FOR a moment or two Kitty was terror-stricken.
Then common sense came to her aid. She was free, she was independent:
the man might annoy her with his attentions, but he could not harm her.
She sat up and met his smile with a grave look of inquiry.
“This is a pleasant surprise, Kitty,” he said, seating himself directly
opposite. “Rather a crowd in my part of the train, and I was hunting for
a compartment with room to spare when fortune led me here,” he lied.
“Not often I’m so lucky.”
Kitty made no response.
“You might have let me know you were going to make a journey,” he said
pleasantly, “but perhaps you decided on it since I saw you.” He glanced
at her things on the rack. “I see you are going all the way. Well, so
much the better for me—eh? Come, Kitty, be friendly and say something.”
“I have nothing to say, Mr. Symington.”
“You’re thinking of last night—or, to be correct, the night before last.
Well, I’m glad of this chance of apologizing. I’m sorry I struck the
postman, but I was mad with the man for interfering, you know. I had
something to tell you, Kitty, something I’ve wanted to tell you for a
long time. . . . Well, are you going to forgive me?”
“You had better ask Sam that. You didn’t hurt me—you only disgusted me.
I think you should try to find a seat in another compartment.” She was
quite cool now. Indeed, she was not sorry to have the opportunity of
humiliating him for Sam’s sake.
At her words his face took on a dusky shade, but he asked quietly enough,
“Is that quite fair, Kitty?”
“You have no right to my name.” Had she owned a book then she would have
opened it. She turned to the window, let up the blind, and sought to
ignore him by peering out into the darkness; but if she thought thus to
get rid of his company, or even silence him, she was mistaken.
“You are a very foolish little girl,” he said presently. “Here you are,
running away to London, where you haven’t a friend—”
“Who told you that?” she demanded, turning on him.
“Well, have you?”
“Yes!” It was true. She had suddenly remembered that Colin was there,
not that she expected ever to meet him. But the inspiration served her
purpose: Symington was taken aback.
“Then it is some one your uncle does not know of,” he said sharply, and
wished he had not spoken, for she was quick to retort—
“So my uncle told you I was in the train, though you pretended to be
surprised to see me! I may be foolish, Mr. Symington, but I’m not
utterly stupid.”
“You are—delightfully stupid,” he returned, restraining his temper, “if
you think I’m going to let you disappear into London before I have seen
what your friend is like. London is a dangerous place, as you would know
if you had ever shown your pretty face in it before. Now don’t get
excited. Be reasonable—patient, if you like to call it that. I don’t
wonder at your running away from your awful relations and that dead-alive
village, but what are you going to do in London?”
Kitty, now both angry and uneasy, did not reply.
“I don’t mean to be impertinent,” he went on, “but I can’t help being
aware that you have no money—or, at least, very little. Now in London—”
“You needn’t concern yourself whether I have money or not,” she
interrupted hotly. “You will force me to leave this—”
“Please—just a moment. I can’t help concerning myself—no man could—in
the circumstances. And as I happen to be a man who is in love with
you—oh, you know it very well—”
She rose to take her things from the rack. It was certainly not a wise
move. With a strange laugh he sprang up and caught her, prisoning her
arms.
“Silly little girl,” he whispered passionately, “to think you can be quit
of me so easily! No, no! I’ve got you and I mean to keep you. Don’t
struggle—it’s no use. There!” he had her fast. They swayed a little
with the movement of the train. “Now listen, Kitty,” he continued,
“you’ll like me better when you know me better. I’m not a bad sort, and
I can give you things you’ve never dreamed of. Let’s be friends for the
present. I won’t hurry you about the other thing.” His voice sounded a
little breathless. “In a few hours we’ll be in London. If your friend
is there, good and well; but if not, you must let me look after you—show
you where to stay, and so on. Leave everything to me. We’ll have a
jolly good time while you’re getting to know me—”
Wrenching one of her hands free she struck him in the face.
“You beast!”
Doubtless the word stung more than the blow. A madness grew in his eyes.
“By Heavens, I’ll kiss you for that!” he cried—and let her go with a
stifled curse. The girl sank into her corner, ruddy. The man sat down,
ghastly.
The corridor door was drawn back by a young woman in rather fashionable
attire. In her left hand she had a “sevenpenny,” a finger marking the
place. Without a glance at either occupant she stepped in and, leaving
the door open, seated herself and began to read.
Kitty had again turned her face to the window, and soon the shameful glow
faded, leaving her pale. The natural reaction came, and she wanted to
cry. Symington’s colour, on the other hand, had risen. Once more he sat
opposite, looking hot and sulky. After a little while he produced his
cigarette case, but he put it back unopened. He would have given
something for a newspaper though it had been a week old. He was furious
with the intruder, and now and then took a stealthy glance at her which
might possibly have alarmed her had she observed it. Now and then, also,
he took such a glance at Kitty, and at last discovered that she was on
the verge of tears. Confound it! she must not be allowed to make a
scene. He transferred himself to her side.
“Look here, Kitty, it’s all right,” he whispered, and surreptitiously put
his hand on her elbow.
She started as if from pollution. “Can’t you leave me alone?” she said
under her breath. “I’ll never want to see you again, but I’ll hate you a
little less, perhaps, if you go back to the compartment you came
from—anywhere out of this.”
Nettled, he replied, “You may as well make up your mind that I’m going to
see you start safe in London.”
She drew away from him as far as possible and resumed her study of the
darkness.
Symington, trying to look as if he had not been rebuffed, lay back,
folded his arms and stared openly, rather rudely at the intruder, who was
now making a pencil jotting on the fly-leaf of her book. When she had
finished writing she went back to the printed page, read for a few
moments, and stopped as if an idea had struck her. She put up her hand
and pressed the button labelled “Attendant.” Then she returned to the
story.
It was beginning to dawn on Symington that she was not a bad looking
girl, though she must be a pure idiot, when a steward from the
sleeping-car appeared in the doorway. The man saluted the girl
respectfully, and as though he were pleased to see her.
“Didn’t know you were travelling with us to-night, Miss,” he remarked.
She smiled upon him, and tearing out the fly-leaf, folded and handed it
to him with a look which apparently he understood. He bowed and retired.
Symington had got the length of admitting to himself that in other
circumstances she might have made a pleasant enough travelling companion,
when the official again appeared. Not a little to Symington’s surprise
it was himself who the man now addressed.
“Excuse me, sir,” came the polite English speech, “but I can find you a
comfortable seat in another part of the train.”
After a slight pause—“Thanks,” said Symington shortly, “but I’m pretty
well where I am.”
“Sorry sir, but this compartment is reserved for ladies only,” said the
other, politely as before, and proceeded to affix to the window a label
bearing out his statement.
Symington hesitated, but he had the wit to realize that there was nothing
for it but to go. Bluster would only make him ridiculous. With what
dignity he could command he said to Kitty, “I’ll see you when we arrive,”
favoured the intruder with a scowl which ought to have slain her, but
which nearly made her smile, and followed the official.
And Kitty began to sob helplessly, her face in her handkerchief.
At the end of, perhaps, a couple of minutes she felt a light touch on her
shoulder, and was aware that the intruder was sitting down beside her.
“If you cry any longer,” said a calm low-pitched voice, “I’ll be thinking
I did the wrong thing in interfering. Besides, the attendant will be
here immediately with some tea for us, and he might think he had done the
wrong thing, too. Also, you have nothing to cry about now—have you?”
“Oh,” said Kitty, wiping her eyes with one hand and groping for the
stranger’s with the other, “the relief was too much for me. How can I
ever thank you for being so kind and c-clever!”
“You can postpone that till another day, Miss Carstairs—don’t be alarmed:
I saw it on your luggage,” the other said, with a reassuring handclasp.
“Mine’s Hilda Risk, though I’m quite a cautious person, as a rule.
To-night I made an exception,” she went on, giving Kitty time to recover
herself, “and interfered in a way that must have seemed rather
extraordinary to you. But I simply couldn’t help it. I noticed you
before you got into the train, and I saw you were troubled and nervous.
I noticed the—oh, well, the gentleman arrive at the last moment and get
on board after glaring about him. And as I happened to be just next door
to you, and in a seat next the corridor, I observed him prowling along,
ever so often, and taking stock of your compartment. And every time he
appeared, I admired him less—I hardly know why. And the last time he
came I saw him grin. And when he entered your compartment I tried
calling myself a fool, and telling myself it was none of my business, but
I couldn’t rest, and after a little while I took the chance of putting my
foot in it dreadfully—and you know the rest. Feeling better now?”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” Kitty answered, turning her attention from her eyes
to her pretty hair. “But you were so cool!”
“I suppose I was. Once I’ve made up my mind to do a thing, I get that
way. Besides, I’m never afraid of a man!”
“Never afraid of a man!” cried Kitty in tones of such amazement that her
new friend checked a laugh.
“No; because, you see, a man in his soul is always afraid of a woman.
It’s a useful thing to remember, Miss Carstairs.”
“But—but do you—hate men?”
“On the contrary! Most of my friends are men. Here comes the tea; now
we’ll be happy!” The attendant placed the tray on the seat, beamed on
Miss Risk and withdrew.
Kitty looked like crying again.
“I believe you’re hungry,” said Hilda. “Fall to on the bread and butter,
and I’ll pour out. It requires a little practice, you know.” She
proceeded to talk about herself, explaining, much to Kitty’s interest,
that she was a journalist. “Most of my work consists of ‘specials’ for
_The Lady’s Mirror_, rather a swagger weekly, though quite young. I ‘do’
all sorts of big functions, swell weddings, and so forth. I’ve a knack
for making dreary things look bright in print, also a knack for making
the dull remarks of prominent persons seem brilliant. These are the
chief reasons, I fancy, why the Editor sends me all the way from London
instead of employing some one on the spot. I have just come from
Aberdeen, and if you read my article in the next week’s _Mirror_, you
will imagine that I was in fairyland instead of in the worst of weather,
at a damaged garden party, among a few hundred ordinary humans who wished
themselves at home! But I enjoyed myself—I generally do.”
She looked as if she did, thought Kitty, venturing for the first time to
take note of her new friend’s appearance. Hilda inclined to fairness.
Her hair was a pale brown without tinge of red, and her fine skin was
almost pale, though the lips were warmly coloured. Her nose was short
and straight, her chin, while nicely rounded, hinted at a certain
boldness—not aggressiveness—of character. Her dark, bluish-grey eyes
were unusually wide-set, and this peculiarity—for it was such—affected
you first as merely piquant, but ere long as very charming with its
suggestion of sincerity and honesty. She was probably six or seven years
older than Kitty. She chatted on about herself and her work till she saw
that Kitty had made a fair meal.
“Feeling pretty fit now, aren’t you?” she said encouragingly, and rang
the bell.
“Oh, quite different; I don’t know what to say to you, Miss Risk,” Kitty
said gratefully. “You’ve been so good to me—and you don’t know a thing
about me.”
“May I ask two questions?”
“Ask anything—please.”
“Just two for the present. Have you friends meeting you at Euston?”
“No.”
“And where do you want to go on your arrival in London?”
“I—don’t know.”
Hilda nodded gravely. “I see you have a story,” she said, “but even if
you wish to tell it, I want you to keep it back—for the present, at any
rate. You and I must have a nap, or we shall be mere wrecks at the end
of the journey—and I’ve pages to cover before lunch-time. Ah, here he
comes!”
The attendant appeared carrying pillows and rugs. “I don’t think you’ll
be disturbed, Miss,” he said, ere he retired with the tray and the silver
Hilda had laid on it.
Two minutes later she had Kitty tucked up on one of the seats.
“Now go to sleep without wasting a moment in worrying over what’s going
to happen a few hours hence. We’ll manage nicely. Leave it to me.”
And Kitty left it. She was not used to being taken care of, but even the
novelty of that experience did not long withstand slumber. In a few
minutes she had forgotten it along with her weariness and woes.
* * * * *
As the porter took their things, Hilda whispered to Kitty—
“Don’t look about you; and if you happen to see him, don’t show it. Come
along!”
Presently, they were driving westwards in an open taxi-cab. It was a
lovely morning, and the air was delicious after the confinement of the
long journey.
“What a nice country colour you have,” Hilda remarked, “but you’re not a
country-bred girl, are you?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you take all this as a matter of course.”
“You mean that I don’t seem excited? But, you see, I—I’m wondering.”
“Where we are going?” said Hilda, taking a quick glance behind.
“Am I rude?”
“Not at all. A most natural thing to wonder about. Well, at the
present, we are going to call—just for a moment—on my rich and only
brother, who does not approve of my way of life, though he’s as good as
any brother could be. After I have given him a message you are coming
home with me for breakfast—and that’s enough to go on with, I hope.”
“But you don’t know anything about me!” cried Kitty.
Hilda’s smile was very kind. “I certainly don’t know your pedigree, nor
the name and address of your dentist; but I believe I could guess almost
as much as you could tell me concerning your recent troubles. However,
you can tell me what you will, later on. Meantime, take it easy and get
up an appetite.”
The cab turned to the left, negotiating a maze of streets of varied
aspect, and at last drew up at the imposing doorway of Aberdare Mansions.
“We shall take our things with us,” said Hilda, “and find another cab
when we need it.”
In the hall, waiting for the lift, she said: “Now don’t be alarmed. Our
friend of last night followed us in another taxi, and has doubtless noted
the address. I fancied he would do something like that, and accordingly
we have stopped here.”
“To put him on a wrong scent!” Kitty exclaimed almost gleefully. “How
clever you are!”
“Now let’s go up and give my brother the message. Our things can lie
here till we come down again. In you go!”
They soared to the fourth floor, where the conductress rang at the door
on the right. A discreet-looking man-servant opened, and permitted
himself to smile a welcome.
“Good morning, Sharp,” said Hilda. “We’re not coming in. I want to see
Mr. Risk for twenty seconds. As it’s so early, he may come in his
dressing-gown. Tell him it’s most urgent.”
Possibly Sharp was used to Miss Risk’s ways, for he went without
hesitation, and before long his master, garbed as Hilda had suggested,
came forward. He was tall, thin, clean-shaven, and you would have known
him as Hilda’s brother by his eyes.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed at the sight of Kitty. “I beg your pardon!” he
added quickly. “What is it, Hilda?”
“Just this, John. If a gentleman, more or less, should call here with
inquiries about a Miss Kitty Carstairs, you will oblige by treating him
as you would treat an undesirable person inquiring for your own sister.
And please instruct Sharp accordingly.”
“Very well,” said Mr. Risk, without the slightest emotion of any kind.
“I’ll remember, and so shall Sharp. But may I know the gentleman’s name,
more or less?”
Hilda turned to Kitty. “Would you mind?”
“Mr. Symington,” murmured Kitty, with a lovely, shameful colour.
“Thank you. . . . But, my dear sister, where are your manners?”
It was Hilda’s turn to blush. “Oh, Miss Carstairs, do forgive me! That
wretched man put everything out of my head. Let me introduce my brother,
Mr. Risk—Miss Carstairs.”
Mr. Risk held out his hand—apparently he had forgotten his costume—and
the embarrassed girl could not but take it.
“I never wonder at my sister making friends,” he said pleasantly, “but I
do marvel that she keeps any. Well, Hilda, won’t you and Miss Carstairs
stay and take breakfast with me?”
“Impossible—thanks all the same. Good-bye, John, and don’t forget the
name.”
“I will,” he retorted teasingly, “and treat all inquiring gentlemen as
you requested.”
Hilda went laughing into the lift, and Kitty, feeling the friendly clasp
of her arm, smiled almost happily.