"Dad!"
Mrs. Kettering started violently. Her nerves were not completely under
control this morning. Very perfectly dressed in a long mink coat and
a little hat of Chinese lacquer red, she had been walking along the
crowded platform of Victoria deep in thought, and her father's sudden
appearance and hearty greeting had an unlooked-for effect upon her.
"Why, Ruth, how you jumped!"
"I didn't expect to see you, I suppose, Dad. You said good-bye to me
last night and said you had a conference this morning."
"So I have," said Van Aldin, "but you are more to me than any number of
darned conferences. I came to take a last look at you, since I am not
going to see you for some time."
"That is very sweet of you, Dad. I wish you were coming too."
"What would you say if I did?"
The remark was merely a joking one. He was surprised to see the quick
colour flame in Ruth's cheeks. For a moment he almost thought he saw
dismay flash out of her eyes. She laughed uncertainly and nervously.
"Just for a moment I really thought you meant it," she said.
"Would you have been pleased?"
"Of course." She spoke with exaggerated emphasis.
"Well," said Van Aldin, "that's good."
"It isn't really for very long, Dad," continued Ruth; "you know, you
are coming out next month."
"Ah!" said Van Aldin unemotionally, "sometimes I guess I will go to one
of these big guys in Harley Street and have him tell me that I need
sunshine and change of air right away."
"Don't be so lazy," cried Ruth; "next month is ever so much nicer
than this month out there. You have got all sorts of things you can't
possibly leave just now."
"Well, that's so, I suppose," said Van Aldin, with a sigh. "You had
better be getting on board this train of yours, Ruth. Where is your
seat?"
Ruth Kettering looked vaguely up at the train. At the door of one of
the Pullman cars a thin, tall woman dressed in black was standing--Ruth
Kettering's maid. She drew aside as her mistress came up to her.
"I have put your dressing-case under your seat, Madam, in case you
should need it. Shall I take the rugs, or will you require one?"
"No, no, I shan't want one. Better go and find your own seat now,
Mason."
"Yes, Madam."
The maid departed.
Van Aldin entered the Pullman car with Ruth. She found her seat, and
Van Aldin deposited various papers and magazines on the table in front
of her. The seat opposite to her was already taken, and the American
gave a cursory glance at its occupant. He had a fleeting impression of
attractive grey eyes and a neat travelling costume. He indulged in a
little more desultory conversation with Ruth, the kind of talk peculiar
to those seeing other people off by train.
Presently, as whistles blew, he glanced at his watch.
"I had best be clearing out of here. Good-bye, my dear. Don't worry, I
will attend to things."
"Oh, father!"
He turned back sharply. There had been something in Ruth's voice,
something so entirely foreign to her usual manner, that he was
startled. It was almost a cry of despair. She had made an impulsive
movement towards him, but in another minute she was mistress of herself
once more.
"Till next month," she said cheerfully.
Two minutes later the train started.
Ruth sat very still, biting her under lip and trying hard to keep the
unaccustomed tears from her eyes. She felt a sudden sense of horrible
desolation. There was a wild longing upon her to jump out of the train
and to go back before it was too late. She, so calm, so self-assured,
for the first time in her life felt like a leaf swept by the wind. If
her father knew--what would he say?
Madness! Yes, just that, madness! For the first time in her life she
was swept away by emotion, swept away to the point of doing a thing
which even she knew to be incredibly foolish and reckless. She was
enough Van Aldin's daughter to realize her own folly, and level headed
enough to condemn her own action. But she was his daughter in another
sense also. She had that same iron determination that would have what
it wanted, and once it had made up its mind would not be balked. From
her cradle she had been self-willed; the very circumstances of her life
had developed that self-will in her. It drove her now remorselessly.
Well, the die was cast. She must go through with it now.
She looked up, and her eyes met those of the woman sitting opposite.
She had a sudden fancy that in some way this other woman had read her
mind. She saw in those grey eyes understanding and--yes--compassion.
It was only a fleeting impression. The faces of both women hardened
to well-bred impassiveness. Mrs. Kettering took up a magazine, and
Katherine Grey looked out of the window and watched a seemingly endless
vista of depressing streets and suburban houses.
Ruth found an increasing difficulty in fixing her mind on the printed
page in front of her. In spite of herself, a thousand apprehensions
preyed on her mind. What a fool she had been! What a fool she was! Like
all cool and self-sufficient people, when she did lose her self-control
she lost it thoroughly. It was too late.... Was it too late? Oh, for
some one to speak to, for some one to advise her. She had never before
had such a wish; she would have scorned the idea of relying on any
judgment other than her own, but now--what was the matter with her?
Panic. Yes, that would describe it best--panic. She, Ruth Kettering,
was completely and utterly panic stricken.
She stole a covert glance at the figure opposite. If only she knew some
one like that, some nice, cool, calm, sympathetic creature. That was
the sort of person one could talk to. But you can't, of course, confide
in a stranger. And Ruth smiled to herself a little at the idea. She
picked up the magazine again. Really she must control herself. After
all, she had thought all this out. She had decided of her own free
will. What happiness had she ever had in her life up to now? She said
to herself restlessly: "Why shouldn't I be happy? No one will ever
know."
It seemed no time before Dover was reached. Ruth was a good sailor. She
disliked the cold, and was glad to reach the shelter of the private
cabin she had telegraphed for. Although she would not have admitted
the fact, Ruth was in some ways superstitious. She was of the order of
people to whom coincidence appeals. After disembarking at Calais and
settling herself down with her maid in her double compartment in the
Blue Train, she went along to the luncheon car. It was with a little
shock of surprise that she found herself set down to a small table
with, opposite her, the same woman who had been her _vis-à-vis_ in the
Pullman. A faint smile came to the lips of both women.
"This is quite a coincidence," said Mrs. Kettering.
"I know," said Katherine; "it is odd the way things happen."
A flying attendant shot up to them with the wonderful velocity always
displayed by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits and deposited
two cups of soup. By the time the omelette succeeded the soup they
were chatting together in friendly fashion.
"It will be heavenly to get into the sunshine," sighed Ruth.
"I am sure it will be a wonderful feeling."
"You know the Riviera well?"
"No; this is my first visit."
"Fancy that."
"You go every year, I expect?"
"Practically. January and February in London are horrible."
"I have always lived in the country. They are not very inspiring months
there either. Mostly mud."
"What made you suddenly decide to travel?"
"Money," said Katherine. "For ten years I have been a paid companion
with just enough money of my own to buy myself strong country shoes;
now I have been left what seems to me a fortune, though I dare say it
would not seem so to you."
"Now I wonder why you say that--that it would not seem so to me."
Katherine laughed. "I don't really know. I suppose one forms
impressions without thinking of it. I put you down in my own mind as
one of the very rich of the earth. It was just an impression. I dare
say I am wrong."
"No," said Ruth, "you are not wrong." She had suddenly become very
grave. "I wish you would tell me what other impressions you formed
about me?"
"I--"
Ruth swept on disregarding the other's embarrassment.
"Oh, please, don't be conventional. I want to know. As we left Victoria
I looked across at you, and I had the sort of feeling that you--well,
understood what was going on in my mind."
"I can assure you I am not a mind reader," said Katherine, smiling.
"No; but will you tell me, please, just what you thought." Ruth's
eagerness was so intense and so sincere that she carried her point.
"I will tell you if you like, but you must not think me impertinent. I
thought that for some reason you were in great distress of mind, and I
was sorry for you."
"You are right. You are quite right. I am in terrible trouble. I--I
should like to tell you something about it, if I may."
"Oh, dear," Katherine thought to herself, "how extraordinarily alike
the world seems to be everywhere! People were always telling me things
in St. Mary Mead, and it is just the same thing here, and I don't
really want to hear anybody's troubles!"
She replied politely:
"Do tell me."
They were just finishing their lunch. Ruth gulped down her coffee, rose
from her seat, and quite oblivious of the fact that Katherine had not
begun to sip her coffee, said: "Come to my compartment with me."
They were two single compartments with a communicating door between
them. In the second of them a thin maid, whom Katherine had noticed at
Victoria, was sitting very upright on the seat, clutching a big scarlet
morocco case with the initials R. V. K. on it. Mrs. Kettering pulled
the communicating door to and sank down on the seat. Katherine sat down
beside her.
"I am in trouble and I don't know what to do. There is a man whom I
am fond of--very fond of indeed. We cared for each other when we were
young, and we were thrust apart most brutally and unjustly. Now we have
come together again."
"Yes?"
"I--I am going to meet him now. Oh! I dare say you think it is all
wrong, but you don't know the circumstances. My husband is impossible.
He has treated me disgracefully."
"Yes," said Katherine again.
"What I feel so badly about is this. I have deceived my father--it was
he who came to see me off at Victoria to-day. He wishes me to divorce
my husband, and, of course, he has no idea--that I am going to meet
this other man. He would think it extraordinarily foolish."
"Well, don't you think it is?"
"I--I suppose it is."
Ruth Kettering looked down at her hands; they were shaking violently.
"But I can't draw back now."
"Why not?"
"I--it is all arranged, and it would break his heart."
"Don't you believe it," said Katherine robustly; "hearts are pretty
tough."
"He will think I have no courage, no strength of purpose."
"It seems to me an awfully silly thing that you are going to do," said
Katherine. "I think you realize that yourself."
Ruth Kettering buried her face in her hands. "I don't know--I don't
know. Ever since I left Victoria I have had a horrible feeling of
something--something that is coming to me very soon--that I can't
escape."
She clutched convulsively at Katherine's hand.
"You must think I am mad talking to you like this, but I tell you I
know something horrible is going to happen."
"Don't think it," said Katherine; "try to pull yourself together. You
could send your father a wire from Paris, if you like, and he would
come to you at once."
The other brightened.
"Yes, I could do that. Dear old Dad. It is queer--but I never knew
until to-day how terribly fond of him I am." She sat up and dried her
eyes with a handkerchief. "I have been very foolish. Thank you so much
for letting me talk to you. I don't know why I got into such a queer,
hysterical state."
She got up. "I am quite all right now. I suppose, really, I just needed
some one to talk to. I can't think now why I have been making such an
absolute fool of myself."
Katherine got up too.
"I am so glad you feel better," she said, trying to make her voice
sound as conventional as possible. She was only too well aware that the
aftermath of confidences is embarrassment. She added tactfully:
"I must be going back to my own compartment."
She emerged into the corridor at the same time as the maid was also
coming out from the next door. The latter looked towards Katherine,
over her shoulder, and an expression of intense surprise showed itself
on her face. Katherine turned also, but by that time whoever it was
who had aroused the maid's interest had retreated into his or her
compartment, and the corridor was empty. Katherine walked down it to
regain her own place, which was in the next coach. As she passed the
end compartment the door opened and a woman's face looked out for a
moment and then pulled the door to sharply. It was a face not easily
forgotten, as Katherine was to know when she saw it again. A beautiful
face, oval and dark, very heavily made up in a bizarre fashion.
Katherine had a feeling that she had seen it before somewhere.
She regained her own compartment without other adventure and sat for
some time thinking of the confidence which had just been made to her.
She wondered idly who the woman in the mink coat might be, wondered
also how the end of her story would turn out.
"If I have stopped any one from making an idiot of themselves, I
suppose I have done good work," she thought to herself. "But who knows?
That is the kind of woman who is hard-headed and egotistical all her
life, and it might be good for her to do the other sort of thing for
a change. Oh, well--I don't suppose I shall ever see her again. She
certainly won't want to see _me_ again. That is the worst of letting
people tell you things. They never do."
She hoped that she would not be given the same place at dinner. She
reflected, not without humour, that it might be awkward for both of
them. Leaning back with her head against a cushion she felt tired
and vaguely depressed. They had reached Paris, and the slow journey
round the _ceinture_, with its interminable stops and waits, was very
wearisome. When they arrived at the Gare de Lyon she was glad to get
out and walk up and down the platform. The keen cold air was refreshing
after the steam-heated train. She observed with a smile that her
friend of the mink coat was solving the possible awkwardness of the
dinner problem in her own way. A dinner basket was being handed up and
received through the window by the maid.
When the train started once more, and dinner was announced by a violent
ringing of bells, Katherine went along to it much relieved in mind. Her
_vis-à-vis_ to-night was of an entirely different kind--a small man,
distinctly foreign in appearance, with a rigidly waxed moustache and
an egg-shaped head which he carried rather on one side. Katherine had
taken in a book to dinner with her. She found the little man's eyes
fixed upon it with a kind of twinkling amusement.
"I see, Madame, that you have a _roman policier_. You are fond of such
things?"
"They amuse me," Katherine admitted.
The little man nodded with the air of complete understanding.
"They have a good sale always, so I am told. Now why is that, eh,
Mademoiselle? I ask it of you as a student of human nature--why should
that be?"
Katherine felt more and more amused.
"Perhaps they give one the illusion of living an exciting life," she
suggested.
He nodded gravely.
"Yes; there is something in that."
"Of course, one knows that such things don't really happen," Katherine
was continuing, but he interrupted her sharply.
"Sometimes, Mademoiselle! Sometimes! I who speak to you--they have
happened to _me_."
She threw him a quick, interested glance.
"Some day, who knows, _you_ might be in the thick of things," he went
on. "It is all chance."
"I don't think it is likely," said Katherine. "Nothing of that kind
ever happens to me."
He leaned forward.
"Would you like it to?"
The question startled her, and she drew in her breath sharply.
"It is my fancy, perhaps," said the little man, as he dexterously
polished one of the forks, "but I think that you have a yearning in you
for interesting happenings. _Eh bien_, Mademoiselle, all through my
life I have observed one thing--'All one wants one gets!' Who knows?"
His face screwed itself up comically. "You may get more than you
bargain for."
"Is that a prophecy?" asked Katherine, smiling as she rose from the
table.
The little man shook his head.
"I never prophesy," he declared pompously. "It is true that I have the
habit of being always right--but I do not boast of it. Good-night,
Mademoiselle, and may you sleep well."
Katherine went back along the train amused and entertained by her
little neighbour. She passed the open door of her friend's compartment
and saw the conductor making up the bed. The lady in the mink coat
was standing looking out of the window. The second compartment, as
Katherine saw through the communicating door, was empty, with rugs and
bags heaped up on the seat. The maid was not there.
Katherine found her own bed prepared, and since she was tired, she went
to bed and switched off her light about half-past nine.
She woke with a sudden start; how much time had passed she did not
know. Glancing at her watch, she found that it had stopped. A feeling
of intense uneasiness pervaded her and grew stronger moment by moment.
At last she got up, threw her dressing-gown round her shoulders, and
stepped out into the corridor. The whole train seemed wrapped in
slumber. Katherine let down the window and sat by it for some minutes,
drinking in the cool night air and trying vainly to calm her uneasy
fears. She presently decided that she would go along to the end and ask
the conductor for the right time so that she could set her watch. She
found, however, that his little chair was vacant. She hesitated for a
moment and then walked through into the next coach. She looked down
the long, dim line of the corridor and saw, to her surprise, that a
man was standing with his hand on the door of the compartment occupied
by the lady in the mink coat. That is to say, she thought it was the
compartment. Probably, however, she was mistaken. He stood there for a
moment or two with his back to her, seeming uncertain and hesitating
in his attitude. Then he slowly turned, and with an odd feeling of
fatality, Katherine recognized him as the same man whom she had noticed
twice before--once in the corridor of the Savoy hotel and once in
Cook's offices. Then he opened the door of the compartment and passed
in, drawing it to behind him.
An idea flashed across Katherine's mind. Could this be the man of whom
the other woman had spoken--the man she was journeying to meet.
Then Katherine told herself that she was romancing. In all probability
she had mistaken the compartment.
She went back to her own carriage. Five minutes later the train
slackened speed. There was the long plaintive hiss of the Westinghouse
brake, and a few minutes later the train came to a stop at Lyons.