"For the gentleman at the window," said the young man.
Edward opened the missive with the calmness of an honest and solvent man, but with a pang of fear for Ellen. He read as follows:
"We think you had better return at once.
BERTHA TERRY."
For an instant he sat with his brain in a whirl. Then a curse upon Providence rose to his lips; he repressed it, and began to load himself with reproaches. A moment before, he had been in the satisfied mood of a man who has his own approbation for work well done. He now looked upon his course during the past winter with both abhorrence and wonder. He told himself that it was heartless to have left Ellen at all; to have stayed away for so many months was simply inhuman. It was all plain enough now; and that he should have been so blind to the truth he could not conceive. Suddenly he bethought himself that there was yet time to catch the Austin Express for St. Louis, and that if he did not succeed in doing this a whole day would be lost. He quickly wrote and forwarded a despatch to Bertha, requesting her to telegraph to him at Vinita without reserve, and then, regardless of his unfulfilled engagements, hurried to the station. He was just in season: as he stepped upon the platform he heard the whistle of the approaching train. Once on board, he experienced a momentary sensation of relief: he was rapidly moving homeward, and at Vinita he would at least be freed from suspense. He tried to convince himself that the case could not be a serious one. But if it was? A terrible fear took possession of him. He attempted in vain to put it aside. It rendered it impossible for him to sit down alone with his thoughts for a moment, and he passed away the day in wandering back and forth through the cars, making an effort now and then to get up a conversation with some fellow-passenger, counting the hours before the train would reach Vinita, and constantly execrating himself.
But, Vinita reached, there was no telegram. The operator thought it must have gone to Vineton, a town far to the southeast, on the Iron Mountain Railway. He could telegraph for it, of course, he said, and send it on to any given point, but he believed that Edward would get word more quickly by forwarding another message to St. Louis. He suggested that the reply be sent to Sedalia, where it would undoubtedly be delivered, even at the late hour at which the train would arrive.
Edward listened to these remarks in dull despair. It was true that he might receive news from Ellen at Sedalia, but Sedalia would not be reached before the small hours of the following morning, when his journey would be practically ended. Nor was there any nearer town, large enough to support a night telegraph-office, where he could expect a message to be received in season to reach him. He thanked the operator for his suggestions, and returned sorrowfully to the train, to pass a night of suffering, from which his short snatches of sleep gave him little relief. Poor fellow! His sadness and remorse were cruelly enhanced by the suspense he was called upon to endure. He vowed many times to himself that, if Ellen were spared until his return, no pressure of the world should ever separate him from her again. When the sun began to make known its coming in the east, he breathed a prayer of thanks that his agony of waiting was almost over.
Toward the middle of the forenoon the train rolled into the Union Dépôt at St. Louis. Edward stood upon the platform of the foremost car. Long before it came to a stop, he leaped from the steps and ran along toward the hackmen's stand. A babel of voices greeted him. Quickly selecting a man whose face was familiar, he pressed a douceur into his hand, and, in a voice that broke in spite of his efforts to control it, asked to be driven home immediately and as fast as possible. The hackman looked upon Edward's haggard face with silent sympathy, divining, perhaps, something of the truth, and hastily led the way to his vehicle.
The train was hardly at a stand-still when the carriage rattled away from the station. The driver plied his whip freely, and soon left the business section of the city behind. As they sped along Washington Avenue, Edward endeavored to prepare himself for the worst, but he was incapable of calmness and reflection: his whole being rebelled against the supposition that he might be too late.
There was a carriage, which he recognized as Dr. Kreiss's, drawn up before his house. Fairly unmanned by emotion, he sprang up the steps, threw open the door, and met the doctor face to face.
The physician maintained a professional composure.