BY THE EXPRESS.
Mr. Hardwicke, not knowing Percival Thorne's precise address, had
telegraphed to Godfrey Hammond, begging him to forward the message
without delay. A couple of days earlier Hammond had suddenly taken it
into his head that he was tired of being in town and would go away
somewhere. In a sort of whimsical amusement at his own mood he decided
that the Land's End ought to suit a misanthrope, and promptly took a
ticket for Penzance as a considerable step in the right direction.
It made no difference to Percival, for Hammond had left full directions
with a trustworthy servant in case any letters should come for Mr.
Thorne, and the man sent the message on to Brenthill at once. But it
made a difference to Hammond himself. When Hardwicke despatched the
telegram to his address in town Godfrey lay on the turf at the Lizard
Head, gazing southward across the sunlit sea, while the seabirds
screamed and the white waves broke on the jagged rocks far below.
But with Percival there was no delay. The message found him in Bellevue
street, though he did not return there immediately after his parting
with Judith. He wanted the open air, the sky overhead, movement and
liberty to calm the joyful tumult in heart and brain. He hastened to the
nearest point whence he could look over trees and fields. The prospect
was not very beautiful. The trees were few--some cropped willows by a
mud-banked rivulet and a group or two of gaunt and melancholy elms. And
the fields had a trodden, suburban aspect, which made it hardly needful
to stick up boards describing them as eligible building-ground. Yet
there was grass, such as it was, and daisies sprinkled here and there,
and soft cloud-shadows gliding over it. Percival's unreal and fantastic
dream had perished suddenly when Judith put her hand in his. Now, as he
walked across these meadows, he saw a new vision, that dream of noble,
simple poverty, which, if it could but be realized, would be the fairest
of all.
When he returned from his walk, and came once more to the well-known
street which he was learning to call "home," he was so much calmer that
he thought he was quite himself again. Not the languid, hopeless self
who had lived there once, but a self young, vigorous, elate, rejoicing
in the present and looking confidently toward the future.
This I can tell,
That all will go well,
was the keynote of his mood. He felt as if he trod on air--as if he had
but to walk boldly forward and every obstacle must give way. The door of
No. 13 was open, and a boy who had brought a telegram was turning away
from it. Hurrying in with eager eyes and his face bright with unspoken
joy, Percival nearly ran up against Mrs. Bryant and Emma, whose heads
were close together over the address on the envelope.
"Lor! Mr. Thorne, how you startled me! It's for you," said his landlady.
He went up the stairs two at a time, with his message in his hand. Here
was some good news--not for one moment did he dream it could be other
than good news--come to crown this day, already the whitest of his life.
He tore the paper open and read it by the red sunset light, hotly
reflected from a wilderness of tiles.
He read it twice--thrice--caught at the window-frame to steady himself,
and stood staring vaguely at the smoke which curled upward from a
neighboring chimney. He was stunned. The words seemed to have a meaning
and no meaning. "This is not how people receive news of death, surely?"
he thought. "I suppose I am in my right senses, or is it a dream?"
He made a strong effort to regain his self-command, but all certainties
eluded him. This was not the first time that he had taken up a telegram
and believed that he read the tidings of Sissy's death. He had
misunderstood it now as then. It could not be. But why could he not
wake?
"Ashendale." Yes, he remembered Ashendale. He had ridden past the ruins
the last day he ever rode with Sissy, the day that Horace came home. It
belonged to the Latimers--to Walter Latimer. And Sissy was dying at
Ashendale!
All at once he knew that it was no dream. But the keen edge of pain
awoke him to the thought of what he had to do, and sent him to hunt
among a heap of papers for a time-table. He drew a long breath. The
express started at 10.5, and it was now but twenty minutes past eight.
He caught up his hat and hurried to the office. Mr. Ferguson, who seldom
left much before that time, was on the doorstep. While he was getting
into his dog-cart Percival hastily explained that he had been summoned
on a matter of life and death. "Sorry to hear it," said the lawyer as he
took the reins--"hope you may find things better than you expect. We
shall see you again when you come back." And with a nod he rattled down
the street. Percival stood on the pavement gazing after him, when he
suddenly remembered that he had no money. "I might have asked him to
give me my half week's salary," he reflected. "Not that that would have
paid my fare."
A matter of life and death! Sissy waiting for him at Ashendale, and no
money to pay for a railway-ticket! It would have been absurd if it had
not been horrible. What had he to sell or pawn? By the time he could go
to Bellevue street and return would not the shops be shut? It was a
quarter to nine already. He did not even know where any pawnbroker
lived, nor what he could take to him, and the time was terribly short.
He was hurrying homeward while these thoughts passed through his mind
when Judith's words came back to him: "I have a pound or two to spare,
and I feel quite rich." He took the first turning toward Miss
Macgregor's house.
Outside her door he halted for a moment. If they would not let him see
Judith, how was he to convey his request? He felt in his pocket, found
the telegram and pencilled below the message, "Sissy Langton was once to
have been my wife: we parted, and I have never seen her since. I have
not money enough for my railway-fare: can you help me?" He folded it
and rang the bell.
No, he could not see Miss Lisle. She was particularly engaged. "Very
well," he said: "be so good as to take this note to her, and I will wait
for the answer." His manner impressed the girl so much that, although
she had been carefully trained by Miss Macgregor, she cast but one
hesitating glance at the umbrella-stand before she went on her errand.
Percival waited, eager to be off, yet well assured that it was all right
since it was in Judith's hands. Presently the servant returned and gave
him a little packet. The wax of the seal was still warm. He opened it
where he stood, and by the light of Miss Macgregor's hall-lamp read the
couple of lines it contained:
"I cannot come, but I send you all the money I have. I pray God you
may be in time. Yours, JUDITH."
There were two sovereigns and some silver. He told the girl to thank
Miss Lisle, and went out into the dusk as the clocks were striking nine.
Ten minutes brought him to Bellevue street, and rushing up to his room
he began to put a few things into a little travelling-bag. In his haste
he neglected to shut the door, and Mrs. Bryant, whose curiosity had been
excited, came upon him in the midst of this occupation.
"And what may be the meaning of this, Mr. Thorne, if I may make so bold
as to ask?" she said, eying him doubtfully from the doorway.
Percival explained that he had had bad news and was off by the express.
Mrs. Bryant's darkest suspicions were aroused. She said it was a likely
story.
"Why, you gave me the telegram yourself," he answered indifferently
while he caught up a couple of collars. He was too much absorbed to heed
either Mrs. Bryant or his packing.
"And who sent it, I should like to know?"
Percival made no answer, and she began to grumble about people who had
money enough to travel all over the country at a minute's notice if they
liked, and none to pay their debts--people who made promises by the
hour together, and then sneaked off, leaving boxes with nothing inside
them, she'd be bound.
Thus baited, Percival at last turned angrily upon her, but before he
could utter a word another voice interposed: "What are you always
worrying about, ma? Do come down and have your supper, and let Mr.
Thorne finish his packing. He'll pay you every halfpenny he owes you:
don't you know that?" And the door was shut with such decision that it
was a miracle that Mrs. Bryant was not dashed against the opposite wall.
"Come along," said Lydia: "there's toasted cheese."
Percival ran down stairs five minutes later with his bag in his hand. He
turned into his sitting-room, picked up a few papers and thrust them
into his desk. He was in the act of locking it when he heard a step
behind him, and looking round he saw Lydia. She had a cup of tea and
some bread and butter, which she set down before him. "You haven't had a
morsel since the middle of the day," she said. "Just you drink this. Oh,
you must: there's lots of time."
"Miss Bryant, this is very kind of you, but I don't think--"
"Just you drink it," said Lydia, "and eat a bit too, or you'll be good
for nothing." And while Percival hastily obeyed she glanced round the
room: "Nobody'll meddle with your things while you're gone: don't you
trouble yourself."
"Oh, I didn't suspect that any one would," he replied, hardly thinking
whether it was likely or not as he swallowed the bread and butter.
"Well, that was very nice of you, I'm sure, _I_ should have suspected a
lot if I'd been you," said Lydia candidly. "But nobody shall. Now, you
aren't going to leave that tea? Why, it wants twenty minutes to ten, and
not six minutes' walk to the station!"
Percival finished the tea: "Thank you very much, Miss Bryant."
"And I say," Lydia pursued, pulling her curl with less than her usual
consideration for its beauty, "I suppose you _have_ got money enough?
Because if not, I'll lend you a little. Don't you mind what ma says, Mr.
Thorne. I know you're all right."
"You are very good," said Percival. "I didn't expect so much kindness,
and I've been borrowing already, so I needn't trouble you. But thank you
for your confidence in me and for your thoughtfulness." He held out his
hand to Lydia, and thus bade farewell to Bellevue street.
She stood for a moment looking after him. Only a few hours before she
would have rejoiced in any small trouble or difficulty which might have
befallen Mr. Thorne. But when he turned round upon her mother and
herself as they stood at his door, her spite had vanished before the
sorrowful anxiety of his eyes. She had frequently declared that Mr.
Thorne was no gentleman, and that she despised him, but she knew in her
heart that he _was_ a gentleman, and she was ashamed of her mother's
behavior. Lydia was capable of being magnanimous, provided the object of
her magnanimity were a man. I doubt if she could have been magnanimous
to a woman. But Percival Thorne was a young and handsome man, and though
she did not know what his errand might be, she knew that she was not
sending him to Miss Lisle. Standing before his glass, she smoothed back
her hair with both hands, arranged the ribbon at her throat and admired
the blue earrings and a large locket which she wore suspended from a
chain. Even while she thought kindly of Mr. Thorne, and wished him well,
she was examining her complexion and her hands with the eye of a critic.
"I don't believe that last stuff is a mite of good," she said to
herself; "and it's no end of bother. I might as well pitch the bottle
out of the window. It was just as well that he'd borrowed the money of
some one else, but I'm glad I offered it. I wonder when he'll come
back?" And with that Lydia returned to her toasted cheese.
Percival had had a nervous fear of some hinderance on his way to the
station. It was so urgent that he should go by this train that the
necessity oppressed him like a nightmare. An earthquake seemed a not
improbable thing. He was seriously afraid that he might lose his way
during the five minutes' walk through familiar streets. He imagined an
error of half an hour or so in all the Brenthill clocks. He hardly knew
what he expected, but he felt it a relief when he came to the station
and found it standing in its right place, quietly awaiting him. He was
the first to take a ticket, and the moment the train drew up by the
platform his hand was on the door of a carriage, though before getting
in he stopped a porter to inquire if this were the express. The porter
answered "Yes, sir--all right," with the half smile of superior
certainty: what else could it be? Thorne took his place and waited a few
minutes, which seemed an eternity. Then the engine screamed, throbbed,
and with quickening speed rushed out into the night.
A man was asleep in one corner of the carriage, otherwise Percival was
alone. His nervous anxiety subsided, since nothing further depended upon
him till he reached town, and he sat thinking of Sissy and of that brief
engagement which had already receded into a shadowy past. "It was a
mistake," he mused, "and she found it out before it was too late. But I
believe her poor little heart has been aching for me, lest she wounded
me too cruelly that night. It wasn't her fault. She would have hid her
fear of me, poor child! if she had been able. And she was so sorry for
me in my trouble! I don't think she could be content to go on her way
and take her happiness now while my life was spoilt and miserable. Poor
little Sissy! she will be glad to know--"
And then he remembered that it was to a dying Sissy that the tidings
of marriage and hope must be uttered, if uttered at all. And he sat
as it were in a dull dream, trying to realize how the life which
in the depths of his poverty had seemed so beautiful and safe was
suddenly cut short, and how Sissy at that moment lay in the darkness,
waiting--waiting--waiting. The noise of the train took up his thought,
and set it to a monotonous repetition of "Waiting at Ashendale! waiting
at Ashendale!" If only she might live till he could reach her! He seemed
to be hurrying onward, yet no nearer. His overwrought brain caught up
the fancy that Death and he were side by side, racing together through
the dark, at breathless, headlong speed, to Sissy, where she waited for
them both.
Outside, the landscape lay dim and small, dwarfed by the presence of the
night. And with the lights burning on its breast, as Sissy saw them in
her half-waking visions, the express rushed southward across the level
blackness of the land, beneath the arch of midnight sky.