jewelry, and, attaching the key to this, she clasped it around her neck and concealed it beneath her dress.
Then, rapidly completing her packing, she rang for a servant to order the carriage around to take her to the station, after which she dressed herself in a plain dark-gray traveling-suit, and then went to tell Mrs. Hubbard that she was going to run down to New York for a day or so.
This announcement did not trouble or surprise the old lady, for Allison often made the trip alone to do shopping for herself, or keep an appointment with her dressmaker. But she did look a trifle startled when tears sprang into the eyes of the beautiful girl, as she kissed her good-by, giving her a spasmodic little embrace, and then hurriedly left the room.
“I—I wonder what is the matter?” she mused, as she wiped one of Allison’s tears from her cheek. “I’m afraid the dear child isn’t quite happy with only John and me in the house. I’ll tell him that we must ask some young folks here to make it more lively for her.”
But the kind-hearted old lady never saw the fair girl again, for two months later she “slept with her fathers.” It was a mercy, too, that she did not live to have her heart broken by learning later, as she must have learned, that her only son was an unmitigated scoundrel.
Meantime, Allison was speeding on her way to New York, where she arrived just in season to purchase her ticket, recheck her baggage, and board a fast express bound for Boston.
The day was very warm, and the girl was almost worn out with the grief and mental excitement of the last twenty-four hours, and it was with a deep sigh of relief that she settled herself in her section and knew that she would have a long rest. At New Haven she alighted and procured a light lunch, then returned to her seat, where, after the conductor had made his rounds, she lay back and soon fell into a heavy sleep. She did not waken once until the train stopped at Worcester, and then only long enough to show her ticket again, a profound slumber that was almost lethargy once more overpowering her senses.
It was a blessed sleep for her—a merciful unconsciousness; for thus she escaped the realization, even for a moment, of the fearful fate toward which she was fast hastening. The train rushed on at lightning speed—it was the limited express—forests, rivers, and towns, like swift-flitting visions of dreamland appearing, then vanishing in rapid succession, until a misplaced switch sent it swerving off upon another track, when it went dashing and crashing into a heavy, slow-going freight with a terrible shock, demolishing the engine, throwing two cars from the track, and sending the one in which Allison was a passenger rolling down an embankment, and making a complete wreck of it. It was full of people, many of them bound for summer-resorts along the New England coast or among the mountains.
Many were severely injured, several killed outright, five or six taken from the wreck for dead; and Allison was among these—the ghastly wound on top of her lovely golden head telling but too plainly how she had come to such a fate.