THAT drive was one long bewilderment to Jock. He saw the people and
the houses, but noticed nothing. Jane was sorry for him, and said a
comforting word, but he could only reply—"Don't."
At the station she gave him over to a tall, elderly gentleman, and a
thin angular lady, and Jock just submitted to be given over. He heard
them talking to Jane, and did not know what they said.
"Mummie wasn't gone," he kept repeating to himself. "She
wasn't—wasn't—gone." He would go back presently, and would find her at
home—just as usual.
"Come, my boy—get in," a kind voice said, and Jock got in.
It was a first-class compartment, already half-full of rugs, bags,
shawls and papers. Jane stepped in also, and settled him in a farther
corner, putting by his side a basket of sandwiches and fruit. She stole
one good-bye kiss from the boy, and Jock didn't mind even that. He was
still saying to himself—"Mummie isn't—isn't—gone."
But he knew that she was gone. For the train was moving, and they were
off. Jane was out of sight.
Jock felt himself in a new world—new and lonely. He sat like a little
image, gazing out on the rushing landscape, seeing and hearing nothing
that went on. By-and-by it dawned upon him that the elderly gentleman,
Mr. Royle, was seated in the corner just opposite himself, and that
the lady at the opposite end of the carriage seemed to be scolding her
maid. Jock vaguely wondered what it could all be about.
And—after what felt like a very long interval—he found himself looking
up into the face of the elderly man opposite. He met a pair of eyes
gazing quietly into his own, such very blue eyes, and such kind ones.