The train by which Maynard travelled made stop at the Sydenham Station,
to connect with the Crystal Palace.
The stoppage failed to arouse him from the reverie into which he had
fallen--painful after what had passed.
He was only made aware of it on hearing voices outside the carriage, and
only because some of these seemed familiar.
On looking out, he saw upon the platform a party of ladies and
gentlemen.
The place would account for their being there at so late an hour--
excursionists to the Crystal Palace--but still more, a certain
volubility of speech, suggesting the idea of their having dined at the
Sydenham Hotel.
They were moving along the platform, in search of a first-class carriage
for London.
As there were six of them, an empty one would be required--the London
and Brighton line being narrow gauge.
There was no such carriage, and therefore no chance of them getting
seated together. The dining party would have to divide.
"What a baw!" exclaimed the gentleman who appeared to act as the leader,
"a dooced baw! But I suppose there's no help for it. Aw--heaw is a
cawage with only one in it?"
The speaker had arrived in front of that in which Maynard sate--_solus_,
and in a corner.
"Seats for five of us," pursued he. "We'd better take this, ladies.
One of us fellaws must stow elsewhere."
The ladies assenting, he opened the door, and stood holding the handle.
The three ladies--there were three of them--entered first.
It became a question which of the three "fellaws" was to be separated
from such pleasant travelling-companions--two of them being young and
pretty.
"I'll go," volunteered he who appeared the youngest and least
consequential of the trio.
The proposal was eagerly accepted by the other two--especially him who
held the handle of the door.
By courtesy he was the last to take a seat. He had entered the
carriage, and was about doing so; when all at once a thought, or
something else, seemed to strike him--causing him to change his design.
"Aw, ladies!" he said, "I hope yaw will pardon me for leaving yaw to go
into the smoking cawage. I'm dying for a cigaw."
Perhaps the ladies would have said, "Smoke where you are;" but there was
a stranger to be consulted, and they only said:
"Oh, certainly, sir."
If any of them intended an additional observation, before it could have
been made he was gone.
He had shot suddenly out upon the platform, as if something else than
smoking was in his mind!
They thought it strange--even a little impolite.
"Mr Swinton's an inveterate smoker," said the oldest of the three
ladies, by way of apologising for him.
The remark was addressed to the gentleman, who had now sole charge of
them.
"Yes; I see he is," replied the latter, in a tone that sounded slightly
ironical.
He had been scanning the solitary passenger, in cap and surtout, who
sate silent in the corner.
Despite the dim light, he had recognised him; and felt sure that Swinton
had done the same.
His glance guided that of the ladies; all of whom had previous
acquaintance with their fellow-passenger. One of the three started on
discovering who it was.
For all this there was no speech--not even a nod of recognition. Only a
movement of surprise, followed by embarrassment.
Luckily the lamp was of oil, making it difficult to read the expression
on their faces.
So thought Julia Girdwood; and so too her mother.
Cornelia cared not. She had no shame to conceal.
But Louis Lucas liked the obscurity; for it was he who was in charge.
He had dropped down upon the seat, opposite to the gentleman who had
shot his Newfoundland dog!
It was not a pleasant place; and he instantly changed to the stall that
should have been occupied by Mr Swinton.
He did this upon pretence of sitting nearer to Mrs Girdwood.
And thus Maynard was left without a _vis-a-vis_.
His thoughts also were strange. How could they be otherwise? Beside
him, with shoulders almost touching, sate the woman he had once loved;
or, at all events, passionately admired.
It was the passion of a day. It had passed; and was now cold and dead.
There was a time when the touch of that rounded arm would have sent the
blood in hot current through his veins. Now its chafing against his, as
they came together on the cushion, produced no more feeling than if it
had been a fragment from the chisel of Praxiteles!
Did she feel the same?
He could not tell; nor cared he to know.
If he had a thought about her thoughts, it was one of simple gratitude.
He remembered his own imaginings, as to who had sent the star flag to
protect him, confirmed by what Blanche Vernon had let drop in that
conversation in the covers.
And this alone influenced him to shape, in his own mind, the question,
"Should I speak to her?"
His thoughts charged back to all that had passed between them--to her
cold parting on the cliff where he had rescued her from drowning; to her
almost disdainful dismissal of him in the Newport ball-room. But he
remembered also her last speech as she passed him, going out at the
ball-room door; and her last glance given him from the balcony!
Both words and look, once more rising into recollection, caused him to
repeat the mental interrogatory, "Should I speak to her?"
Ten times there was a speech upon his tongue; and as often was it
restrained.
There was time for that and more; enough to have admitted of an extended
dialogue. Though the mail train, making forty miles an hour, should
reach London Bridge in fifteen minutes, it seemed as though it would
never arrive at the station!
It did so at length without a word having been exchanged between Captain
Maynard and any of his _quondam_ acquaintances! They all seemed
relieved, as the platform appearing alongside gave them a chance of
escaping from his company!
Julia may have been an exception. She was the last of her party to get
out of the carriage, Maynard on the off side, of course, still staying.
She appeared to linger, as with a hope of still being spoken to. It was
upon her tongue to say the word "cruel"; but a proud thought restrained
her; and she sprang quickly out of the carriage to spare herself the
humiliation!
Equally near speaking was Maynard. He too was restrained by a thought--
proud, but not cruel.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
He looked along the platform, and watched them as they moved away. He
saw them joined by two gentlemen--one who approached stealthily, as if
not wishing to be seen.
He knew that the skulker was Swinton; and why he desired to avoid
observation.
Maynard no more cared for the movements of this man--no more envied him
either their confidence or company. His only reflection was:
"Strange that in every unpleasant passage of my life this same party
should trump up--at Newport; in Paris; and now near London, in the midst
of a grief greater than all!"
And he continued to reflect upon this coincidence, till the railway
porter had pushed him and his portmanteau into the interior of a cab.
The official not understanding the cause of his abstraction, gave him no
credit for it.
By the sharp slamming of the back-door he was reminded of a remissness:
he had neglected the _douceur_!