CHAPTER XLVIII.
'INFIRM OF PURPOSE!'
The night, one of the last of autumn, was very cold. She had secured a compartment to herself, fortunately; but there was no kind hand to adjust her rugs, to see that the foot-warmer was hot, to provide her with amusing periodicals, or attend to her little comforts in any way. She did not miss them, but she missed Jack.
All her actions were mechanical, and it was not until she was fairly away in the last train for the South, and had emerged from the Gallon Tunnel, leaving Edinburgh with all its lights and lofty mansions behind, that she quite knew she was—vague and desperate of purpose—on her way to London.
As the hours dragged slowly on—so slowly in strange contrast to the lightning-like speed of the clanking train that bore her away—she thought, would she ever forget that dreadful and hopeless night journey—in itself a nightmare—fleeing from all she loved, or had loved her, with no future to realise? Would she ever forget that dreadful, mocking woman, with her painted cheeks and cunning black eyes—her letter and her visit, every incident and detail of which seemed photographed in her heart and on her brain?
Mentally she conned over and thought—till her head grew weary—of the letter she was to write Roland on the subject, and how this new distress must pain and shock him.
On, on went the train; the stars shone bright in the moonless sky; the smoke of the engine streamed far behind, and strange splashes of weird light were cast on hedges, fields, and trees, on bank cuttings and other features on either side of the way.
Now she had a glimpse of Dunbar, with its square church tower of red sandstone; now it was Colbrands-path, with all its wild woods and ravines; anon it was the German Sea, near Fast Castle, rolling its free waves in white foam against steep and frowning precipices; and a myriad lights gleaming on the broad river far down below announced the bordering Tweed at Berwick, and Scotland was left behind.
She lowered the windows from time to time, for her temples felt hot and feverish. She seemed to have nothing left her now but light and air, and just then the former was absent and the latter choking; and to her tortured soul life had but lately seemed so beautiful.
'How proud I was of his love! oh happy, happy days that can return no more!' were her ever recurrent thoughts.
Yet such love as he had professed for her had been but a disgrace and a sham! With all her affection, earnest and true, when she reflected how far he must have gone, and so daringly, out of his way to deceive her, and to throw dust in the eyes of her and her brother Roland, she felt one moment inclined to hate and scorn him, and the next her heart died within her at such a state of matters; and, with all her shattered trust, love came back again—but love for what—for whom?
Then came other thoughts.
Why had she been so precipitate? What if the whole apparent catastrophe was some dire but explainable mistake? Why had she not consulted Hester, who was so clever, so gentle, and loving, and her old uncle, Sir Harry? But he was old and sorely ailing now.
Infirm of purpose, she began to fear that she had been perhaps too rash, and starting up, as if she would leave the carriage, she began to think—to think already—that to undo all she had done, she would give her right hand.
Her left—it bore no wedding-ring now. She looked at her watch—midnight; long ere this Jack must have known that she had discovered all!
Morning drew on, and in its colder, purer air and atmosphere her thoughts seemed to become clearer, and as the train glided on through the flat and monotonous scenery of England she began to consider the possibility that she might have been deceived—that she had been too swift in avenging her wrongs, or supposed wrongs—and this impression grew with the growing brightness of the reddening dawn, and with that impulsiveness which was characteristic of her, an hour even before the dawn came, she resolved that she would return—she would face the calamity out; she would cast herself upon her friends—not on the world; but how to stop the train, which flew on and on, inexorably on past station after station, every one of which seemed almost dark and deserted.
The steam was let off suddenly; the speed of the train grew slower and slower; it stopped at last in an open and sequestered place, on an embankment overlooking a great stretch of darkened, dimly seen, and flat country, half shrouded, as usual, in haze and mist.
Heads in travelling caps and strange gear were thrust from every window; inquiries were made anxiously and angrily; but no answer was accorded; the officials seemed all to have become very deaf and intensely sullen, while no passenger could alight, as every door was securely locked, to their alarm and indignation.
There was evidently an accident or a breakdown—a block on the line somewhere, no one knew precisely what. Signals were worked and lights flashed to avert destruction from the front or rear, and when the rush of a coming train was heard, 'the boldest held his breath for a time,' till it swept past—an express—on another line of rails.
If she were killed—smashed up horribly like people she had often read of in railways accidents, would Jack be sorry for her? There was a kind of revengeful pleasure in the thought, the conviction that he would be, even while she dropped a few natural tears over her own untimely demise.
The excitement grew apace. The next train might not be on the other line, and the mental agony of the travellers lasted for more than an hour—an hour of terror and misery, and of the wildest impatience to Maude, who in the tumult of her spirits would have welcomed the crash, the destruction, and, so far as she was personally concerned, the death by a collision, to end everything.
At last the steam was got up again, and slowly the train glided into the brilliant station at York just as dawn was reddening the square towers of its glorious minster, and the pale girl sprang out on the platform to find that the train for Edinburgh had passed nearly two hours before, and that she would have to wait—to wait for hours with what patience she could muster.
Great was the evil and distress Hawkey Sharpe, in a spirit of useless revenge, had wrought her.
How slow the returning train was—oh, how slow! It seemed to stop everywhere, and to be no sooner off than it stopped again. Stations hitherto unnoticed had apparently sprung up like mushrooms in the night, and the platforms were crowded with people perpetually getting in or going out.
How long ago it seemed since last night—since that fatal visit, and since she left her pretty home, if home it was.
Even then, in the dire confusion and muddle of her thoughts, they lingered lovingly on the apparently remote memory of the happiest period of her young life—the day when Jack Elliot first said he loved her, and she had the joy of believing him to be entirely her own, to go hand-in-hand with through the long years that were to come—and now—now!
Looking forward to ample explanations from him, perhaps an entire reconciliation with him if these explanations were complete—or she knew not what—how the revolving wheels of the train seemed to lag! Then she would close her tear-inflamed eyes and strive not to think at all.
Already the Lion mountain of Arthur Seat, and the Gallon with its Grecian columns, were rising into sight, and she would soon be at her destination.
To save appearances even before her servants—a somewhat useless consideration then—as even without the usual sharpness of their class they must now be aware of the fact that something unpleasant was on the tapis, and that their mistress had, unexplainedly, been absent from her own home for a whole night and longer; as the train approached the capital, Maude smoothed her sunny-brown hair, adjusted her laces, and bathed her pale face with eau-de-cologne. Oh, how grimy the process made her handkerchief after the dust of her long and double journey!
The afternoon of the day was well advanced when Maude, still paler, weary, unslept, and unrefreshed, faint from want of food and the wear and tear of her own terrible thoughts, arrived once more at the pretty villa Jack's love had temporarily provided for her.
The blinds were all closed as if death were in its walls, and her heart died within her.
She rushed up to her room; it might just be the case that Jack might not have returned, and she might still find the packet she had addressed to him and her incoherent letter of farewell.
Is she in time? Yes—a letter is there—a packet on her toilet-table; she is in time—and makes a snatch of it. It is addressed not to her but to Hester Maule at Merlwood; so Jack had been there and was gone, as were also his portmanteaux, his sword, and helmet-case.
In wild and vague search she moved swiftly from room to room.
'Jack—Jack!' she called in a low voice that sounded strangely resonant in the silent rooms; but there was no answer, nor did any sound evince that he was in her vicinity. A chill crept over her, and she strove in vain to shake it off as her wondering servants gathered round her, and from them she soon learned all.
Their master had returned late last night—had got her letter, and, after a time, had driven away to catch the first early train for London—on his way to Egypt, he simply said. Egypt! His train must have passed her somewhere on the line. Where was she to seek him—where telegraph to him? Who was to advise her now?
He had made up a packet of her letters, her rings, and other little mementos she had left, with a brief and certainly incoherent note to Hester Maule; addressed it with a tremulous hand and carefully sealed it with his familiar signet, bearing the baton or on a bend engrailed of the Elliots of Braidielee; and then, throwing himself into a cab, had driven away with no other trace than his farewell words given to the startled domestics.
Apart from the humiliation of uselessly attempting to explain matters to them, it was somewhat gratifying to Maude to learn that after his return 'the poor master' had been for a time quite quiet, as if stunned; then that he had been like 'a tearing lunatic'; had telegraphed to Merlwood, to Braidielee, and even to Earlshaugh for tidings of her, but in vain; and in the latter instance, fully informing Hawkey Sharpe that the train the latter had laid was ending in an explosion; and then that 'the master' had set off by daybreak.
He was not at his club in Queen Street.
Could he have taken London en route to Southampton, in the wild, vague hope of tracing her?
Eventually she was made aware that he had written to his own agents, and to Mr. M'Wadsett, to endeavour to elucidate the mystery which hung over the actions of Maude, the author of the forged letter, and to look after her during his probably prolonged absence in Egypt.
Thus, in rage and bewilderment, grief and anxiety, had Jack Elliot taken his departure, never doubting that they were both the victims of some nefarious plot, which he had not then time to unravel.
He was indignant, too, that Maude should so cruelly mistake and doubt him. He started for Egypt some twenty-four hours sooner than he need have done, and hence came fresh complications.
'Oh, what new and unexpected worry is this, Maude?' exclaimed Hester Maule, when a few hours later the girl threw herself speechless and in a passion of tears into her arms.
And now, or eventually, three lives they were interested in beyond all others (if Malcolm Skene survived), would be involved in the terrible risks of the war in the Soudan.