In the meantime, Springrove was pacing up and down the arrival platform
of the railway-station. Half-past eight o’clock--the time at which
Owen’s train was due--had come, and passed, but no train appeared.
‘When will the eight-thirty train be in?’ he asked of a man who was
sweeping the mud from the steps.
‘She is not expected yet this hour.’
‘How is that?’
‘Christmas-time, you see, ‘tis always so. People are running about to
see their friends. The trains have been like it ever since Christmas
Eve, and will be for another week yet.’
Edward again went on walking and waiting under the draughty roof. He
found it utterly impossible to leave the spot. His mind was so
intent upon the importance of meeting with Owen, and informing him of
Cytherea’s whereabouts, that he could not but fancy Owen might leave the
station unobserved if he turned his back, and become lost to him in the
streets of the town.
The hour expired. Ten o’clock struck. ‘When will the train be in?’ said
Edward to the telegraph clerk.
‘In five-and-thirty minutes. She’s now at L----. They have extra
passengers, and the rails are bad to-day.’
At last, at a quarter to eleven, the train came in.
The first to alight from it was Owen, looking pale and cold. He casually
glanced round upon the nearly deserted platform, and was hurrying to the
outlet, when his eyes fell upon Edward. At sight of his friend he was
quite bewildered, and could not speak.
‘Here I am, Mr. Graye,’ said Edward cheerfully. ‘I have seen Cytherea,
and she has been waiting for you these two or three hours.’
Owen took Edward’s hand, pressed it, and looked at him in silence. Such
was the concentration of his mind, that not till many minutes after did
he think of inquiring how Springrove had contrived to be there before
him.