THE COINCIDENCE.
On her way to Eaglescraig, Annabelle Erroll proceeded by way of
Glasgow, and had barely taken her seat in the compartment of a
first-class railway carriage, when a gentleman entered, and took his
place at an opposite corner. Then the train glided out of the
station; smoky Tradeston on the right, and the dense masses of the
ancient Gorbals on the left, were quickly far behind, and the view on
either side became more open, as it sped on its way; and ere long
Annabelle forgot all about her companion, in watching the estuary of
the Clyde, the rock of Dumbarton, the mighty blue mass of Ben Lomond,
and the glorious panorama of the hills of Argyle.
Her companion had leisurely opened a courier bag, and taken therefrom
various serials, without offering one to her, as she sat with averted
face, intent on the scenery. He seemed one of those composed
travellers who can hear unmoved the scream and whistle of any number
of engines; the startling shout of 'Change here!' as the train pulled
up at some confusing junction, from where travellers branched off in
all directions--some the right, but many the wrong; and where
leisurely and indolent porters spent the stirring yet monotonous day
in cramming passengers and portmanteaus into carriages, to get rid of
them as fast as possible for the next batch of portmanteaus and
passengers, without caring whither they went or what became of them.
He could see, by furtive glances over the top of his paper, that his
companion was a tall and elegant girl, faultlessly attired in a rich
sealskin, with gold ornaments; with feet and hands which--when the
latter left her tiny muff--were well-shaped and small. There was a
haughty grace in the carriage of her handsome head; she wore a smart
hat, and a thick black veil tied over her face effectually concealed
her features. He took in all this at a glance as he settled himself
to his newspaper, while she scarcely dared to breathe, as in him she
had now recognised Leslie Fotheringhame!
Where was he going--what was he doing here, in 'mufti' too? The
calm, high-bred face, to which the dark eyebrows and thick, black,
heavy moustache imparted so much character--the face that was ever
dwelling in her memory was before her again. In repose, she thought
it seemed older than it should have been, or was wont to be; and when
eventually he did venture to address her, when he smiled, it grew
young and bright again, like the face she remembered in the pleasant
time beside the Tay, and the last season at Edinburgh.
She saw that he had still at his watch-chain a tiny gold locket,
which she remembered well; for it had been her gift to him, and
contained a microscopic likeness of herself on one side, and a lock
of her golden hair on the other--or _had_ done so, when she saw it
last.
Did it contain them now, or had they given place to memorials of--of
that other woman--a hateful and humiliating thought!
How she longed for an excuse or opportunity to get into another
carriage, or for other passengers to come in, ere he recognised her;
but the train was an express one, and no addition could be made to
their number for some time to come.
Secure, as yet, behind the mask of her veil, she watched him, while
her heart beat with lightning-speed, and swelled with unavailing
regret. Intent, apparently, on his paper, he had not recognised her.
He had, of course, ceased to care for her, she thought, when he had
learned to love that other one; and so now, her coming, and her
going, her joy and her sorrow, were nothing to him--were less than
the snow of last winter!
Yet she was woman enough to love him now, when breathing the same
atmosphere with him--seated within a yard of him--to love him, in
these the days of his biting indifference, even as she had done in
those when a smile of hers could bring him so winningly to her side.
'What a fool I am!' she thought; 'oh, I hate myself! Would that I
were a man--they can so easily forget!'
At that moment one of her bracelets became unclasped and fell at his
feet.
He picked it up, and not sorry, perhaps, for an excuse to address
her, said simply: 'Permit me?' and clasped it round her white and
shapely wrist.
'Thanks,' she replied as briefly; but her voice, though low,
instantly stirred a chord in his heart; the memory of her figure
rushed upon him; he gazed keenly at the fair face half hidden by its
veil of lace.
'Annabelle--Miss Erroll!' said he, in a strange voice, while lifting
his hat, and half offering a hand: a motion which she ignored, and
felt herself grow pallid in being discovered at last--pallid with
something of anger too, for, with all her natural sweetness,
Annabelle had a heart of pride.
'We are old friends,' said he, with some confusion or emotion of
manner; 'at least we can be that?'
'Not even that, I fear,' said she, with affected firmness; and then
added a little irrelevantly: 'would that I had never come here; an
express train, too--how provoking!'
'Is my company so hateful--or are we to be enemies now?'
'As you please,' she replied, with growing irritation, for, her
secret sentiments apart, the sudden situation exasperated her, after
all that had occurred. 'To meet you here was, at least, the last
thing I could have expected.'
'Or wished?'
'I have no reason for not replying in the affirmative--yes.'
He sighed, and for a moment looked out of the window at the
past-flying landscape, across which the white cloud of the engine
smoke was whirling. After a pause, he asked in a tone of assumed
indifference:
'Are you going far by this train?'
'Far or near cannot possibly interest you, Captain Fotheringhame; but
I may mention that I am going to Eaglescraig in Cunninghame.'
'Eaglescraig!' he exclaimed, forgetting his pretended calmness of
manner.
'And you?' she inquired, for she had a tender interest in him, in
spite of herself.
'I am going there too,' he replied, with the slightest twinkle of
mischief in his handsome eyes.
'By invitation?' asked Annabelle, aghast, conceiving that her friend
Mary had formed some scheme concerning them.
'No; I have volunteered a visit to the general, out of my friendship
for Cecil Falconer--or Montgomerie, we must call him now. I have
seen several notices concerning him in the public prints; I know all
about his changed fortunes, and I want to be of service, if I can, to
him and the old general. Thus I took this train, by a singular
coincidence.'
'One I would have avoided, could I have known, foreseen, what was
thereby involved.'
'Do not say so, I implore you,' said he.
She made no response to this; but sat with her face resolutely turned
to the carriage window, while biting her cherry nether lip, and with
difficulty restraining tears of vexation behind her veil; while
Fotheringhame, as he looked at her, thought just then that no woman
could compare with her--not even Mary Montgomerie--in his eyes; and
he longed to see her face unveiled, but dared not, in her present
mood, venture to hint of such a wish.
As his presence seemed to give her such extreme annoyance, he felt
half inclined to relinquish his plan of visiting Sir Piers; but then
he had written to the latter, announcing his intention of coming, and
had obtained two or three days' leave for that special purpose.
The recent tidings of Cecil in the public prints--the brilliant
exploit he had performed in the war in Servia--'in Servia, of all
places in the world,' as Fotheringhame said--fortunately gave this
luckless pair of travellers a kind of neutral ground on which to
meet--a neutral subject on which to converse, apart from themselves;
but in no instance can a man and a woman who have ever been _more_ to
each other than friends meet, after parting under any circumstances,
without having emotion of a deeper kind--be it love, or be it
hate--than ordinary individuals. Thus, ever and anon the
conversation of these two manifested a decided tendency to take a
personal and explanatory turn; yet they sat rigidly apart, each in
their own corner of the carriage.
'Poor Cecil!' said Fotheringhame; 'he may have tired of treading
life's dull road ere the report of his good fortune reaches him--the
heir of an old baronetcy and an estate.'
'With the affection of a dear girl like Mary Montgomerie too!'
'True,' added Fotheringhame, with much sadness of tone; 'she does not
forget, as some so readily can, what Motherwell calls "the love of
life's young day."
Thinking that, if not acting, this remark conveyed a taunt, Annabelle
said:
'You seem somewhat changed in way and manner since we saw each other
last.'
'If so, I have had good reason therefor.'
'You were once gay enough, and happy too.'
'Happy when you made me so; but Heaven knows, Annabelle,' he
exclaimed, with sudden emotion, 'that gaiety and pleasure have long
been strangers to me.'
'So duplicity brings about its own punishment,' she replied,
pointedly and pitilessly.
'Duplicity?' said he, looking up with a surprise that seemed at least
genuine; 'I do not understand--you slighted my visits--returned my
letters----'
'Good reason had I to do so. I had hoped we might avoid this
subject----'
'Reason?' he queried, as her voice broke.
'Remember your mysterious friend,' said Annabelle, bitterly; 'she was
_not_ Blanche Gordon; so who was she--what was she? But I despise
myself for asking!'
'She was then what she is no longer now--an unhappy creature,' was
the enigmatical reply, from which Annabelle, whose pride revolted
from making further inquiries, drew all kinds of singular deductions.
And now, at this crisis in their conversation, the train stopped, and
as an influx took place of those fresh passengers so longed for by
Annabelle a short time before, it could not be resumed in any form,
and the rest of the journey was performed by them in silence, or
nearly so.