The Survivor | Page 7

an empty carriage--a third-class one, too. It was very
stupid."
"You appeared to be" she remarked, "in a hurry."
The faint note of humour in her tone passed undetected by him.
"I wanted to get away," he said. "I had walked fourteen miles, and there
was no other train. I am very sorry to intrude upon you. The train was
moving when I reached the platform, and I jumped."
She shrugged her shoulders slightly and raised her book once more. But
from over its top she found herself watching very soon this strange
travelling companion of hers. The trousers above his clumsy boots
were frayed and muddy, his black clothes were shiny and antiquated in
cut--these, and his oddly-arranged white tie, somehow suggested the
cleric. But when she reached his face her eyes lingered there. It puzzled
and in a sense attracted her. His features were cleanly cut and
prominent, his complexion was naturally pale, but wind and sun had
combined to stain his cheeks with a slight healthy tan. His eyes were
deep-set, keen and bright, the eyes of a visionary perhaps, but afire now
with the instant excitement of living. A strange face for a man of his
apparently humble origin. Whence had he come, and where was he
going? The vision of his face as he had leaped into the carriage floated
again before her eyes. Surely behind him were evil things, before
him--what? She took up her novel again, but laid it down almost

immediately. "You are going" she asked, "to London?"
"To London," he repeated dreamily. "Yes."
"But your luggage--was that left behind?"
He smiled.
"I have no luggage," he said. "You are going up for the day only?" she
hazarded.
He shook his head. There was a note of triumph almost in his tone.
"I am going for good," he said. "If wishes count for anything I shall
never set foot within this county again."
There was a story, she felt sure, connected with this strange
fellow-passenger of hers. She watched him thoughtfully. A human
document such as this was worth many novels. It was not the first time
that he had excited her interest.
"London" she said, "is a wonderful place for young men."
He turned a rapt face towards her. The fire seemed leaping out of his
eyes.
"Others have found it so," he said. "I go to prove their words."
"You are a stranger there, then?"
"I have never been further south than this in my life," he replied. "I
know only the London of De Quincey and Lamb-London with the halo
of romance around it."
She sighed gently.
"You will find it all so different," she said. "You will be bitterly
disappointed."

He set his lips firmly together.
"I have no fear," he said. "I shall find it possible to live there, at any
rate. If I stayed where I was, I must have gone mad."
"You are going to friends?" she asked.
He laughed softly.
"I have not a friend in the world," he said. "In London I do not know a
soul. What matter? There is life to be lived there, prizes to be won.
There is room for every one."
She half closed her eyes, watching him keenly all the time with an
interest which was certainly not diminished.
"London is a wonderful city," she said, "but she is not always kind to
the stranger. You have spoken of De Quincey who wove fairy fancies
about her, and Lamb, who was an affectionate stay-at-home, a born
dweller in cities. They were dreamers both, these men. What about
Chatterton?"
"An unhappy exception," he said. "If only he had lived a few months
longer his sorrows would have been over."
"To-day," she said, "there are many Chattertons who must die before
the world will listen to them. Are you going to take your place amongst
them?"
He smiled confidently.
"Not I," he answered. "I shall work with my hands if men will have
none of my brains. Indeed," he continued, turning towards her with a
swift, transfiguring smile, "I am not a village prodigy going to London
with a pocketful of manuscripts. Don't think that of me. I am going to
London because I have been stifled and choked--I want room to breathe,
to see men and women who live. Oh, you don't know the sort of place I
have come from--the brain poison of it, the hideous sameness and

narrowness of it all."
"Tell me a little," she said, "and why at last you made up your mind to
leave. It is not so long, you know, since I saw you in somewhat
different guise."
A quick shiver seemed to pass through him; underneath his tanned skin
he was paler, and the blood in his veins was cold. His eyes, fixed