THE LAST TRAIN.
The holidays commenced. The young ladies went north, south, east,
and west to their several homes, and Madeline had the whole big
schoolroom, and the much-disputed fire, absolutely to herself. She
was monarch of all she surveyed, but she was nearly as lonely as
Robinson Crusoe on the desert island. The Miss Harpers were not
covetous of her company; nor was she ever bidden to the friendly
luncheons or the merry little suppers which repeatedly took place.
She, on these occasions, enjoyed(?) a plate of cold meat, or bread
and butter, and a glass of water in the privacy of the schoolroom.
There was no necessity, the Miss Harpers averred, to introduce her
to their friends. It would be a mistake to spoil her; she was quite
conceited enough. But Mrs. Wolferton had no such scruples: she called,
she wrote, she persevered, she carried her point. She insisted on
having Miss West to spend an occasional day with her. What a contrast
to the schoolroom at Harperton House that dainty drawing-room, with
its mirrors, pictures, easy-chairs, Persian carpets, exotic flowers,
and genial Mrs. Wolferton knitting and talking and begging her “to
make herself at home.” Then there was a tempting luncheon, a drive,
a sociable dinner--which included Fred Wolferton, Mr. Wynne, and one
or two others--finally, music and round games, in the midst of which
would come the disagreeable announcement--“A servant for Miss West,
if you please.” Fred Wolferton and Mr. Wynne invariably escorted her
home all the same, leaving her on Mrs. Harper’s spotless doorstep; but
not coming in, nor making any move in that direction--as Miss Selina
angrily remarked from behind the drawing-room blind. Miss Selina had
become very “cold” in her manner to Madeline--in fact, she was more
than cold: she was actually and actively hostile--and glared at the
unlucky pupil-teacher as if she were some kind of poisonous domestic
reptile she had nourished in her bosom. Mrs. Wolferton’s praise, Mrs.
Wolferton’s partiality for Miss West, did not please her; but, happily,
the old lady was going away to the south of France to escape the east
winds, and when she returned she would probably have forgotten her
passing fancy! Miss Selina was good enough to judge others by her own
standard.
One day there came tickets for the Theatre Royal at Riverside, for
Mrs. and the Misses Harper, and Miss West: with Mr. Fred Wolferton’s
compliments. He had not left home--and Mr. Wynne was still his guest.
“To go, or not to go?” that was a question which was debated with great
spirit in Mrs. Harper’s own bedroom. They were only too willing to
accept with pleasure; but what about that girl--_must_ they take her
also? There was no other alternative. If she had only a slight cold,
or even a sty on her eye; but, unfortunately, she was never better in
her life. They had no excuse beyond their own disinclination; go she
must. Very grudgingly they broke the news to Madeline, as she sat over
a slacked-down fire in the schoolroom, dividing her thoughts between
a child’s story-book and Mr. Wynne--needless to ask which had the
largest share. She could not help thinking a good deal of Mr. Wynne.
It was wrong, it was foolish! Miss Selina would have declared that it
was indelicate! Probably he never gave _her_ a second thought. Her
cheeks grew hot at the idea; but an inward voice whispered another
tale. If he did not think of her, why did he always monopolize her at
Mrs. Wolferton’s, usurping Fred’s place at the piano, why sit beside
her at cards? Why had he begged permission to keep a flower? Why had
he hinted that only for his poverty he would marry--or, at least, ask
some girl to marry him--a girl who had no home? Who could that be?
Dare she breathe, even to her inmost soul, that the girl’s name was
Madeline West? If he had not thought of her, why did he tell her so
much about himself, his dead father and mother, his rich, high, and
mighty relations: relations who looked upon empty pockets as a crime;
but who patronized him, asked him to dinner, and hinted that if he
were to place himself on the cotton or soap markets, where heiresses
were plentiful, he might, on the strength of his connections and his
pedigree, secure one of these young ladies, and perhaps fifty thousand
pounds!
But these suggestions he had not taken in good part, quite between
ourselves; and, equally between ourselves, he asked himself what his
grand relations would say if they knew he was head-over-ears in love
with a pretty little pupil-teacher--a perfect lady, certainly, and not
unworthy to bear the name of Wynne, but absolutely without sixpence?
The poor child liked him too--he was sure of it. He could not offer
her a decent home--could not presume to suppose that what was barely
sufficient for one would afford a comfortable maintenance for two. Best
leave her, if he could, in maiden meditation fancy free--leave her for
some luckier fellow, leave his heart in her unconscious keeping. This
visit to the theatre was to be positively the last meeting he would
allow himself; and then for his dismal, solitary old chambers in the
Temple, and work. Plenty of work is an excellent and healing medicine
for any affection of a sentimental nature, so he had read, so he had
been assured, and now he was about to test its efficacy.
The great evening came. With hot and trembling fingers Madeline made
her modest toilet, donned her hat and cape, and awaited the rest of
the party in the hall in a state of feverish suspense. She had rarely
been inside a theatre in her life, and her heart was fluttering with
happy anticipation. What a night this would be to look back upon!
Henry Irving she had often longed to see, and now she was going to
witness _The Lyons Mail_ in company with Mr. Wynne. Oh, it was too much
pleasure to be squeezed into one evening. If it could but be spread
over three or four days, instead of being all compressed into two or
three hours!
“Madeline!” said a sharp voice, that startled her from her delightful
meditations, “just come into the drawing-room for a moment. I wish
to speak to you!” leading the way into that dull apartment, lit at
present by one dim gas-burner, and innocent of such extravagance as a
fire. “I wish to speak to you,” seriously repeated Miss Selina, “about
the preposterous way you are going on with Mr. Wynne! You are really
quite shameless!”
“What have I done, Miss Selina? What do you mean?” she asked,
breathless with horror.
“What have you _not_ done? Flirted with him, run after him to Mrs.
Wolferton’s, made yourself the talk of the whole place. Even the very
_servants_ have remarked it. Don’t imagine for one moment that _he_
thinks of you as anything but a silly chit of a schoolgirl, who is
head-over-ears in love with him, and whom he finds it amusing to draw
out, and laugh at afterwards with Mr. Fred Wolferton.”
“Miss Selina!” cried Madeline, stung to the quick, turning white as
death, and grasping the back of a chair for support, as she stammered
passionately. “How dare you? How dare you say such things? You
know they are not true. I went to Mrs. Wolferton’s because she was
kind--because she asked me. I never ran after Mr. Wynne--never!”
“And pray what are you doing to-night?” with grim, ironical
interrogation.
“If you think that I am running after him in going to the theatre, I
can easily remain at home. I”--(oh, what a wrench was this! but her
pride was roused)--“will stay at home,” removing her hat as she spoke.
“The matter is easily settled.”
Not so easily as she supposed, for at this moment the sound of loud,
cheery, masculine voices in the hall broke in upon them. The door
was flung wide; enter Fred Wolferton, Mr. Murphy--(hush! you must not
tell the bishop!) an elderly escort for Mrs. Harper; last, not least,
Mr. Wynne. And although Madeline, with considerable embarrassment,
firmly and positively assured every one that “she was not going,” as
she could offer no sane reason for her sudden announcement, and was
unquestionably dressed for the theatre, public opinion and public
clamour carried the day.
She replaced her hat, in answer to an impatient signal from Miss
Selina, and went; but the gilt had been removed from the gingerbread,
and all the way in the train--they were ten miles from Riverside--she
was pale and silent, and pointedly avoided Mr. Wynne, to Miss Selina’s
great content. However, Mr. Wynne declined to be avoided. He ignored
Miss Selina’s hints, and the vacant place next to her, which she patted
invitingly, as much as to say, “Come and sit here, and be happy!” and
seated himself at the other side of Madeline, whose eyes were straying
over the theatre, and who, once the overture commenced, began to
realize that she was enjoying herself extremely, and would not allow
Miss Selina’s dreadful insinuations to spoil her whole evening.
Miss Selina, with tightly compressed lips and an angry glare in her
little grey eyes, was aware that she had been publicly slighted. What
is that line about “A woman scorned?” She felt capable of anything.
Her rage against Mr. Wynne was as hot and as consuming as her bitter
jealousy of Madeline West. Well, they should suffer for their
intolerable behaviour, as she called it, meaning the simple fact of
their sitting together, talking with much animation between the acts,
and looking supremely happy. Yes, her feelings must have immediate
relief. She would find a way to punish them; and, as she sat silent,
her eyes fixed upon the drop scene, she was revolving a portentous
plan in her own mind--a scheme that would rid her of her ex-pupil, and
avenge her on the rising barrister by one swift blow--a scheme that
would not be for the benefit of the smiling young couple--no, quite the
reverse.
The orchestra was playing a wild Polish dance, its burthen full of
sadness, despair, and weird, fantastic chords at one period; at another
gaily frolicsome, and full of outbursts of mad mirth--an air that
exercised a strange influence upon them, especially on Madeline, in her
present state of highly strung nerves, and repressed mental excitement.
She drank in that wild melody; it haunted her as long as she lived.
When heard among other scenes, it always recalled this night--this
momentous night, the very crisis of her existence. She gazed at the
stage, at the big, red, mysterious curtain, the bent figures in the
orchestra, the florally ornamented theatre, the gay company, with fans
and opera-glasses, and asked herself, “Was it all real?”
At last the play was over; the actors had been called before the
footlights and vociferously applauded, and had bowed themselves away.
And now people began to move, to look about for cloaks and wraps and
overcoats, and to hurry off, as if the place was on fire! The crowd
was great. Outside it was snowing hard, and inside the crush was
almost suffocating.
“I’ll look after you, Miss West,” said Mr. Wynne, eagerly, as they
found a footing in the passage among hundreds of the recent audience.
“Very well. Be sure you _do_!” put in Miss Selina, with unwonted
briskness. “We are certain to get separated. Look here,
Madeline”--lowering her voice suddenly--“meet us at the bottom of the
station steps. _You_ know the place. Mind you are not late; it’s the
last train!”
And with this injunction on her lips, she was borne away in the crowd,
in her smart, pink opera mantle--once the property of the rich Miss
West--and soon lost to sight.
“Let us wait until the rush is over, and take it quietly,” said Wynne,
struggling vainly to look at his watch. “We will get a hansom, and
be at the station in no time--before them, ten to one--for they are a
large party.”
Inwardly he marvelled at Miss Selina’s arrangement. He was not aware
that she had her reasons--well-thought-out plans--and he was too well
satisfied to question the matter. After a little, when the crush had
lessened, he made his way down to the portico, secured a hansom, and
drove with his charge to the place of rendezvous, the foot of the
steps--a covered entry, luckily, for the snow was falling thick and
fast. They waited--it was bitterly cold--a chill little wind rose, and
sobbed and wailed round them. Five minutes, and no one came to meet
them. Ten minutes! still no one, and the hurrying crowd that had passed
up had now entirely ceased.
“I hope they have not come to grief!” said Wynne. And, suddenly
looking at his watch, he added, “I’ll tell you what--we can’t wait
any longer, or we will miss our train. We must run for it as it is,”
springing quickly up the steps.
Too late! Too late! The red light of the last train to Streambridge
was just disappearing into the big tunnel. What was to be done? He
stood for a moment irresolute. Yes; it was the last train, and it was
gone. A cab was the first idea. Leaving Madeline, who was benumbed with
waiting, and a good deal frightened, he hurried to the cab-rank. It was
empty and void. He waylaid a passing cabby, and told him the state of
the case.
“Ten miles in deep snow! Couldn’t be done, sir, at no price.”
The same story was repeated elsewhere. There was nothing for it but to
go back to Madeline, who was now shivering over the dying fire in the
ladies’ waiting-room.
“Well?” she asked, raising her face expectantly.
“No cab to be had,” he rejoined, with assumed _sangfroid_.
“No cab to be had!” she repeated, her eyes darkening and dilating with
horror. “Oh, Mr. Wynne, can we walk?” Mad project!
“No. I fancy the best thing will be to stop here all night--I mean
at the Railway Hotel--and go on by the first train in the morning. I
will go to the landlady and ask her to look after you, and I will find
quarters elsewhere. It will be all right,” he continued reassuringly.
“Are you certain that Miss Selina said the _foot_ of the steps?” he
asked, as if struck by an afterthought.
“Yes; quite certain,” resolutely.
“Here!” he called to a sleepy porter. “Did you see a party looking for
people by the last train--three ladies and three gentlemen?”
“Yes, sir; stout old party and two elderly ladies”--(oh, ye gods! if
the Miss Harpers had heard him!)--“three gents. They came by the West
Street entrance; they _did_ seem looking--that is, the gents was--but
one of the ladies said you were all right, and bundled the whole pack
into a carriage. She seemed in a terrible flurry.”
“Well, we can do no good by waiting here,” said Wynne, at length. “Come
along, there is nothing to be frightened at, Miss West.” (Miss West was
crying quietly, and very much alarmed indeed.) “You will be back in
time for breakfast. It was all an accident--a misunderstanding, and if
there is any one to blame, or to be blamed, you must blame _me_.”
“I know they will be awfully angry,” said Madeline, turning her white
face to his. “I don’t know _what_ they will say!”
“Not angry, when I have explained everything to their entire
satisfaction. I will go security that you will not get into any
trouble. I will see Mrs. Harper myself.”
And, really, half an hour later, as Madeline sat with her feet on the
fender of a luxurious bedroom in the Railway Hotel--a magnificent
apartment to her benighted eyes--with a hot coal fire before her, and a
cup of steaming coffee in her hand, she began to cheer up, and to take
a brighter view of the situation. What harm was it, after all? Missing
a train--nothing so very dreadful. She would only get a scolding, at
the worst. Alas! she was but too well accustomed to scoldings!
But Laurence Wynne, as he fought his way to another hotel through the
soft, spongy snow, with the collar of his coat turned up, and his head
bent against the stinging sleet, looked graver than he had done when
he was talking to his late companion. It was an exceedingly awkward
business, and he had an uncomfortable conviction that Miss Selina was
at the bottom of the situation. She had sent them to one entrance, and
arrived at the other herself; had requested them to wait--and miss the
train. There had been an expression in her eye that was distinctly
hostile, as he had suddenly encountered it over the top of her fan.
Selina Harper meant mischief--had laid a neat little trap into which
he had artlessly tumbled. “However,” he said to himself, as he entered
the coffee-room of a palatial hotel, “half the evils in the world are
those which have never happened. No doubt the worst of the adventure
would merely resolve itself into a bad quarter of an hour--for
him--with Mrs. Harper.”