She left
a note for Theo, but she was sincerely glad that time was too short for
her to make any attempt to see either him or Joyselle. They had faded
into the background of her mind, and in the foreground stood, piteous
and appealing, poor little Tommy.
It was a gruesome journey, never to be forgotten, and made more bearable
by several little acts of kindness on the part of her fellow-travellers,
as such journeys are apt to be.
Brigit never again saw the fat Jewish commercial traveller who rushed
from the train at some station, and nearly missed the train in his
efforts, successful at last, to get her some tea; but she never forgot
him. Neither did she ever forget a woman in shabby mourning who
insisted on giving her a packet of somebody's incomparable milk
chocolate.
And for hours and hours and hours the trains (for she had to change
twice) rushed on through the slow-dying autumn evening and night, and
part of the next day. Then at last London--a rush in a hansom to
Victoria from Charing Cross, and the familiar little journey homewards.
It was about three o'clock when she reached Kingsmead, and raining hard.
"'Is lordship is--still alive, my lady," Jarvis told her, choking a
little, "but--pretty bad, my lady.
Pages:
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308