Afterwards, and Other Stories. Ian Maclaren

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СКАЧАТЬ us all; but Mrs. Trevor will excuse descriptions of scenery; she knows you are enjoying yourself.”

      Had she been expecting that letter from post to post, calculating the hour of each delivery, identifying the postman's feet in that quiet street, holding her breath when he rang, stretching her hand for a letter, to let it drop unopened, and bury her face in the pillow? Had she died waiting for a letter that never came? Those letters that he wrote from the Northern Circuit in that first sweet year, a letter a day, and one day two—it had given him a day's advantage over her. Careful letters, too, though written between cases, with bits of description and amusing scenes.

      Some little sameness towards the end, but she never complained of that, and even said those words were the best And that trick he played—the thought of the postman must have brought it up—how pleasant it was, and what a success! He would be his own letter one day, and take her by surprise. “A letter, ma'am,” the girl said—quite a homely girl, who shared their little joys and anxieties—and then he showed his face with apologies for intrusion. The flush of love in her face, will it be like that to-night, or … What can be keeping the train now? Is this a conspiracy to torment a miserable man?

      He thrusts his head out of the window in despair, and sees the guard trying to find a compartment for a family that had mistaken their train.

      The husband is explaining, with English garrulity, all the station hearing, what an inconvenience it would have been had they gone in the Holbom Viaduct carriages.

      “Half an hour's longer drive, you know, and it's very important we should get home in time; we are expected. …”

      For what? Dinner, most likely. What did it matter when they got home, to-day or next year? Yet he used to be angry if he were made late for dinner. They come into his compartment, and explain the situation at great length, while he pretends to listen.

      A husband and wife returning from a month in Italy, full of their experiences: the Corniche Road, the palaces of Genoa, the pictures in the Pitti, St. Peter's at Rome. Her first visit to the Continent, evidently; it reminded them of a certain tour round the Lakes in '80, and she withdrew her hand from her husband's as the train came out from the tunnel. They were not smart people—very pronounced middle-class—but they were lovers, after fifteen years.

      They forgot him, who was staring on the bleak landscape with white, pinched face.

      “How kind to take me this trip. I know how much you denied yourself, but it has made me young again,” and she said “Edward.” Were all these coincidences arranged? had his purgatorio begun already?

      “Have you seen the Globe, sir? Bosworth, M.P. for Pedlington, has been made a judge, and there's to be a keen contest.

      “Trevor, I see, is named as the Tory candidate—a clever fellow, I've heard. Do you know about him? he's got on quicker than any man of his years.

      “Some say that it's his manner; he's such a good sort, the juries cannot resist him, a man told me—a kind heart goes for something even in a lawyer. Would you like to look. …

      “Very sorry; would you take a drop of brandy? No? The passage was a little rough, and you don't look quite up to the mark.”

      Then they left him in peace, and he drank his cup to the dregs.

      It was for Pedlington he had been working and saving, for a seat meant society and the bench, perhaps. … What did it matter now?

      She was to come and sit within the cage when he made his first speech, and hear all the remarks.

      “Of course it will be a success, for you do everything well, and your wifie will be the proudest woman in London.

      “Sir Edward Trevor, M.P. I know it's foolish, but it's the foolishness of love, dear, so don't look cross; you are everything to me, and no one loves you as I do.”

      What are they slowing for now? There's no station. Did ever train drag like this one?

      Off again, thank God … if she only were conscious, and he could ask her to forgive his selfishness.

      At last, and the train glides into Victoria. No, he had nothing to declare; would they let him go, or they might keep his luggage altogether.

      Some vision was ever coming up, and now he saw her kneeling on the floor and packing that portmanteau, the droop of her figure, her thin white hands.

      He was so busy that she did these offices for him—tried to buckle the straps even; but he insisted on doing that It gave him half an hour longer at the Club. What a brute he had been. …

      “Do anything you like with my things. 'I'll come to-morrow … as fast as you can drive.”

      Huddled in a corner of the hansom so that you might have thought he slept, this man was calculating every foot of the way, gloating over a long stretch of open, glistening asphalt, hating unto murder the immovable drivers whose huge vans blocked his passage. If they had known, there was no living man but would have made room for him … but he had not known himself. … Only one word to tell her he knew now.

      As the hansom turned into the street he bent forward, straining his eyes to catch the first glimpse of home. Had it been day-time the blinds would have told their tale; now it was the light he watched.

      Dark on the upper floors; no sick light burning … have mercy … then the blood came back to his heart with a rush. How could he have forgotten?

      Their room was at the back for quietness, and it might still be well. Some one had been watching, for the door was instantly opened, but he could not see the servant's face.

      A doctor came forward and beckoned him to go into the study. …

      It seemed as if his whole nature had been smitten with insensibility, for he knew everything without words, and yet he heard the driver demanding his fare, and noticed that the doctor had been reading the evening paper while he waited; he saw the paragraph about that seat What work those doctors have to do. …

      “It was an hour ago … we were amazed that she lived so long; with any other woman it would have been this morning; but she was determined to live till you came home.

      “It was not exactly will-power, for she was the gentlest patient I ever had; it was”—the doctor hesitated—a peremptory Scotchman hiding a heart of fire beneath a coating of ice—“it was simply love.”

      When the doctor had folded up the evening paper, and laid it on a side table, which took some time, he sat down opposite that fixed, haggard face, which had not yet been softened by a tear.

      “Yes, I'll tell you everything if you desire me; perhaps it will relieve your mind; and Mrs. Trevor said you would wish to know, and I must be here to receive you. Her patience and thoughtfulness were marvellous.

      “I attend many very clever and charming women, but I tell you, Mr. Trevor, not one has so impressed me as your wife. Her self-forgetfulness passed words; she thought of every one except herself; why, one of the last things she did was to give directions about your room; she was afraid you might feel the change from the Riviera. But that is by the way, and these things are not my business.

      “From the beginning I was alarmed, and urged that you should be sent for; but she pledged me not to write; you needed your СКАЧАТЬ