Part 63 (1/2)
The man glanced at the fair, anxious face, and smiled good-humoredly.
”You've come to the wrong station, miss,” he said. ”You want the Midland line.”
”The Midland?” Thelma felt more bewildered than ever.
”Yes,--the _Midland_,” he repeated rather testily. ”It's a good way from here--you'd better take a cab.”
She moved away,--but started and drew herself back into a shadowed corner, coloring deeply as the sound of a rich, mellifluous voice, which she instantly recognized, smote suddenly on her ears.
”And as I before remarked, my good fellow,” the voice was saying, ”I am not a disciple of the semi-obscure. If a man has a thought which is worth declaring, let him declare it with a free and n.o.ble utterance--don't let him wrap it up in multifarious parcels of dreary verbosity! There's too much of that kind of thing going on nowadays--in England, at least. There's a kind of imitation of art which isn't art at all,--a morbid, bilious, bad imitation. You only get close to the real G.o.ddess in Italy. I wish I could persuade you to come and pa.s.s the winter with me there?”
It was Beau Lovelace who spoke, and he was talking to George Lorimer.
The two had met in Paris,--Lovelace was on his way to London, where a matter of business summoned him for a few days, and Lorimer, somewhat tired of the French capital, decided to return with him. And here they were,--just arrived at Charing Cross,--and they walked across the station arm in arm, little imagining who watched them from behind the shelter of one of the waiting-room doors, with a yearning sorrow in her grave blue eyes. They stopped almost opposite to her to light their cigars,--she saw Lorimer's face quite distinctly, and heard his answer to Lovelace.
”Well, I'll see what I can do about it, Beau! You know my mother always likes to get away from London in winter--but whether we ought to inflict ourselves upon you,--you being a literary man too--”
”Nonsense, you won't interfere in the least with the flow of inky inspiration,” laughed Beau. ”And as for your mother, I'm in love with her, as you are aware! I admire her almost as much as I do Lady Bruce-Errington--and that's saying a great deal! By-the-by, if Phil can get through his share of this country's business, he might do worse than bring his beautiful Thelma to the Lake of Como for a while. I'll ask him!”
And having lit their Havannas successfully, they walked on and soon disappeared. For one instant Thelma felt strongly inclined to run after them, like a little forlorn child that had lost its way,--and, unburdening herself of all her miseries to the sympathetic George, entreat, with tears, to be taken back to that husband who did not want her any more. But she soon overcame this emotion,--and calling to mind the instructions of the official personage whose advice she had sought, she hurried out of the huge, brilliantly lit station, and taking a hansom, was driven, as she requested, to the Midland. Here the rather gloomy aspect of the place oppressed her as much as the garish bustle of Charing Cross had bewildered her,--but she was somewhat relieved when she learned that a train for Hull would start in ten minutes. Hurrying to the ticket-office she found there before her a kindly faced woman with a baby in her arms, who was just taking a third-cla.s.s ticket to Hull, and as she felt lonely and timid, Thelma at once decided to travel third-cla.s.s also, and if possible in the same compartment with this cheerful matron, who, as soon as she had secured her ticket, walked away to the train, hus.h.i.+ng her infant in her arms as she went. Thelma followed her at a little distance--and as soon as she saw her enter a third-cla.s.s carriage, she hastened her steps and entered also, quite thankful to have secured some companions.h.i.+p for the long cold journey.
The woman glanced at her a little curiously--it was strange to see so lovely and young a creature travelling all alone at night,--and she asked kindly--
”Be you goin' fur, miss?”
Thelma smiled--it was pleasant to be spoken to, she thought.
”Yes,” she answered. ”All the way to Hull.”
”'Tis a cold night for a journey,” continued her companion.
”Yes, indeed,” answered Thelma. ”It must be cold for your little baby.”
And unconsciously her voice softened and her eyes grew sad as she looked across at the sleeping infant.
”Oh, he's as warm as toast!” laughed the mother cheerily. ”He gets the best of everything, he do. It's yourself that's looking cold, my dear in spite of your warm cloak. Will ye have this shawl?”
And she offered Thelma a homely gray woollen wrap with much kindly earnestness of manner.
”I am quite warm, thank you,” said Thelma gently, accepting the shawl, however, to please her fellow-traveller. ”It is a headache I have which makes me look pale. And, I am very, very tired!”
Her voice trembled a little,--she sighed and closed her eyes. She felt strangely weak and giddy,--she seemed to be slipping away from herself and from all the comprehension of life,--she wondered vaguely who and what she was. Had her marriage with Philip been all a dream?--perhaps she had never left the Altenfjord after all! Perhaps she would wake up presently and see the old farm-house quite unchanged, with the doves flying about the roof, and Sigurd wandering under the pines as was his custom. Ah, dear Sigurd! Poor Sigurd! he had loved her, she thought--nay, he loved her still,--he could not be dead! Oh, yes,--she must have been dreaming,--she felt certain she was lying on her own little white bed at home, asleep;--she would by-and-by open her eyes and get up and look through her little latticed window, and see the sun sparkling on the water, and the _Eulalie_ at the anchor in the Fjord--and her father would ask Sir Philip and his friends to spend the afternoon at the farm-house--and Philip would come and stroll with her through the garden and down to the sh.o.r.e, and would talk to her in that low, caressing voice of his,--and though she loved him dearly, she must never, never let him know of it, because she was not worthy! . . . She woke from these musings with a violent start and a sick s.h.i.+ver running through all her frame,--and looking wildly about her, saw that she was reclining on some one's shoulder,--some one was dabbing a wet handkerchief on her forehead--her hat was off and her cloak was loosened.
”There, my dear, you're better now!” said a kindly voice in her ear.
”Lor! I thought you was dead--that I did! 'Twas a bad faint indeed. And with the train jolting along like this too! It was lucky I had a flask of cold water with me. Raise your head a little--that's it! Poor thing,--you're as white as a sheet! You're not fit to travel, my dear--you're not indeed.”
Thelma raised herself slowly, and with a sudden impulse kissed the good woman's honest, rosy face, to her intense astonishment and pleasure.
”You are very kind to me!” she said tremulously. ”I am so sorry to have troubled you. I do feel ill--but it will soon pa.s.s.”
And she smoothed her ruffled hair, and sitting up erect, endeavored to smile. Her companion eyed her pale face compa.s.sionately, and taking up her sleeping baby from the shawl on which she had laid it while ministering to Thelma's needs, began to rock it slowly to and fro.
Thelma, meanwhile, became sensible of the rapid movement of the train.