Part 41 (1/2)

”Thank you,” he said, repressing a sob, and he went down the steps with a choking in his throat and a pain at his heart.

He turned at the gate, and looked back through the half-opened door into the rich shadows that lay beyond it, with a ray of crimson light from the stained gla.s.s window cleaving them across, and then his eyes were blinded with tears, and he could see no more. The gates of his Eden were closed behind him; he felt that he should never enter them again.

But this was no time for sorrow and regret.

He wiped the tears from his eyes and turned his face resolutely toward the heart of the city.

At the railroad station he was told that the next train would leave for Wilkesbarre at twelve o'clock.

It lacked half an hour of that time now. There was nothing to do but to wait. He began to mark out in his mind the course he should pursue on reaching Wilkesbarre. He thought he would inquire the way to Mr.

Goodlaw's office, and go directly to it and tell the whole story to him. Perhaps Mrs. Burnham would be there too, that would be better yet, more painful but better. Then he should follow their advice as to the course to be pursued. It was more than likely that they would want him to testify as a witness. That would be strange, too, that he should give such evidence voluntarily as would deprive him of a beautiful home, of a loving mother, and of an honored name. But he was ready to do it; he was ready to do anything now that seemed right and best, anything that would meet the approval of his Uncle Billy and of his own conscience.

When the train was ready he found a seat in the cars and waited impatiently for them to start. For some reason they were late in getting away, but, once started, they seemed to be going fast enough to make up for lost time.

In the seats behind Ralph was a merry party of young girls. Their incessant chatter and musical laughter came to his ears as from a long distance. At any former time he would have listened to them with great pleasure; such sounds had an unspeakable charm for him; but to-day his brain was busied with weightier matters.

He looked from the car window and saw the river glancing in the sunlight, winding under shaded banks, rippling over stony bottoms.

He saw the wooded hill-sides, with the delicate green of spring upon them fast deepening into the darker tints of summer. He saw the giant breakers looming up, black and ma.s.sive, in the foreground of almost every scene. And yet it was all scarcely more to him than a shadowy dream. The strong reality in his mind was the trying task that lay before him yet, and the bitter outcome, so soon to be, of all his hopes and fancies.

At Pittston Junction there was another long delay. Ralph grew very nervous and impatient.

If the train could have reached Wilkesbarre on time he would have had only an hour to spare before the sitting of the court. Now he could hope for only a half-hour at the best. And if anything should happen to deprive him of that time; if anything _should_ happen so that he should not get to court until after the case was closed, until after the verdict of the jury had been rendered, until after the law had declared him to be Robert Burnham's son; if anything _should_ happen!

His face flushed, his heart began to beat wildly, his breath came in gasps. If such a thing were to occur, without his fault, against his will and effort, what then? It was only for a moment that he gave way to this insidious and undermining thought. Then he fought it back, crushed it, trampled on it, and set his face again sternly to the front.

At last the train came, the impatient pa.s.sengers entered it, and they were once more on their way.

It was a relief at least to be going, and for the moment Ralph had a faint sense of enjoyment in looking out across the placid bosom of the Susquehanna, over into the tree-girt, garden-decked expanse of the valley of Wyoming. Off the nearer sh.o.r.e of a green-walled island in the river, a group of cattle stood knee-deep in the shaded water, a picture of perfect comfort and content.

Then the train swept around a curve, away from the sh.o.r.e, and back among the low hills to the east. Suddenly there was a b.u.mping together of the cars, an apparently powerful effort to check their impetus, a grinding of the brakes on the wheels, a rapid slowing of the train, and a slight shock at stopping.

The party of girls had grown silent, and their eyes were wide and their faces blanched with fear.

The men in the car arose from their seats and went out to discover the cause of the alarm. Ralph went also. The train had narrowly escaped plunging into a ma.s.s of wrecked coal cars, thrown together by a collision which had just occurred, and half buried in the scattered coal.

To make the matter still worse the collision had taken place in a deep and narrow cut, and had filled it from side to side with twisted and splintered wreckage.

What was to be done? the pa.s.sengers asked. The conductor replied that a man would be sent back to the next station, a few miles away, to telegraph for a special train from Wilkesbarre, and that the pa.s.sengers would take the train from the other side of the wreck. And how long would they be obliged to wait here?

”Well, an hour at any rate, perhaps longer.”

”That means two hours,” said an impatient traveller, bitterly.

Ralph heard it all. An hour would make him very late, two hours would be fatal to his mission. He went up to the conductor and asked,--

”How long'd it take to walk to Wilkesbarre?”

”That depends on how fast you can walk, sonny. Some men might do it in half or three quarters of an hour: you couldn't.” And the man looked down, slightingly, on the boyish figure beside him.

Ralph turned away in deep thought. If he could walk it in three-quarters of an hour, he might yet be in time; time to do something at least. Should he try?