November had come, the Tykes were settled at home again, and Lucy
Charlmont sat in a railway-carriage on her way from Brompton-on Sea to
Notting Hill. Wrapped up in furs, and with a novel open on her lap,
she looked very snug in her corner; she looked, moreover, plumper
and brighter than at Jane’s wedding-party. But her expression of
unmistakable amusement was not derived from the novel lying unread in
her lap: it had its source in recollections of Mr. Ballantyne, who had
made her an offer the day before, and who had obviously been taken
aback when she rejected his suit. All her proneness to bring herself in
the wrong could not make her fear that she had even for one moment said
or done, looked or thought, what ought to have misled him: therefore
conscience felt at ease, and the comic side of his demeanour remained
to amuse her, despite a decorous wish to feel sorry for him. He had
looked so particularly unimpulsive in the act of proposing, and then
had appeared so much more disconcerted than grieved at her positive
‘No,’ and had hinted so broadly that he hoped she would not talk about
his offer, that she could not imagine the matter very serious to him:
and if not to him assuredly to nobody else. ‘I dare say it will be
Edith Sims at last,’ mused she, and wished them both well.
A year earlier his offer might have been a matter of mere
indifference to her, but not now; for her birthday was just over, and
it was gratifying to find herself not obsolete even at thirty. This
birthday had loomed before her threateningly for months past, but now
it was over; and it became a sensible relief to feel and look at
thirty very much as she had felt and looked at twenty-nine. Her
mirror bore witness to no glaring accession of age having come upon
her in a single night. ‘After all,’ she mused, ‘life isn’t over at
thirty.’ Her thoughts flew before her to Notting Hill; if they dwelt
on any one in especial, it was not on Alan Hartley.
Not on Alan Hartley, though she foresaw that they must meet
frequently; for he and Stella were at Kensington again, planning to
stay there over Christmas. Stella she rather liked than disliked; and
as she no longer deemed her lot enviable, to see more of her would be
no grievance. Mr. Tresham also was in London, and likely to remain
there; for since his return from the East he had taken himself to
task for idleness, and had joined a band of good men in an effort to
visit and relieve the East-end poor in their squalid homes. His hobby
happened to be emigration, but he did not ride his hobby rough-shod
over his destitute neighbours. He was in London hard at work, and by
no means faring sumptuously every day; but glad sometimes to get a
mouthful of pure night air and of something more substantial at
Notting Hill. He and Lucy had not merely renewed acquaintance at the
wedding-party, but had met more than once afterwards during a week’s
holiday he gave himself at the seaside; had met on the beach, or in
country lanes, or down in some of the many drumbles. They had
botanised in company; and one day had captured a cuttle-fish
together, which Lucy insisted on putting safe back into the sea
before they turned homewards. They had talked of what grew at their
feet or lay before their eyes; but neither of them had alluded to
those old days when first they had known and liked each other, though
they obviously liked each other still.
Lucy, her thoughts running on some one who was not Alan, would have
made a very pretty picture. A sort of latent smile pervaded her
features without deranging them, and her eyes, gazing out at the
dreary autumn branches, looked absent and soft; soft, tender, and
pleased, though with a wistful expression through all.
The short, winter-like day had darkened by the time London Bridge was
reached. Lucy stepped on to the platform in hopes of being claimed by
Dr. Tyke’s man; but no such functionary appeared, neither was the fat
coach-man discernible along the line of vehicles awaiting occupants.
It was the first time Lucy had arrived in London without being either
accompanied or met at the Station, and the novel position made her
feel shy and a little nervous; so she was glad to stand unobtrusively
against a wall, whilst more enterprising individuals found or missed
their luggage. She preferred waiting, and she had to wait whilst
passengers craned their necks, elbowed their neighbours, blundered,
bawled, worried the Company’s servants, and found everything correct
after all. At last the huge mass of luggage dwindled to three boxes,
one carpet-bag, and one hamper, which were Lucy’s own; and which,
with herself, a porter consigned to a cab. Thus ended her anxieties.
From London Bridge to Notting Hill the cabman of course knew his way,
but in the mazes of Notting Hill he appealed to his fare for
guidance. Lucy informed him that Appletrees House stood in its own
large garden, and was sure to be well lighted up; and that it lay
somewhere to the left, up a steepish hill. A few wrong turnings first
made and next retrieved, a few lucky guesses, brought them to a
garden-wall, which a passing postman told them belonged to Dr.
Tyke’s premises. Lucy thrust her head out, and thought it all looked
very like, except that the house itself stood enveloped in grim
darkness; she had never noticed it look so dark before: could it be
that she had been forgotten and every one had gone out?
They drove round the little sweep and knocked; waited, and knocked
again. It was not till the grumbling cabman had knocked loud and long
a third time that the door was opened by a crying maid-servant, who
admitted Lucy into the unlighted hall with the explanation: ‘O Miss,
Miss, master has had a fit, and mistress is taking on so you can hear
her all over the place.’ At the same instant a peal of screaming,
hysterical laughter rang through the house.
Without waiting for a candle, Lucy ran stumbling up the broad
staircase, guided at once by her familiarity with the house and by
her cousin’s screams. On the second-floor landing one door stood open
revealing light at last, and Lucy ran straight in amongst the lights
and the people. For a moment she was dazzled, and distinguished
nothing clearly: in another moment she saw and understood all. Arthur
Tresham and a strange gentleman were standing pale and silent at the
fireplace, an old servant, stooping over the pillows, was busied in
some noiseless way, and Mrs. Tyke had flung herself face downwards on
the bed beside her husband.
Her husband? No, not her husband any longer, for she was a widow.