Reluctant and harassed as he was, he couldn’t help a certain delight in
the adventure. He hadn’t yet lost a boyish relish for running away; and
this getting up after the others were asleep, stealing downstairs, bag
in hand, and meeting Esther in the dark little hall, thrilled him to the
marrow.
They hurried through the empty streets, black beneath the shadow of the
old trees, and entered the station, where an oil lamp burned. The ticket
office was closed; there wasn’t a soul in sight. They sat down side by
side on a bench, to wait for the New York train.
In her usual way, Esther put her hand in Tommy’s. He turned to look down
at her in the dim lamplight, and the sight of her flushed, excited
little face, combined with the pressure of her hand, nearly brought
tears to his eyes. How she trusted him, poor little girl! Leaving her
home and her parents and going off with him this way! He swore to
himself that she should never be sorry for it; that, even if she were
not quite the wife he would have chosen, he would respect her forever
for this generous, this noble trust in him.
He had, in short, never in his life been so overwhelmingly asinine. His
fair, infantile face was pale from the intense seriousness of his
resolutions and the weight of his responsibility. He would at that
moment have been ready to assure you that it was he who had implored and
persuaded Esther to run away with him--that it was his idea and his
wish.
It was midnight when they arrived at the Grand Central. The moment they
stepped off the train, a realization of his colossal folly rushed over
the boy. The subtle excitement of the hurrying crowds, the
sophistication of this environment, suddenly destroyed his rustic
romance, and he grew cold with fright.
What was this that he had done? What was he to do with Esther? He
couldn’t marry her without a license. He had thought of taking her at
once to Uncle James, to convince him on the spot of Esther’s
desirability as a wife. Uncle James might be asleep; or, if he were
awake, he would surely need some preparation. He was courtly toward
ladies--ladies with money; but one never knew--
“Oh, Lord!” he thought. “Oh, Lord! What can I do with her?”
They had eloped from the girl’s home. He was now and forever responsible
for little Esther. There she sat, waiting for his wise decision.
They sat down on a bench in the immense hall, he with his latest thing
in traveling bags, Esther with a shabby little wicker suit case.
Forlorn, young, weary, they sat in silence--waiting, both of them, for
Tommy to become a man.
“I know!” he cried suddenly. “Esther, you go into the ladies’ waiting
room while I telephone. I have a cousin. I think she’d be willing to do
something. At least she’ll put you up overnight.”
But in the telephone booth his courage fled. He couldn’t explain all
this over the wire. He ran out and got a taxi, and at one o’clock he
arrived at his cousin’s little flat uptown.
She was a charming, gracious, good-natured young widow. She got up, put
on a dressing gown, and sat listening with angelic patience to Tommy’s
story; but she could not conceal her horror.
“Oh, Tommy, my _dear_ boy! You’re so young! Don’t be hasty! Oh, Tommy,
don’t rush into--anything!”
“Now, look here!” said Tommy, sick with nervousness and alarm. “Don’t
lecture me, Alison. It’s done. Just suggest something. She can’t go back
now. I’ll have to see Uncle James about getting married; but what shall
I do now? I can’t leave the poor kid sitting there in the Grand Central
Station all night.”
“No, of course you can’t,” Alison agreed. “Bring her here, Tommy--and
hurry: I’ll wait up for her.”
She set about making preparations for this most unwelcome guest,
thinking and hoping all the time that Tommy might be saved--that this
distressing thing might blow over without hurting him.
She pictured Esther as a poor innocent little rustic, as simple as
Tommy. She never saw the girl, and so was never enlightened. She waited
for two hours, but no one came. Then, worried, heavy-hearted, she went
back to bed.