SEEING
He saw now. Blind fool that he had been, month after month! He sank on
a bench and went back in his thoughts to the first time he had ever
seen Sally Winthrop. She had reminded him that it was luncheon time,
and when he had gone out she had been waiting for him. She must have
been waiting for him, or he never would have found her. And she had
known he was hungry.
"She'd want to be hungry with you," Frances had said.
How had Sally Winthrop known that he was hungry? She had known, and
had shared with him what she had.
Then incident after incident in the office came back to him. It was
she who had taught him how to work. It was for her that he had
worked.
Frances had used another phrase: "She'd be almost glad you had no
money."
There was only one woman in the world he knew who would care for a man
like that--if she cared at all. That brought him to his feet again. He
glared about as if searching for her in the dark. Why wasn't she here
now, so that he might ask her if she did care? She had no business to
go off and leave him like this! He did not know where she was.
Don struck a match and looked at his watch. It was eight-thirty.
Somehow, he must find her. He had her old address, and it was possible
that she had left word where she had gone. At any rate, this was the
only clue he had.
He made his way back to the Avenue, and, at a pace that at times
almost broke into a run, went toward the club and the first taxi he
saw. In twenty minutes he was standing on the steps where he had last
seen her. She had wished him to say "good-bye"; but he remembered that
he had refused to say "good-bye."
The landlady knew Miss Winthrop's address, but she was not inclined to
give it to him. At first she did not like the expression in his eyes.
He was too eager.
"Seems to me," she argued, "she'd have told parties where she was
going if she wanted them to know."
"This is very important," he insisted.
"Maybe it's a lot more important to you than it is to her," she
replied.
"But--"
"You can leave your name and address, and I'll write to her," she
offered.
"Look here," Don said desperately. "Do you want to know what my
business is with her?"
"It's none of my business, but--"
"I want to ask her to marry me," he broke in. "That's a respectable
business, isn't it?"
He reached in his pocket and drew out a bill. He slipped it into her
hand.
"Want to marry her?" exclaimed the woman. "Well, now, I wouldn't stand
in the way of that. Will you step in while I get the address?"
"I'll wait here. Only hurry. There may be a late train."
She was back in a few seconds, holding a slip of paper in her hand.
"It's to Brenton, Maine, she's gone."
Don grabbed the paper.
"Thanks."
He was halfway down the steps when she called after him:--
"Good luck to ye, sir."
"Thanks again," he called back.
Then he gave his order to the driver:--
"To the Grand Central."
Don found that he could take the midnight train to Boston and connect
there with a ten-o'clock train next morning. This would get him into
Portland in time for a connection that would land him at Brenton at
four that afternoon. He went back to the house to pack his bag. As he
opened the door and went in, it seemed as if she might already be
there--as if she might be waiting for him. Had she stepped forward to
greet him and announce that dinner was ready, he would not have been
greatly surprised. It was as if she had been here all this last year.
But it was only Nora who came to greet him.
"I'm going away to-night for a few days--perhaps for two weeks," he
told Nora.
"Yes, sir."
"I'll wire you what my plans are--either to-morrow or next day."
"And it is to be soon, sir?"
"I can't tell you for sure, Nora, until I've cleared up one or two
little matters; but--you can wish me luck, anyway."
"I'll do that, sir."
"And the house is ready, isn't it?"
"Everything is ready, sir."
"That's fine. Now I'm going to pack."
His packing finished, Don went downstairs with still an hour or more
on his hands before train-time. But he did not care to go anywhere. He
was absolutely contented here. He was content merely to wander from
room to room. He sat down at the piano in the dark, and for a long
while played to her--played to her just the things he knew she would
like.
It was half-past eleven before he left the house, and then he went
almost reluctantly. She was more here than anywhere in the world
except where he was going. He found himself quite calm about her here.
The moment he came out on the street again he noticed a difference.
His own phrase came back to frighten him:--
"She'd care like that--if she cared at all."
Supposing that after he found her, she did not care?
At the station he wondered if it were best to wire her, but decided
against it. She might run away. It was never possible to tell what a
woman might do, and Sally Winthrop was an adept at concealing herself.
He remembered that period when, although he had been in the same
office with her, she had kept herself as distant as if across the
ocean. She had only to say, "Not at home," and it was as if she said,
"I am not anywhere."
He went to his berth at once, and had, on the whole, a bad night
of it. He asked himself a hundred questions that he could not
answer--that Sally Winthrop alone could answer. Though it was only
lately that he had prided himself on knowing her desires in
everything, he was forced to leave all these questions unanswered.
At ten the next morning he took the train for Portland. At two he was
on the train for Brenton and hurrying through a strange country to
her side.
When he reached Brenton he was disappointed not to find her when he
stepped from the train. The station had been so closely identified
with her through the long journey that he had lost sight of the fact
that it existed for any other purpose. But only a few station loafers
were there to greet him, and they revealed but an indifferent
interest. He approached one of them.
"Can you tell me where Miss Winthrop is stopping?"
The man looked blank.
"No one of that name in this town," he finally answered.
"Isn't this Brenton?"
"It's Brenton, right enough."
"Then she's here," declared Don.
"Is she visitin'?" inquired the man.
Don nodded.
"A cousin, or something."
A second man spoke up:--
"Ain't she the one who's stopping with Mrs. Halliday?"
"Rather slight, with brown eyes," volunteered Don.
"Dunno the color of her eyes," answered the first man, with a wink at
the second. "But thar's some one stoppin' thar. Been here couple days
or so."
"That's she," Don decided.
He drew a dollar bill from his pocket.
"I want one of you to take a note to her from me."
He wrote on the back of a card:--
I'm at the station. I must see you at once.
DON.
"Take that to her right away and bring me an answer," he ordered.
The man took both bill and card and disappeared.