Helbeck of Bannisdale, vol 2 | Page 5

Mason, she was all alacrity, all eagerness to go.
"Oh! but we're late!" she said, looking at her watch in the street. And
she hastily put her head out of the window and implored the cabman to
hurry.
Mason said nothing.
The station, when they reached it, was in a Saturday night ferment.
Trains were starting and arriving, the platforms were packed with
passengers.
Mason said a word to a porter as they rushed in. The porter answered;
then, while they fled on, the man stopped a moment and looked back as
though about to run after them. But a dozen passengers with luggage
laid hands upon him at once, and he was left with no time for more than
the muttered remark:
"Marsland? Why, there's no train beyond Braeside to-night."
"No. 4 platform," said Hubert to his companion. "Train just going."
Laura threw off her exhaustion and ran.
The guard was just putting his whistle to his lips. Hubert lifted her into
her carriage.
"Good-bye," she said, waving to him, and disappeared at once into a
crowd of fellow-passengers.
"Right for Marsland?" cried Hubert to the guard.
The guard, who had already whistled, waved his flag as he replied:
"Marsland? No train beyond the junction to-night."
Hubert paused for a moment, then, as the train was moving briskly out,
sprang upon the foot-board. A porter rushed up, the door was opened,
and he was shoved in amid remonstrances from front and rear.
The heavily laden train stopped at every station--was already nearly an

hour late. Holiday crowds got in and out; the platforms were gay with
talk and laughter.
Mason saw nothing and heard nothing. He sat leaning forward, his hat
slouched over his eyes. The man opposite thought he had fallen asleep.
Whose fault was it? Not his! He might have made sure? Why, wasn't
Seaton's word good enough? She thought so.
Why hadn't he made sure?--in that interval before he came back for her.
She might have stayed at Froswick for the night. Plenty of decent
people would have put her up. He remembered how he had delayed to
call the cab till the last moment.
... Good God! how could a man know what he had thought! He was fair
moidered--bedazzled--by that awful thing--and all the change of plans.
And there was Seaton's word for it. Seaton was a practical man, and
always on the railway.
What would she say--when the train stopped? In anticipation he already
heard the cry of the porters--"Braeside--all change!" The perspiration
started on his brow. Why, there was sure to be a decent inn at Braeside,
and he would do everything for her. She would be glad--of course she
would be glad to see him--as soon as she discovered her dilemma. After
all he was her cousin--her blood relation.
And Mr. Helbeck? The lad's hand clenched. A clock-face came slowly
into view at a wayside station. 8.45. He was now waiting for her at
Marsland. For the Squire himself would bring the trap; there was no
coachman at Bannisdale. A glow of fierce joy passed through the lad's
mind, as he thought of the Squire waiting, the train's arrival, the empty
platform, the returning carriage. What would the Squire think? Damn
him!--let him think what he liked.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, in another carriage, Laura leant back with shut eyes,
pursued by one waking dream after another. Shadow and flame--the
whirling sparks--the cry!--that awful wrenching of the heart in her
breast--the parting crowd, and the white-faced child, phantom-like, in
its midst. She sat up, shaken anew by the horror of it, trying to put it
from her.
The carriage was now empty. All the other travellers had dismounted,
and she seemed to be rushing through the summer night alone. For the
long daylight was nearly done. The purple of the June evening was

passing into the more mysterious purple of the starlight; a clear and
jewelled sky hung softly over valleys with "seaward parted lips," over
woods with the wild rose bushes shining dimly at their edge; over
knolls of rocky ground, crowned with white spreading farms; over
those distant forms to the far north where the mountains melted into the
night.
Her heart was still wrung for the orphaned child--prized yesterday, no
doubt--they said he was a good father!--desolate to-day--like herself.
"Daddy!--where's Daddy?" She laid her brow against the window-sill
and let the tears come again, as she thought of that trembling cry. For it
was her own--the voice of her own hunger--orphan to orphan.
And yet, after this awful day--this never to be forgotten shock and
horror--she was not unhappy. Rather, a kind of secret joy possessed her
as the train sped onward. Her nature seemed to be sinking wearily into
soft gulfs of reconciliation and repose. Froswick, with