“I have been ill,” she said. It was frightened from her lips.
“There is plenty of time, Miss. I’ll see you through to the berth—the ten-five—yes’m.”
The quick tears started again, and an aching lump in her throat. She wanted to cry out her thankfulness. She wanted to be told again and again—that all this was not a dream, from which she would awaken in that place of death. The value of her veil awed her; and it was she who had thought of it. Could it really be true that she had forgotten nothing? Would she actually arrive at her journey’s end?
The porter procured berth and tickets, and now he assured her that her train was ready. She followed him through interminable distances, down countless stairs; she watched and listened critically, as he delivered both tickets to the Pullman conductor. All she had to do was to follow, to say nothing and to pay. With what thankfulness did she pay; and with what warming courtesy were her gifts received. Surely the world was changed. It had become so dear and good.... She had a far-off vision of a peremptory Betty Berry of another world, striding to and fro among men and trains and cities, giving her commands, expecting obedience, conferring gratuities according to rigid principle.
The car-porter was more wonderful than any—an old Southern darkey, with little patches of gray beard, absurdly distributed. A homing gentleness was in his voice, and his smile was from a better world.... There had been another porter like him somewhere.
“She goes clear through,” the station porter said, “and she’s been sick.”
“Ah’ll see the young Miss clar’ through,” the old man drawled. “Just depen’ on me, Miss. Sit right down here—berth’ll be ready right smaht.”
She did not sleep, but she was warm and not uncomfortable. She dared think a little of the end of the journey, but there was so much to do in the morning, so much to keep in mind. She held fast to her purse. In her dependence, the magic of it was like a strange discovery. In the early morning, the porter brought her coffee with some hot milk and toast. The wind had long since been left behind, but a cold rain was falling. She would be cold. The terminal was reached. The old man bore her forth. There was something merciful and restoring in his gentle gratitude. A station porter led her to the Hackensack car.
She thought of breakfast on the way, but forgot it again upon reaching Hackensack, where she was directed to the post-office.
She wrote the address of John Morning and asked shiveringly at the stamp window if there was any way in which she could be delivered there.