When she had passed out at the gate he went into the bedroom, lighted the gas, and began to pack his clothes into two valises, leaving room for Dora's use.
"It is the thing to do," he argued. "I can't leave the poor little rat over there with those women. She needs attention. She is not strong and they are working her to death. Great God! she might grow up and be like them! Who knows? How could she keep from it? Who would be there to warn her? I was ignorant till it was too late. So would she be. No, this is the right thing to do. I'll adopt a sister. Huh! what a joke when they say I'm just a boy! But I'll do it. As for Tilly, she will now be doubly free. The old man can claim desertion. He can add that charge to his complaints in court. If I had some way to make everybody think I was dead, that would be even better. The main thing is for her to forget—wipe out and start in fresh, and she would do it quicker if she thought I was under the sod. Any woman would. Then she would marry again. I know who she will marry—" He winced, shuddered, and pressed down on the things he was packing. "She will end up by marrying Joel Eperson. I'd lay heavy stakes on that. My God! I can't find fault with him—not now, anyway! He is white to the bottom, that fellow. I have to admit it. He bore up like a man, though I was robbing him. I slid in between him and her after she had become the poor devil's very life. Then, then—I have to admit that, too—he never would have got her into this awful mess. He has too much sense for that—sense or honor, which? Well, well, they say turn about is fair play, and old, patient Joel will get his innings. He'll—he'll come home to her after his day's work. He'll take her in his— O my God!" John stood motionless. The old primitive fires were kindling in his blood. Had the room been dark his eyes might have gleamed like those of a tiger. He sat down on the bed. He was quivering and his heart was pounding like a trip-hammer. Presently he mastered himself and resumed his packing. "Don't be a fool, John Trott," he said, sharply. "You are up against it. Be a man, if it is in you."
Here the open closet caught his attention. One of Tilly's dresses hung in view, and he took it into his hands reverently. A pair of worn shoes lay on the floor. He picked up one of them. It was so small that he could have hidden it in his pocket. He turned it over in his great hand. His throbbing fingers caressed the soft leather. She would never need it. Why not put it in with his things? He started to do so. He made space for it in one corner of a valise, and then, all at once exclaiming, "What t'ell!" he threw it back into the closet and continued to swear at himself in low, vexed tones.
Dora was entering at the front. She seldom wore her shoes, and, as she now had them on, she used her feet clumsily and made a great clatter in the hall.
"'Sh! for God's sake!" he cried, angrily, and then he turned his impatience off with an apologetic laugh. "Never mind, kid. Make all the noise you want. It won't do any harm. Are you ready? Give me that doll."
She handed it to him roughly wrapped in a newspaper. "Don't mash her!" she pleaded. "Her face is soft as putty in warm weather."
"There, there!" he laughed, "she will be all right. As snug as a bug in a rug. Now, let's go."
CHAPTER XXXIII
He locked the front door after them, put the key into its old place under the door-step, where Cavanaugh could find it, and then they passed out at the gate and trudged toward the station. They had ample time, and so he took the best way to avoid meeting any one who might comment on their odd departure.