“Mr. Varick! she is asleep. She has had a wretched night. When you are able to come back, it will be different. But if you care for her, let her be.”
The protest was almost incoherent. Mrs. Raritan appeared beside herself with anxiety.
“Forgive me,” said Tristrem, “I did not mean to vex you. Nor would I disturb her.” He paused a second, dumbly and vaguely afflicted. “You will tell her, will you not?” he added; “tell her this, that I wanted to see her. Mrs. Raritan, my whole life is wrapped up in her.” He hesitated again. “You are tired too, I can see. You were up with her last night, were you not?”
Mrs. Raritan bowed her head.
“You must forgive me,” he repeated, “I did not understand. Tell me,” he continued, “last night I awoke thinking that I heard her calling. Did she call?”
“Call what?”
“I thought—you see I was half, perhaps wholly asleep, but I thought I heard her voice. I was mistaken, was I not?”
“Yes, you must have been.”
The negro had brought down the luggage, and stood waiting at the gate.
“You will tell her—Mrs. Raritan—I love her with all my heart and soul.”
The lady’s lips quivered. “She knows it, and so do I.”
“You will ask her to write.”
“Yes, I will do so.”
Tristrem took her hand in his. “Tell her from me,” he began, but words failed him, it was his face that completed the message. In a moment more he was in the coach on his way to the station.
There was a brisk drive along the sea, a curve was rounded, and the station stood in sight. And just as the turn was made Tristrem caught the shriek of a whistle.
“There she goes,” the negro exclaimed, “you ought to have been spryer.”
“Has the train gone?” Tristrem asked.
“Can’t you see her? I knew you’d be late.” The man was insolent in his familiarity, but Tristrem did not seem to notice it.
“I would have given much not to be,” he said.
At this the negro became a trifle less uncivil. “Would you ree-ly like to catch that train?” he asked.
“I would indeed.”
“Is it worth twenty-five dollars to you?”
Tristrem nodded.
“Well, boss, I tell you. That train stops at Peacedale, and at Wakefield she shunts off till the mail passes. Like as not the express is late. If I get you to Kingston before the Newport passes, will you give me twenty-five?”
“If I make the connection I will give you fifty.”
“That’s talking. You’ll get there, boss. Just lay back and count your thumbs.”
The negro snapped his whip, and soon Tristrem was jolted over one of the worst and fairest roads of New England, through a country for which nature has done her best, and where only the legislator is vile. One hamlet after another was passed, and still the coach rolled on.
“We’ll get there,” the negro repeated from time to time, and to encourage his fare he lashed the horses to their utmost speed. Peacedale was in the distance; Wakefield was passed, and in a cloud of dust they tore through Kingston and reached the station just as the express steamed up.
“I told you I’d do it,” the negro exclaimed, exultingly. “I’ll get checks for your trunks.”
A minute or two more, and the checks were obtained; the negro was counting a roll of bills, and in a drawing room car Tristrem was being whirled to New York.
For several hours he sat looking out at the retreating uplands, villages, and valleys. But after a while he remembered the scantiness of his breakfast, and, summoning the porter, he obtained from him some food and drink. By this time the train had reached New Haven, and there Tristrem alighted to smoke a cigarette. He was, however, unable to finish it before the whistle warned him that he should be aboard again. The porter, who had been gratified by a tip, then told him that there was a smoking compartment in the car beyond the one in which he had sat, and, as the train moved on, Tristrem went forward in the direction indicated.
The compartment was small, with seats for two on one side, and for three, or for four at most, on the other. As Tristrem entered it he saw that the larger sofa was occupied by one man, who lay out on it, full length, his face turned to the partition. Tristrem took a seat opposite him, and lit a fresh cigarette. As he smoked he looked at the reclining form of his vis-à-vis. About the man’s neck a silk handkerchief had been rolled, but one end had come undone and hung loosely on the cushion, and as Tristrem looked he noticed that on the neck was a wound, unhealed and fresh, a line of excoriation, that neither steel nor shot could have caused, but which might have come from a scratch. But, after all, what business was it of his? And he turned his attention again to the retreating uplands and to the villages that starred the route.
When the cigarette was done, he stood up to leave the compartment. But however quietly he had moved, he seemed to arouse his neighbor, who turned heavily, as though to change his position. As he did so, Tristrem saw that it was Royal Weldon, and that on his face was a bruise. He would have spoken, for Weldon was looking at him, but he recalled the wanton lie of the week before, and as he hesitated whether to speak or pass on, Weldon half rose. “Damn you,” he said, “you are everywhere.” Then he lay down, turning his face again to the wall, and Tristrem, without a word, went to the other car and found his former seat.
Two hours later he reached his home. He let himself in with a latchkey, and rang the bell. But
