XVI.
Before Richard returned to Chicago it was found that Seth's liking for him had taken practical form. He had made a will giving to Richard all the property of which he died possessed.
The fortune was not large, but enough to pay his college debt, raise the mortgage, and leave a comfortable sum for his mother—enough, indeed, to make her a woman of importance in the neighborhood.
She protested in a mild way when Richard proposed to settle the money on her. But he had grown too masterful for her. In the end she enjoyed the feeling of importance that an assured income gave her. She refused to accompany him to Chicago. It was all “Out-West” to her and very far away.
Derring found himself speeding towards Chicago, wondering whether this unexpected turn of fortune would make marriage nearer for him. But when they met he did not ask her. They assumed the old easy relation as if there had been no separation. Life sped on with days too full of content to ask promises from the future.
When the time of parting came in June he found that he could let her go with less dread than he had thought possible. The time would not be long, and with the increased freedom that had come to him in money affairs he could run East during the vacation. If trouble came to her, or harm, he could be with her in a few hours. It was with light heart that he saw her go.
He had accompanied her to the train and provided her with all the comforts for the journey that love could suggest. Between the leaves of one of the books was tucked a letter. He had not told her it was there. She would find it. The train began to move. “Good-by,” he said hurriedly, “I shall come to you if you need me. In any case I shall see you soon.”
He sat up late, working on an article for the next day. When at last, tired and exhausted, he threw himself on the bed, he fell at once into a sound sleep. He slept long and heavily. He started up with a sense of suffocation—Where was he?—What was the matter?—Was the house on fire? Before he was fairly awake he knew that the room was quiet—so quiet that he could hear the ticking of his watch. Then an awful fear came upon him—she was in danger. Great God, how the feeling mastered him! He sprang up and looked at his watch—three o'clock. He dressed quickly and went out-of-doors. He could not stay in the house. It suffocated him. He must move about or go insane.
Instinctively he turned towards the Lake. A light, fresh breeze greeted him as he came to the breakwater. He lifted his face to meet it. It would blow these foolish notions out of his brain. He had been dreaming and had been frightened by his own fancies.
He slackened his pace, listening to the soft lapping of the water against the breakwater, and looking up to the stars. Then again fear took possession of him and he quickened his step until at last he broke into a run, driven by an awful, nameless dread.
Thus he alternated between hope and fear until the first faint line of dawn appeared across the water. As he stood looking at it, longing for day to break, a sudden peace came upon him. He drew a quick breath as the tension gave way. She was safe once more. This time he did not question his mood. He knew with quiet certainty that all was well with her.
He turned away from the dawning sky and walked home. Throwing himself once more on the bed, he slept soundly until the breakfast hour. As he entered the dining-room, his heart gave a sudden leap and stood still. He thrust something far down below his consciousness. It was not a thought, it had not shape enough for that, it was formless, unrecognized.
The two young men bending eagerly over the morning paper looked up as he came in. “Have you seen the paper?—Awful accident—Miss Gordon's train.”
He reached out his hand for the paper. They gave it to him and left the table. Their departure left him alone. But he gave no sign. He unfolded his napkin and spread it across his knees before he took up the paper. He opened it and glanced down the column.—He had known before he looked.—In the list of those killed—“Helen Gordon, Chicago.”
He did not read the details of the accident. He merely noted the place where it occurred. Then he folded the paper and gave his order for breakfast. If he ate little, no one knew it. He took plenty of time for it. He listened to the discussion of the accident that went on as the boarders, one after another, came in to breakfast.
When he left the house he knew that he had exactly half an hour to report his absence at the office and catch the east-bound express. It was more than enough. He did not want to be alone and think. He saw before him long years in which he would have time to think. To-day he must go to her. He might be needed. He had said that he would come if she needed him, and that he should see her soon—“I shall see you soon.” How the wheels caught up the words and tossed them back to him. They reiterated with clanking monotony—“I shall see you soon—I shall see you soon.” Underneath the rattle and roar, between the shrieks of the engine, in the midst of the conversation around him, he heard them with awful distinctness, and wondered vaguely if he should go mad before he reached her.
He found her after a short search. He was directed to a small house, a little distance from the scene of the wreck. When he announced his errand the woman of the house looked at him closely.
“If your name is Derring, I have something for you,” she said. She disappeared for a moment and returned with a small parcel. She handed it to him.
He turned it over in his hand. There was no writing on it. “Are you sure it is for me?” he asked doubtfully.
“She was not strong enough to direct it. But she told me your name just before she died at daybreak. She said you would be sure to come, and I must give it to you.”
That he would be sure to come. Yes, she had known. He turned abruptly to the window and looked out across the flat, monotonous country. He could not trust himself to open it yet. He held it in his hand. “She was not able to direct it.” The first tears filled his eyes.
When at last he undid the parcel Seth's ring flashed in the sunlight. Underneath it was a small folded slip of paper. His fingers trembled a little as they smoothed the crumpled lines: “Loved-One,—be brave. I would gladly have lived for you. But it was not to be. I shall come back to you if I can. But if not” The last words straggled down the page and were lost.
“But if not.” Derring crushed the paper in his hand and turned to leave the house.
“Don't you want to see her, sir?”
He looked at the woman blankly, stupidly. Without a word he turned towards the door she indicated. It closed behind him and they were alone together once more. He had not thought her face would be so peaceful—nor so far away. He could not understand how she could seem so far away. She was here, close beside him. He could touch her. He put out his hand and softly stroked her cheek. He did not bend to kiss the quiet face. She was too far away for kisses. “She would come back to him if she could—But if not” Good God! How was he to bear it? He turned swiftly away. He could not stand there—near her—with that mocking, immeasurable distance between them.
He went straight from the house to the office of the superintendent and offered his services in caring for the injured. A surgeon was about to start on his rounds. Derring had been detailed to help him. The first patient was a young man about his own age. The leg was to be amputated just above the knee. Derring held his hand while the operation was preparing, speaking to him now and then and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. When all was done and the white sheet was being drawn smoothly in place once more, he struggled to consciousness, reaching out his hand for Derring and begging him not to leave him.
But the surgeon interposed promptly. “No, I can't spare him. He is too valuable. You would have had a tougher time if he had not been here. He shall come back to you by-and-by. Drink this and go to sleep.”
So Richard spent the day in the midst of suffering. Everywhere the magnetism of his touch soothed restlessness, and his personality put courage into faint hearts. No one guessed that he was carrying a hurt deeper than any he looked on or that his heart was wrung by keener suffering than any that he soothed.
Twice during the day he stole into the room where she lay, and, standing by her side, tried to span the infinite distance between them by the inspiration of love. But it was hopeless. Always he saw before his eyes a high, cold wall of darkness and at its foot a crouching figure with fingers creeping here and there to find some. opening or crevice, and, failing in this, beating itself till the blood trickled down. He knew that it was only his diseased imagination. But always the figure was there, and close at hand was the quiet face with its tranquil smile—so far away and indifferent to pain.
At night her brother came—a frank, manly young fellow, with her eyes. Derring explained his presence briefly. “I loved your sister. She never promised to marry me. But she knew I loved her.”
“She wrote about you. She said” He stopped abruptly. Their hands met in the grasp of sympathy, and then Derring left the house for the last time. He did not go again to the quiet room. She was not there. She was nearer his own heart than that.
An hour later he watched—until it was out of sight—the train that bore her away. He turned his face one more towards Chicago.