MRS. MURRAY MEETS THE TRAIN
"There," said Eleanor, "the first step is successfully accomplished, and
we have taken formal possession of each other's names. Here comes the
train. You were travelling first, weren't you? I was third. We had better
both go third as far as the station just before Chailfield, and then I
will take your ticket and get into a first and make my arrival in state.
By the way, did you send a telegram to Mrs. Murray telling her you had
missed an earlier train?"
"No," owned Margaret, conscience stricken, "I am afraid the idea that I
should do so never occurred to me."
"Very careless of you," commented Eleanor. "Nobody may be at the station
to meet me. I treated you much better, for I sent one to Mrs. Danvers.
However, the porter will send one for me," and after asking Margaret for
Mrs. Murray's address, and the porter for the time at which the train was
due at Chailfield, she wrote out the following telegram: "Missed
connection at Carden. Arriving Chailfield 7.56. Margaret." This she
handed to the porter, asking him to send it off as soon as he had seen
them into the train.
"I wonder," she added, as they stood waiting for the train to come in,
"how soon we shall get accustomed to our new names. You will probably
find that part easier than I shall, for the name of Margaret is quite
strange to me, whereas you told me that you had had a great friend called
Eleanor, so that the name will have a familiar ring to you at any rate.
By the way, you never explained to me how you reconcile the two
conflicting statements you made me, for after telling me that you had
scarcely ever spoken to a girl in your life, you went on to say that your
dearest friend was a namesake of mine."
The two girls had been fortunate enough to secure a carriage to
themselves, for very few people were travelling by that slow train, and
as soon as the door was shut upon them they settled themselves opposite
one another, and Margaret proceeded to give the desired explanation. For,
as Eleanor, who to Margaret's relief had now quite emerged from the
dreamy mood into which the thought of her future fame had led her,
remarked, that if their plans were not to topple ignominously about their
ears at the very outset, it was absolutely essential that each should
know as much about the other as possible.
And so, though rather reluctantly, Margaret spoke of her dream friend,
and of how, since the days of her childhood, she had managed to keep her
existence a secret even from her grandfather and her governess until ten
days ago, when the former, overhearing her talking to herself in the
wood, had suspected the presence of a stranger, and though that had been
contrary to his most stringent rules, had not been a whit appeased when
he learned that the person to whom his granddaughter was talking was an
imaginary one.
Margaret need not have been afraid that Eleanor would pour ridicule on
her shadowy friend; on the contrary, the latter was too touched by the
picture of the lonely life the other must have led even to smile.
"It really is quite a coincidence that my name is Eleanor, too," she
remarked thoughtfully, "and I am not altogether sure that the name is a
fortunate one for you. You see, the first Eleanor ended by getting you
into fairly hot water, and the second Eleanor, which is me, is in a fair
way to do likewise. But I am glad you told me about the first Eleanor. As
she played such an important part in your life it would never have done
for me to have been in complete ignorance of her existence. Now this is
how I propose we should employ the next half-hour or so. Have you got a
sheet of paper and a pencil? No," as Margaret shook her head. "Well, I
can supply you with both articles. Little did I think," she added, as she
tore a couple of sheets out of her exercise book, and giving one to
Margaret, kept the other for herself, "even in my wildest dreams that the
innocent pages of my copy-book would ever be put to such a purpose as
this. I am going to write down a list of the things about myself that you
ought to know, and I want you to do the same about yourself. Little
things which we would probably forget if we told them to one another, but
which it may prove very useful to have jotted down so that we can refer
to it in case of need. You might write down the date of your birthday,
for instance, your grandfather's, if you know it, and give me a short
description of your house, how many bedrooms it has, and so on, and how
many servants, their names, the name of your clergyman, and the church,
the doctor, any people you know by sight or by name; your governess's
name, how long she was with you, why she left, and how you spent your
days, and any little things of that sort. Do you understand?"
"Yes, I think I do," Margaret said, "for I can see how awkward it would
be if Mrs. Murray asked you any of these things and you could not
answer."
"And on my side," said Eleanor, "I shall write you a short description of
the school, and the names and numbers of the girls, what classes I took,
the names of the governesses, and a short description of Miss McDonald's
appearance, what she usually wore, where she went for her holidays, and
any little details of that sort."
For over half an hour the two girls scribbled away busily, and a good
deal more paper had to be torn from the exercise-book before their
literary labours were at an end.
Margaret, in addition to her own written hints for Eleanor's guidance,
was able to give the latter a folded sheet of notepaper which her
grandfather had ordered her to convey to Mrs. Murray. On one side of it
was carefully written out a table of the hours of study which Margaret
had been accustomed to observe hitherto, and on the other he had sketched
a plan of the way in which he wished her days to be filled while she was
with Mrs. Murray. Eleanor was pleased to observe that by far the greater
part of the day was to be spent with Madame Martelli, and though the
study of Italian occupied more time than singing, Eleanor was confident
that she could soon alter that.
"But I am not at all sure," she said, with a slight grimace, as she read
through the list of what Margaret had been used to do, "if I shall be
able to maintain your character as easily as I thought. For you are a
very learned person, Margaret, and if I am put through an examination as
soon as I arrive, I don't know where I shall be. No," as Margaret opened
her lips to protest, "I am not fishing. It is a fact that my education is
miles behind yours, and I shouldn't be a bit surprised if Mrs. Murray
found that out straightaway."
"She will only think that I--that you, I mean--have a very bad memory,"
Margaret said encouragingly. "Besides, she is deaf, and, from what
grandfather said, not very fond of conversation. She will only expect
you to say Yes and No to her, for she will know that that was all
grandfather expected me to say to him."
"Is that all you were supposed to say to him," Eleanor asked in blank
astonishment.
"That is all. Until about a year ago I thought grandchildren and sons and
daughters never did say more than that to their parents; but, of course,
I know now that they do."
"Well, I should imagine so," Eleanor remarked. "You have been brought up
in the style of one hundred years ago, and yet, except for a certain
quaintness in your speech, one would not think you very different from
any girl brought up in the ordinary way."
"Is my speech quaint?" Margaret asked in dismay.
"It's nothing to worry about," Eleanor said consolingly. "Perhaps it is
only because you don't talk a word of slang that your speech sounds a
little odd."
"Slang!" said Margaret, only partly relieved. "Is that not what
schoolboys talk?"
"Schoolboys and others," said Eleanor, with a laugh. "But don't worry,"
she added. "It is quite in keeping with your new character as a governess
that you should not be slangy, so do not put yourself to the trouble of
learning any."
"You have said several things that I did not understand," said Margaret
thoughtfully, "were they slang?"
"Very probably; what were they?"
"Oh! I do not know that I can remember them quite all, but you said a
minute ago that my education was miles behind yours; what did that mean?"
"Inferior to yours," Eleanor said promptly. "That's hardly slang. It
explains itself really, and so you will find with most of the things I
have said. But, perhaps, if you hear any expressions of that sort from
the young Danvers and don't understand them, it will be better not to ask
their meaning. You see, you are supposed to have lived in a girl's school
for the last three years and to have all the slang vocabulary at your
fingers' ends, so that if you go asking what every common or garden slang
expression means you will give us both away with a pound of tea."
"I understand," said Margaret meekly, "and I will not ask." And she made
good her promise by forbearing to inquire what "common" or "garden"
meant when used in that connection, and what bearing a pound of tea had
on the question.
"By the way," said Eleanor, "it has just occurred to me that we ought
to keep any photographs we have of our parents safely locked away. I
must be especially careful, for Mrs. Murray, as an old friend of your
grandfather's, might, if she saw the photographs of my father and mother,
recognise the fact that they were not yours."
"The only portraits I have of my father and my mother are contained in
this locket," said Margaret, as she drew an old leather case from her bag
and pressed the spring. Within lay a dull gold locket richly chased on
one side, and having the monogram "M" beautifully worked in seed pearls
on the other. Inside were two portraits painted on ivory, one of
Margaret's father and one of her mother.
"My mother had these especially painted for me," Margaret said, "but I
have never worn the locket. It is too big."
"Yes, it is too big to wear," Eleanor said; "but oh!" as she took the
case from Margaret's hand, "what a beautiful string of pearls!"
The locket fitted into a bed on the velvet-lined case, and round it was a
circular depression in which a row of pearls lay coiled.
"Yes, that is the chain to wear with the locket," Margaret said. "It is
attached to it."
"If it wasn't I should wear the pearls by themselves," Eleanor said,
examining them intently. "They are a perfectly lovely row, and must be
worth a lot of money. You had better keep this very carefully locked up,
Margaret," she said, snapping to the case and handing it back to its
owner. "They are hardly the sort of things that a governess would be
likely to possess."
"My bag has a very good key," Margaret answered, "so I should always keep
it locked and wear the key on my watch-chain."
When Eleanor heard that Margaret had never been to London, and had only
the very vaguest idea of what Hampstead, where she was supposed to have
lived for the last six years, was like, she had given vent to a low
whistle expressive of despair. And as their time together was now drawing
short she felt that it would be better to give Margaret a verbal
description of that suburb rather than attempt to write one out for her.
So as hurriedly as she could she told Margaret as much about Hampstead as
she could think of on the spur of the moment. Margaret listened
attentively, and as she had naturally an excellent memory, which had been
trained to a marvellous pitch of perfection by Miss Bidwell, she found no
difficulty at all in committing to heart almost every word that Eleanor
uttered on the subject.
The train was running now through exceedingly pretty scenery, but neither
of the two girls had any attention to spare for it; every minute of their
time was occupied in endeavouring to make themselves as perfect as
possible in their new characters. But at last when a long, undulating
range of distant blue hills turned themselves slowly into green downs,
and instead of occupying the horizon only, filled the middle distance
entirely, leaving a foreground of flat green fields between themselves
and the train, Eleanor, glancing out of the window, gave it as her
opinion that they must be fairly close to Chailfield now, and that at the
next station she would change into a first-class carriage.
The rain had long since ceased, and the sun, as it sank towards the range
of hills that rose against the western sky, was shining brilliantly out
of a mass of gorgeously hued clouds. As it turned out, however, Eleanor
had no chance to change into a first-class carriage, for as the train
slowed down and ran into the little country station they were
approaching, she saw that they had actually arrived at Chailfield.
Both girls gave a little gasp of dismay. Neither had realised that the
moment for parting was so near, and now that it was actually upon them,
both of them were conscious of a distinct feeling of nervousness which
perceptibly increased, especially on Eleanor's part, when she saw that a
lady who could be none other than Mrs. Murray had come down to meet the
train, for outside the paling that separated the road from the platform
a low pony-carriage drawn by two fat black ponies was waiting, and in it
was seated a somewhat stout elderly lady wearing a very broad-brimmed
mushroom hat. She was scanning the carriage windows as the train went
slowly past her, but did not appear to see the two girls who, being in
the front part, were carried some distance beyond her before the train
came to a standstill.
Eleanor gathered up her umbrella and the basket containing the books, and
stood up. A porter came to open the door.
"Any luggage, Miss?"
"Yes, one trunk labelled Anstruther," Eleanor said very distinctly.
"Very good, Miss; for Windy Gap, aren't you? The omnibus is waiting
outside for your luggage, and Mrs. Murray has drove down to meet you."
Eleanor stepped out on to the platform feeling that the Rubicon was now
crossed and that there was no drawing back for either of them. She
lingered for a moment beside the door, which Margaret had very promptly
shut upon her the moment she was out of the carriage.
"Don't be nervous," Margaret whispered encouragingly from the safe
seclusion of her corner. "I am not."
"Of course you're not!" Eleanor retorted. "You haven't begun to play the
impostor yet. I have, and I am not sure that I like it. Your turn to be
nervous will come when you get to Seabourne. Well," pulling herself
together as the porter came within earshot, "good-bye to you, Miss
Carson, so glad to have met you. I hope your holidays will be very
pleasant ones."
"I hope so too," said Margaret, with a little happy laugh of pure
excitement. "Goodbye, Miss Anstruther, I hope you will get on nicely with
all your lessons."
For some reason the train was late in starting on again, and Margaret
was therefore able to see the meeting between Mrs. Murray and Eleanor,
although she was not near enough to overhear what was said on either
side. When Eleanor had given up her ticket and passed through the gate,
she saw Mrs. Murray, who had not got out of the pony-carriage, lean
forward and, taking hold of Eleanor's two hands, draw her under the shade
of the enormous mushroom hat and kiss her affectionately. The hat got
somewhat disarranged in the process, and Mrs. Murray righted it with a
pleasant low laugh that came distinctly to Margaret's ears as she sat
watching the little scene from the corner of the third-class carriage.
Then she seemed to be asking Eleanor some questions, which the latter
answered readily through the ear-trumpet which Mrs. Murray held out to
her. Once they looked in her direction, and a spasm of alarm shot through
Margaret's mind. Surely, surely Eleanor was not abandoning their
conspiracy at the very outset of its career. The trunk had already been
hoisted on to the top of the somewhat dilapidated looking old bus that
evidently plied between the distant village of Windy Gap and the station.
Why, then, did the pony-carriage not drive on, or why did the train not
start? Eleanor looked again towards the carriage in which Margaret sat in
a perfect fever of impatience to be off, and then, after saying something
to Mrs. Murray, to which the latter gave an affirmative nod, she left the
carriage and came running up the platform. Margaret could have cried with
disappointment. She had no doubt at all that Eleanor had already repented
of her scheme, and was coming to say that it must be given up. Eleanor
reached the door in a somewhat breathless condition, and Margaret
resisting her first impulse to shut the window and to draw down the
blind, and refuse to listen to a word she was going to say, put her head
reluctantly out.
"I couldn't help coming to tell you that she is a perfectly sweet old
lady," Eleanor panted. "And she gave me such a warm welcome that I feel
an awful fraud, and----"
Margaret interrupted her with an exclamation that sounded almost like a
wail of despair.
"And you have come to tell me that you want to change back into your own
self?" she said.
"No, not much," Eleanor said hurriedly; "but the point is, do you? She
seems to be perfectly charming, and I don't believe she would be very
angry. And oh, Margaret! I feel as though I ought not to oust you from
house and home in this way."
Margaret's brow cleared as though by magic. It was all right then.
Strange though it undoubtedly appeared to her, Eleanor was not only
willing but actually eager to go to Windy Gap, and it was only out of
motives of unselfishness that she had offered to change into their proper
selves.
Briefly, but with all the emphasis of which she was capable, Margaret
assured her that such an act of unselfishness would not be appreciated in
the least.
"Oh, very well," Eleanor said, much relieved, "and to tell you the truth
I think Mrs. Murray would be rather surprised if I were suddenly to
return to her and say that I was not Margaret Anstruther but that you
were. She would probably end by thinking us both impostors. Well, I must
go now; I only came back just to give you the chance of becoming yourself
again if you had already repented. Look here, you must let me know how
you get on. I shall be quite anxious to know. Will you write? Quick, tell
me Mrs. Murray is beckoning."
"I could write, of course," Margaret said cautiously "but you must
remember that Margaret Anstruther has never received a letter in her life
and that Mrs. Murray might want to see it."
"I shall come in and see you then," Eleanor said.
"Oh, will you?" Margaret said with a smile. "Kindly remember, Miss
Margaret Anstruther, that you never took a walk unaccompanied in your
life. No, leave it to me, and I will try and come out to Windy Gap one
day to see you, for I am free, free, free, and quite grown up, while you
are a mere child in the nursery!"
And so, though rather against her will, Eleanor was obliged to leave the
matter like that, and saying good-bye to Margaret for the second time she
scurried away down the platform.
Margaret watched her step into the pony-carriage, tuck the dust wrap over
her knees and over Mrs. Murray's, and then settle herself with an air of
obvious enjoyment for her drive. From the window Margaret could see the
long, white chalky road that they would traverse to reach Windy Gap,
which place doubtless lay to the left beyond the high ridge which shut
out all further view of the downs. The road wound its leisurely way
between high hedges and green fields, was lost for awhile as it passed
behind an outlying spur of the downs, and became visible again as,
apparently repenting its former meanderings below, it sternly took the
shortest and steepest way possible up the side of the hill, and finally
disappeared over the brow. And it might have fallen to her lot to be
sitting beside Mrs. Murray and in that little low pony-carriage, and to
be driving along that monotonous road to the remote village on the downs
instead of to be whirling past them as she did in a train on her way to
a houseful of young people. Margaret could have hugged herself with
pleasure as she thought of the exchange she had made.