The south-bound train was late, and the few loafers who found their
daily excitement in its arrival had drifted away as it grew dark,
leaving no one but Enoch on the platform. When the train whistled the
station agent opened the office door and his kerosene lamp sent a shaft
of light out into the darkness.
There was the usual noisy banter among the trainmen, and none of them
seemed to notice the woman who alighted from the platform of the
passenger coach and came toward Enoch.
She stood in the light of the doorway, so that the old man could see her
tawdry dress and the travel-dimmed red and white of her painted face.
"Is there a man named Jerry Sullivan livin' in this town?" she asked.
Enoch was conscious of a vague disappointment.
"Yes," he said, half reluctantly, "he lives here. I suppose thee's his
wife."
The woman looked at him curiously. Then she laughed.
"Yes, I suppose I am," she said; "can you show me where he lives?"
"I can't show thee very well in the dark, but it isn't far. If thee'll
wait a minute, I'll take thy satchel and go with thee."
He brought the mail-bag and picked up the stranger's valise.
"Thy husband's been looking for thee," he said, as they went along the
path that led across a vacant lot to the street.
The woman did not reply at once. She seemed intent upon gathering her
showy skirts out of the dust. When she spoke, her voice trembled on the
verge of a laugh.
"That so? I've been lookin' for him, too. Thought I'd give him a
pleasant surprise."
"He's got his house about finished."
The woman stopped in the path.
"His house," she sneered; "he must be rattled if he thinks I'll live in
a place like this--forty miles from nowhere."
They walked on in silence after that to the door of Jerry's shanty.
There was a light inside, and the smell of cooking mingled with the
resinous odor of the new lumber. Jerry was executing a difficult passage
in a very light opera to the somewhat trying accompaniment of frying
ham. The solo stopped abruptly when Enoch knocked.
"Come in," shouted the reckless voice of the singer, "let the good
angels come in, come in!"
Enoch opened the door.
"Good-evening, Jerry," he said gravely; "here is thy wife."
The young fellow crossed the floor at a bound with a smile that stayed
on his face after every vestige of joy had died out of it.
The woman gave him a coarse, triumphant stare.
"I heard you was lookin' for me," she said, with a chuckle, "but you
seemed kind o' s'prised after all."
Jerry stood perfectly still, with his hands at his sides. Behind him,
where the light fell full upon it, Enoch could see the cradle. The old
man placed the satchel on the step.
"I must go back and attend to the mail," he said, disappearing in the
darkness.
A few hours later, just as Enoch had fitted the key in the store door
and turned down the kerosene lamp, preparatory to blowing it out, Jerry
appeared in the doorway.
"I've got to go away on the early train," he said, in a dull, husky
voice; "she's going with me. I don't know how long I'll be gone, and I
thought I'd like to leave the key of the house with you, if it won't be
too much trouble."
"It won't be any trouble, Jerry. I'll take care of it for thee," said
Enoch.
The hand that held out the key seemed to Enoch to be stretched toward
him across a chasm. He felt a yearning disgust for the man on the other
side.
Jerry walked across the platform hesitatingly, and then came back.
"Would you mind locking up and coming outside, Mr. Embody?" he asked
humbly; "I'd like to have a little talk with you."
Enoch blew out the lamp and closed the door and locked it. He felt a
physical shrinking from the moral squalor into which he was being
dragged.
"What is it, Jerry?" he asked kindly.
"I've been thinking," said the young man hurriedly, and in the same
level, monotonous voice, "that families sometimes come to these new
places without having any house ready, and of course it's a good deal of
expense for them to board, and I just wanted to say to you that if any
person--well, say a widow with a b--family--I wouldn't care to help a
man that could rustle for himself--but a woman, you know, if she's not
very strong, and has a--a--family--why, I'd just as soon you'd let her
have the house, and you needn't say anything about the rent: I'll fix
that when I come back. I haven't been to church and put anything in the
collection since I've been here,"--his voice gave a suggestion of the
old ring, and then fell back drearily,--"so I thought I'd hand you what
I'd saved up, and you can use it for charitable purposes--groceries and
little things that people might need, coming in without anything to
start."
He handed Enoch a roll of money, and the old man put it into his pocket.
"I'll remember what thee says, Jerry. If any worthy family comes along,
I'll see that they do not want."
"If I can, I'll send you a little now and then," the young fellow went
on more cheerfully, "but I'd just as soon you wouldn't mention it. I'll
be back sometime, there's no doubt about that, but I can't say just
when. You can tell the folks that my--my wife," he choked on the word,
"didn't feel satisfied here. She thinks it won't agree with her. And I
guess it won't, she's very bad off"--he turned away lingeringly, and
then came back. "About the--the--crib," he faltered, "if they happen to
have a baby, I wouldn't mind them using it. Babies are pretty generally
respectable, no matter what their folks are. I _was_ calculating," he
went on wistfully, "to get another box and hunt up some wheels, and I
thought maybe they could rig it up with a pink parasol and use it to
cart the baby 'round; you know if a woman isn't very strong, it might
save her a good deal--but then it's too late now;" he turned away
hopelessly.
"I guess I can manage that for thee, Jerry," said Enoch; "I'm rather
handy with tools. Thee needn't worry."
The two men stood still a moment in the moonlight.
"Good-by, Mr. Embody," said Jerry.
He did not put out his hand. Enoch hesitated a little.
"Farewell," he said, and his voice was not quite natural.
The next morning, when Enoch opened the outside letter-box to postmark
the mail that had been dropped into it after the store was closed the
night before, he found but one letter. It was addressed to Mrs. Josie
Hart Sullivan, Pikeboro, Mo