IN THE LONDON TRAIN
The train had started before Isla's travelling companion caught a
glimpse of her face. She rose up with a sudden bang from her seat, with
the result that, in spite of herself, Isla lowered her paper a little to
see what was going to happen. What she did see was only the purple lady
removing her large and unsuitable headgear, which seemed to interfere
with her comfort.
"Hats are gettin' worse every day," she said with a pleasant smile as
she jabbed two immense pins with imitation moonstone tops into the
stuffing of the cushions behind her. "Soon they'll need to get us
hat-compartments. Eh--what? Now, where have I seen you before?"
She took some hairpins from her abundant and really pretty hair, and
with a back-comb began to do her toilet.
Isla was saved the difficulty of answering by a sudden gleam of
recognition wandering across the lady's face.
"Oh, I know--on the road right down there in Glenogle yesterday! Now,
ain't you jolly glad to be gettin' away from that God-forsaken hole?"
"Just at the present moment I am," Isla admitted.
She wondered what means she should take to ensure for herself quiet and
privacy. She was incapable of any act of studied rudeness, but the
prospect of listening to the woman's talk appalled her. Should she call
the guard and ask to be given another seat in another compartment, or
should she politely inform her fellow-traveller that she did not care to
talk.
The lady flopped upon her seat, shook her head to see whether the coils
of her hair were firmer, and then settled herself back among the
cushions, smoothing out the creases of her cheap blanket-coat with a
plump white hand.
She had now a black frock on, but, in contrast with Isla's neat, trim,
well-fitting suit of home-spun, it looked badly cut, badly worn,
altogether unsuitable for a journey. There were quantities of white
net--not too clean--about her neck, and many brooches and a long chain,
on which hung a lorgnette, while a double eyeglass was pinned to her
bosom. She wore a great many rings of sorts and a wedding one.
Isla's eyes were quick enough to detect that.
"Goin' all the way?" she asked with an engaging smile.
Isla nodded.
"So am I, and jolly glad I'll be to hear the noise and smell the good
old smells of the Euston Road. How they live up there! But there--it
ain't livin', is it now? Would you call it livin'--eh?"
"Well," said Isla, diverted in spite of herself, and feeling no longer
the appalling dread that pursued her in Glenogle regarding this very
woman, "it depends on what you call living."
"Just so. Well, I like a bit of fun myself--a night out occasionally
and a bit of stir in the daytime. Them hills, and big, dark locks get
on my nerves. I was four days at the little hotel at Strathyre, and I
had just about enough of it."
"Visiting friends in the neighbourhood?"
"No," snapped the woman. "It was a bit of business I was on, and it was
last night before I saw the party I had to see. Not but what I was
comfortable there, and they do make good food. Ever stopped there?
They tell me they hadn't an empty bed from Easter till now--full up with
fishermen and that sort. Can't understand it--don't pretend to. It's
the silence--the big empty silence that gets at me. It would drive me
crazy in a month, and I'd be gettin' up in my sleep and wanderin' into
that water."
"You would get used to Strathyre," said Isla, smiling a little as she
raised her paper, and hoping that there might now be a reprieve.
Her passionate hope was that the woman, who had all the unreserve of her
class, would not be seized with a sudden desire to confide the nature of
her business to her fellow-traveller. She did not want to hear the
truth from these lips. If necessary she would have to tell her somehow
that she did not wish to go on talking.
"I doubt it very much! I've been about too much and seen too much life
to settle down in the country. I may have to, perhaps, later on, when I
get older and not so fond of racket. Nothing to hurt--don't you
know?--only a night at one of the halls and a good old canter down
Regent Street and Oxford Street."
"I never saw anybody riding there," said Isla in a startled voice.
"I don't mean that, of course!" laughed the stranger; "not but what I
could do it and make the traffic sit up for me too. When I was in India
I had me own horse every mornin' and them grinnin' black men to hold it
for me till I was ready to mount. I had a figure then as slim as yours,
and they all said I looked better in me habit than in anything else."
"What part of India were you in?" asked Isla, fascinated in spite of
herself.
"Pretty well all over, but latterly I was in the north. My husband was
in the Fighting Fifth. Ever heard of them?"
"Yes, of course. They were through the Afghan campaign. My father was
a soldier, and he used to show us as children their marches on the map."
"Oh, indeed! Then you know something about the service? Any brother in
it?"
"I had one," said Isla, and the colour rose hotly in her face.
"I love it. Even when I was a little nipper I always said I'd never
marry anybody but a soldier. And I didn't."
"Is your husband alive still?"
"No--dead. Killed in action he was, a-savin' of his Colonel. I've got
the little brown cross at home somewhere. These were the days! There
never was a braver chap than Joe Bisley ever shouldered a musket. Ah,
poor Joe!"
Isla, perceiving that her companion was now in the throes of
reminiscence, shrank back nervously in her corner.
"Doesn't it make your head ache to talk in the train?" she asked rather
hastily. "There are heaps of papers here if you like to read. You are
welcome to any of them. The gentleman who saw me off bought a great
many."
"Ah, I don't wonder!" said the other with an admiring glance of
approval. "You are just the sort that they would buy everything for if
they got the chance. A little standoffish, too--ain't that what they
like? Oh, I know them through and through!"
In spite of herself, Isla laughed out loud.
"Oh, it was a very old friend of my family who was seeing me off to-day!
My father's lawyer in fact."
"Ah, then, he knew what side his bread was buttered on. And are you
goin' to London, may I ask?"
"Yes."
"What particular part?"
"I shall stay the night at the Euston Hotel. I may go abroad. My plans
are a little indefinite at present."
"Same as mine. It ain't an easy thing for a lone woman to make up her
mind, and, as I told the party I spoke of, last night, I'm gettin' tired
of uncertainty. I want to know where I am. That's what for I took that
long journey and stopped at that queer little hotel. I wanted to see a
party and get my bearings."
"And did you get them?" asked Isla desperately.
"Yes, I think so. But, bless you, you never know where you are with
them. They're as slippery as eels. If you weren't so pretty, my dear,
I'd warn you to steer clear of them for the rest of your mortal life.
But it ain't in reason that you'll be allowed. There must be dozens
after you."
Isla shook her head and then pointed suggestively to the illustrated
papers, even making a remark about one of the pictures on the cover.
But the lady did not accept the hint.
"I don't read much," she confessed. "And men and women are much more
interesting than books. When you've seen a bit of life, as I have,
what's written in a book doesn't count for much. It's like a stuffed
sawdust man beside a real flesh-and-blood one. Yes, they're a slippery
crew, but they makes life--don't they, my dear?"
"They make its dispeace, anyhow," said Isla, surprised into an
expression of opinion that she immediately regretted.
Her companion's face brightened, and she sat forward eagerly.
"Fancy you thinkin' that! Well, as you've had reason to say that, I
don't mind tellin' you I agree. They're worth watchin', they need
watchin' all the time, though most of them are like babies, with no more
thought of what's goin' to happen. Now there's me! When I was in India
I was pretty and slim as you are, though you wouldn't think it, and I
was a toast in the station and could have had me pick after Joe died.
There was the Sergeant--a splendid figure of a man with four medals and
pay saved. He would have married me right off, and so would the little
Corporal, and even one of the subs. that had an Earl for his
grandfather; but I passed by them all and took up with one that nobody
could be sure of. He's here to-day and gone to-morrow, so to speak, and
even his wife couldn't keep him on the string."
Isla jumped up with her colour fluttering and threw down her paper.
"It's very hot in here, isn't it? Excuse me, but I must go out into the
corridor for a little fresh air. I can't stand the heat any longer."
"Oh, poor dear, have a drop of brandy! They do have uncommon good
spirits at Strathyre, but then, it's the dew of their own mountains,
isn't it? Do have a drop, dearie. It'll buck you up at once."
"No, no, thank you!" cried Isla over her shoulder from the corridor. "I
never touch spirits. I only want to be quiet and not talk for the rest
of the journey."
Mrs. Bisley looked disappointed, but she comforted herself with a drop
of the dew of the mountains and then sat down to have a look at the
papers.
Once Isla glanced back at her and, in spite of herself, had to admit the
prettiness of her face. She looked about thirty-five, and had she been
properly dressed she could have been made to look much more attractive.
There was something winning about her, too, but--oh, the irony of fate
that should have brought them together in that narrow space, from which
it was impossible to escape!
Isla's abnormally quick perception had easily filled in the lines of the
story. She had no doubt that the party referred to by her
fellow-traveller was Malcolm. And that the woman believed that she had a
right to him there could be no doubt. He had not admitted her claim,
Isla concluded, else surely he could never have been so base as lift his
eyes to Vivien Rosmead.
She felt sick as she pressed her throbbing head against the cold glass
of the corridor window, enjoying the swish of the wind on her cheek.
Should she never get away from the shadows which had darkened her life?
Was it ordained that she should be pursued, far beyond the limits of
Glenogle, by the sordid phantoms of Malcolm's past and present? Was fate
wholly inexorable--were poor human beings but puppets, liable to be
rudely moved hither and thither upon the boards of the stage of life?
If it were so she might as well go back and fight it out on the Moor of
Creagh.
"Feelin' better, my dear?" said Mrs. Bisley kindly, when she presently
turned her head. "The first lunch will be comin' along immediately, and
that'll make you feel better."
"I don't take it," said Isla, seeing a probable respite for an hour or
so, during which she might either escape or rearrange her plans. "I
have a few sandwiches in my dressing-bag and, later, I shall get a cup
of tea. I never eat much when I am travelling."
"A mistake, my dear. Take it from me that has travelled a lot both by
land and sea. If you don't eat you get so low that you can't bear
yourself. Do say two for luncheon when the waiter comes along; then
we'll go in together."
Isla shook her head.
"No, thank you."
The attendant came at the moment to inform them that the first luncheon
would be served in about twenty minutes. Isla crept back again to her
corner under the sympathetic scrutiny of her companion.
"What a colour you have, to be sure! Sorry you don't feel up to
luncheon," she said cheerfully. "It's all use. When you've knocked
about as much as I have you'll get more experiences. I'm up to all
travelling dodges."
Isla had no doubt of it. She opened out another paper and let her eyes
fall languidly on it, praying fervidly for the quick passage of the next
twenty minutes. At another time she would have most thoroughly enjoyed
such a travelling-companion and would undoubtedly have elicited her
whole family history. But now her whole desire and aim was to stem the
avalanche.
"Queer--wasn't it?--that we should meet like this," pursued her wholly
unconscious tormentor. "I took to you that day when I met you on the
road far more than to that other one you was with when you came back.
She's a haughty piece, if you like. They told me at the hotel at
Strathyre that it's expected she'll maybe be Lady of Achree some day,
but we don't think!"
"Nobody pays any attention to the gossip of the Glen," said Isla, the
desperate look stealing to her face again.
"Well, you may take it from me that that won't come orf," said Mrs.
Bisley with cheerful emphasis, at the same time picking up a paper and
beginning a languid inspection of the pictures it contained.
For about ten minutes there was a blessed silence, and then the
restaurant attendant appeared to ask them to take seats for the first
luncheon. Mrs. Bisley, full of pleasurable anticipation, jumped up and
proceeded to arrange her hair and pin on her hat at the most becoming
angle. Then she grasped her hand-bag and came out into the corridor,
nodding delightedly.
"Sure you won't come, Miss? It would do you no end of good. Do be
persuaded."
"Oh, no, thank you. I couldn't eat."
"Then, I leave you to keep our seats. Hope we don't have anyone else
put in with us at Carlisle. Then we can have a nice chat all the
afternoon."
"Heaven forbid!" said Isla in her inmost soul.
A few minutes after her companion had disappeared, and when the corridor
was quite empty, she rang the bell. It was a long time before anyone
answered it. Then, indeed, it was only the conductor who came. He had
not even heard the bell--he merely came through by chance.
"Will you be so kind as to get me another seat at once and have my
things moved?" she said, with that single touch of hauteur mingled with
appeal which, somehow, always commanded immediate service.
The man touched his hat, looked inquiringly into the compartment, and,
seeing no one, put a question.
"The train is rather full, ma'am. Are you not comfortable here? I
don't believe there is another compartment in it with only two
passengers."
"I don't mind. I want to move," said Isla desperately. "I--I don't care
for my fellow-traveller. No--she isn't in the least objectionable, but
I want to move right to the other end of the train, if possible, and if
there is no other accommodation I'll pay for a first-class seat."
"Very well, Miss. I'll see what I can do," he said obligingly enough as
he moved on through the doorway of the corridor.
Isla feverishly began at once to gather her things together, and she had
her dressing-bag in her hand and her rug over her arm when, in about
eight minutes' time, the guard returned.
"There is one corner seat in the front of the train--two gentlemen and a
lady in the compartment. One of them is going out at Crewe. So if
you'd care to wait till then----"
"No, thank you. I'll go now," she said.
The man, still further puzzled, made up his mind to come through later
and take a look at the other occupant of the compartment, now absent.
He gathered up Isla's things and led the way to the front portion of the
train. Isla felt that she was not particularly welcome in her new
quarters. A woman, eating oranges, glared at her disagreeably, but at
least she was left severely alone. She felt weak and limp after the
strain of the morning, and all the afternoon every footfall in the
corridor made her start, fully expecting to behold in pursuit of her the
companion whom she had deserted. But she neither saw nor heard any more
of her until they arrived at Euston and rubbed shoulders at the luggage
barriers.
Isla did not perceive her at first, and had just called out to the man
that Mackinnon was the name on her box.
At the sound of it Mrs. Bisley started back as if she had been shot, her
vivid colour paled, and she put her hand to her side as if she felt some
spasm.
"Well, I'm blest!" she whispered inly to herself. "So that's it! I
might have known. Oh, Winnie Bisley, once more your long tongue has got
you into trouble."
She had the delicacy of feeling to wish to efface herself from Isla
Mackinnon's eyes, and yet she had a most insatiable desire to find out
her destination. Remembering, however, that she had said she would
sleep the night at the Euston Hotel she gave up the idea of discovery as
impracticable.
As Isla's porter shouldered her trunk and she turned to follow him
towards the hotel entrance she saw the woman again, and their eyes met.
Mrs. Bisley did not even smile, but Isla, as she passed by her, paused
for the fraction of a second.
"I did not mean to be so rude as you may have thought, but my head ached
dreadfully and I felt that I must get away to where it was not necessary
to talk."
"I quite understand," replied Mrs. Bisley. "Don't apologize. I don't
take offence easily. I'm not that sort. You're Miss Mackinnon, aren't
you?"
"Yes."
"It might have saved a lot of talk if you had told me your name at the
beginning," she said a trifle drily. "But, after all, perhaps there
isn't any great harm done."
"I hope not. You meant to be kind, I'm sure. Good night, Mrs. Bisley."
"Bisley was my name," she said grimly. "Good night, Miss Mackinnon. If
it should be that you ever want to see me again--and stranger things
have happened--you'll find me at 21 Henrietta Street, off the Edgeware
Road--fourth turning on your left from the Marble Arch."
"I'll remember it," said Isla hastily. "Good night."
She was glad once more to escape. She had got much fresh food for
thought, and she was at a loss to know how to act in a matter which
seemed to concern her, and yet with which she was loth to intermeddle.
On one point, however, her mind was absolutely made up. Malcolm should
not win Vivien Rosmead under false pretences. Not for the second time
should the peace and happiness of that dear woman be imperilled.
But she did not yet know how she was going to prevent the crowning act
of the tragedy of Malcolm's life.
"Tragedy" was the word Isla used to herself as the whole story beat upon
her brain where she lay, tossing sleepless in her noisy bedroom,
disturbed by the shriek of the trains, the long dull roar of life in the
Euston Road, and, above all, by the phantoms of her own sad heart.
How easily, by putting a few adroit questions, could she have wiled the
whole story from her fellow-traveller's lips! It was not her pride
alone that had prevented her from asking these questions. She was
afraid.
She fell asleep with one last haunting thought in her mind--how much
happier than she were the Mackinnons who slept their last dreamless
sleep on the Braes of Balquhidder.