"36 North-bound 15 minutes late."
The time dragged. More curious persons came to the door, stared, and even paused. The cabman came for his fare. She paid him for the use of his cab all the morning. "Don't forget," she whispered.
"I won't, miss," he said, comprehendingly, and thereupon she put some more money into his hand.
"Please, please, don't forget!" she repeated.
She watched him as he walked away, and then she saw the policeman join him, and the two turned to one side and began to talk earnestly together.
At last the train came. Through a gaping throng, ever increasing, she led her father to a seat in one of the coaches. There was only a short stop, and the train was soon moving again. The relief was great, and a vast sense of weakness came over her. She felt like crying, but she knew that would never do. She yearned for the opportunity to confide in some one. It could not be her mother, for she had never been understood by her mother. There was one friend who would understand, who had always understood, and that was Joel Eperson. Joel would be grieved. She was the wife of another, but that would make no difference to Joel Eperson, for that he was still faithful to her she did not doubt. She told herself that she must see Joel at once and get his advice. She could think of no one else upon whom she could so confidently rely, and she must go to some one, for all the initiative she had ever possessed seemed to have been ruthlessly destroyed along with every girlish dream, hope, and ideal.
CHAPTER XXX
It was dark that evening when John arrived home. As he opened the gate he was surprised to see that the cottage was not lighted. That was indeed strange, for Tilly was usually in the kitchen or the dining-room at that hour. The next remarkable thing was the fact that the key was in the lock. He felt it and heard it rattle as he caught the door-knob. The hall was dark and silent. He went in hurriedly. What could have happened? Where could she be? He called out: "Tilly! Tilly!" but there was no response. A gray cat that belonged to the Carrols came and rubbed against his ankles as he stood in the kitchen. He lighted the gas. How odd! for there lay the unwashed breakfast-dishes, the uncleaned coffee-pot, and in the dining-room the breakfast table-cloth had not been removed. He put down his dinner-pail, and, with a great fear clutching his breast, a fear he could not have defined, he went into the sitting-room. Nothing here was out of place, and he turned into the bedroom. It was dark, and with unsteady hands he struck a match. It broke. A blazing globule fell to the mat. He swore impatiently and extinguished it with his foot. He struck another and lighted the gas. The open door of the closet, now empty, met his eyes. A crushed hat-box lay on the floor, the bureau drawers were wide open and contained but a few things. He looked for Tilly's trunk. It was gone. Then he began to look everywhere for some written communication, lighting all the gas-jets to facilitate his search. Then he gave it up. He went about extinguishing the gas as aimlessly and mechanically as a sleepwalker, unaware of the things he was touching.
He went out on the porch. He stepped down into the yard. Verbal expression of no sort was formed in his consciousness, for the pall of comprehension had not yet quite enveloped him. Something yet of hope might blaze forth out of his gloom. Ah, perhaps she had received a telegram from home that some one was ill and had not had time to inform him. Yes, it might be that—that and not the other—not the damnable, sinister conceit that somehow seemed to emerge from the home of his mother and come crawling like a designing monster across the intervening spaces toward him. He went to the gate and clutched it with the strong hand which all that day had lifted mortar and bricks till his muscles were sore. Then he heard the sound of wheels. A horse and cab were approaching from the direction of the town.