Stories by English Authors: England

Stories by English Authors:
England, by Various

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Title: Stories by English Authors: England
Author: Various
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STORIES BY ENGLISH AUTHORS
ENGLAND
THE BOX TUNNEL BY CHARLES READE MINIONS OF THE
MOON BY F. W. ROBINSON THE FOUR-FIFTEEN EXPRESS BY
AMELIA B. EDWARDS THE WRONG BLACK BAG BY ANGELO
LEWIS THE THREE STRANGERS BY THOMAS HARDY MR.
LISMORE AND THE WIDOW BY WILKIE COLLINS THE
PHILOSOPHER IN THE APPLE ORCHARD BY ANTHONY HOPE

THE BOX TUNNEL
BY CHARLES READE

The 10:15 train glided from Paddington May 7, 1847. In the left
compartment of a certain first-class carriage were four passengers; of
these two were worth description. The lady had a smooth, white,

delicate brow, strongly marked eyebrows, long lashes, eyes that seemed
to change colour, and a good-sized, delicious mouth, with teeth as
white as milk. A man could not see her nose for her eyes and mouth;
her own sex could, and would have told us some nonsense about it. She
wore an unpretending grayish dress, buttoned to the throat with
lozenge-shaped buttons, and a Scottish shawl that agreeably evaded
colour. She was like a duck, so tight her plain feathers fitted her, and
there she sat, smooth, snug, and delicious, with a book in her hand and
a soupcon of her wrist just visible as she held it. Her opposite
neighbour was what I call a good style of man, the more to his credit
since he belonged to a corporation that frequently turns out the worst
imaginable style of young men. He was a cavalry officer, aged
twenty-five. He had a moustache, but not a very repulsive one--not one
of those subnasal pigtails on which soup is suspended like dew on a
shrub; it was short, thick, and black as a coal. His teeth had not yet
been turned by tobacco smoke to the colour of juice; his clothes did not
stick to nor hang to him; he had an engaging smile, and, what I liked
the dog for, his vanity, which was inordinate, was in its proper place,
his heart, not in his face, jostling mine and other people's who have
none; in a word, he was what one oftener hears of than meets--a young
gentleman. He was conversing in an animated whisper with a
companion, a fellow-officer; they were talking about what it is far
better not to--women. Our friend clearly did not wish to be overheard;
for he cast ever and anon a furtive glance at his fair vis-a-vis and
lowered his voice. She seemed completely absorbed in her book, and
that reassured him. At last the two soldiers came down to a whisper
(the truth must be told); the one who got down at Slough, and was lost
to posterity, bet ten pounds to three that he who was going down with
us to Bath and immortality would not kiss either of the ladies opposite
upon the road. "Done, done!" Now I am sorry a man I have hitherto
praised should have lent himself, even in a whisper, to such a
speculation; "but nobody is wise at all hours," not even when the clock
is striking five and twenty, and you are to consider his profession, his
good looks, and the temptation--ten to three.
After Slough the party was reduced to three. At Twylford one lady
dropped her handkerchief; Captain Dolignan fell on it like a lamb; two

or three words were interchanged on this occasion. At Reading the