the advantage to one who writes, not a tale of imagination, but a simple record of events, is this: he need not be bound by the recognized canons of the story-telling art—need not exercise his ingenuity to mislead his reader—need not suppress some things and lay undue stress on others to create mysteries to be cleared up at the end of the tale. therefore, using the privilege of a plain narrator, i shall here give some account of what became of miss rowan, as, so far as[235] i can remember, i heard it some time afterward from her own lips.
the old scotchwoman’s funeral over, and those friends who had been present departed, madeline was left in the little farm-house alone, save for the presence of the two servants. several kind bodies had offered to come and stay with her, but she had declined the offers. she was in no mood for company, and perhaps being of such a different race and breed, would not have found much comfort in the rough homely sympathy which was offered to her. she preferred being alone with her grief—grief which after all was bound to be much lightened by the thought of her own approaching happiness, for the day was drawing near when her lover would cross the border and bear his bonny bride away. she felt sure that she would not be long alone—that the moment carriston heard of her aunt’s death he would come to her assistance. in such a peaceful, god-fearing neighborhood she had no fear of being left without protection. moreover, her position in the house was well-defined. the old woman, who was childless, had left her niece all of which she died possessed. so madeline decided to wait quietly until she heard from her lover.
still there were business matters to be attended to, and at the funeral mr. douglas, of callendar, the executor under the will, had suggested that an early interview would be desirable. he offered to drive out to the little farm the next day, but miss rowan, who had to see to some feminine necessaries which could only be supplied by shops, decided that she would come to the town instead of troubling mr. douglas to drive so far out.
madeline, in spite of the superstitious element in her character, was a brave girl, and in spite of her refined style of beauty, strong and healthy. early hours were the rule in that humble home, so before seven o’clock in the morning she was ready to start on her drive to the little town. at first she thought of taking with her the boy who did the rough out-door work; but he was busy about something or other, and besides, was a garrulous lad who would be certain to chatter the whole way, and this morning miss rowan wanted no companions save her own mingled thoughts of sadness and joy. she knew every inch of the road; she feared no evil; she would be home again long before nightfall; the pony was quiet and sure-footed—so away went madeline in the strong primitive vehicle on her lonely twelve miles’ drive through the fair scenery.
she passed few people on the road. indeed, she remembered meeting no one except one or two pedestrian tourists, who like sensible men were doing a portion of their day’s task in the early morning. i have no doubt but miss rowan seemed to them a passing vision of loveliness.
but when she was a mile or two from callendar, she saw a boy on a pony. the boy, who must have known her by sight, stopped and handed her a telegram. she had to pay several shillings for the delivery, or intended delivery of the message, so far from the station. the boy galloped away, congratulating himself on having been spared a long ride, and miss rowan tore open the envelope left in her hands.
the message was brief: “mr. carr is seriously ill. come at once. you will be met in london.”
madeline did not scream or faint. she gave one low moan of pain, set her teeth, and with the face of one in a dream drove as quickly as she could to callendar, straight to the railway station.
fortunately, or rather unfortunately, she had money with her, so she did not waste time in going to mr. douglas. in spite of the crushing blow she had received the girl had all her wits about her. a train would start in ten minutes’ time. she took her ticket, then found an idler outside the station, and paid him to take the pony and carriage back to the farm, with the message as repeated to carriston.
the journey passed like a long dream. the girl could think of nothing but her lover, dying, dying—perhaps dead before she could reach him. the miles flew by unnoticed; twilight crept on; the carriage grew dark; at last—london at last! miss rowan stepped out on the broad platform, not knowing what to do or where to turn. presently a tall well-dressed man came up to her, and removing his hat, addressed her by name. the promise as to her being met had been kept.
she clasped her hands. “tell me—oh tell me, he is not dead,” she cried.
“mr. carr is not dead. he is ill, very ill—delirious and calling for you.”
“where is he? oh take me to him!”
“he is miles and miles from here—at a friend’s house. i have been deputed to meet you and to accompany you, if you feel strong enough to continue the journey at once.”
“come,” said madeline. “take me to him.”
“your luggage?” asked the gentleman.
“i have none. come!”
“you must take some refreshment.”
“i need nothing. come!”
the gentleman glanced at his watch. “there is just time,” he said. he called a cab, told the driver to go at top speed. they reached paddington just in time to catch the mail.
during the drive across london madeline asked many questions, and learned from her companion that mr. carr had been staying for a day or two at a friend’s house in the west of england. that yesterday he had fallen from his horse and sustained such injuries that his life was despaired of. he had been continually calling for madeline. they had found her address on a letter, and had telegraphed as soon as possible—for which act miss rowan thanked her companion with tears in her eyes.
her conductor did not say much of his own accord, but in replying to her questions he was politely sympathetic. she thought of little outside the fearful picture which filled every corner of her brain, but from her conductor’s manner received the impression that he was a medical adviser who had seen the sufferer, and assisted in the treatment of the case. she did not ask his name, nor did he reveal it.
at paddington he placed her in a ladies’ carriage and left her.
he was a smoker, he said. she wondered somewhat at this desertion. then the train sped down west. at the large stations the gentleman came to her and offered her refreshments. hunger seemed to have left her; but she accepted a cup of tea once or twice. at last sorrow, fatigue, and weakness produced by such a prolonged fast had their natural effect. with the tears still on her lashes the girl fell asleep, and must have slept for many miles: a sleep unbroken by stoppages at stations.
her conductor at last aroused her. he stood at the door of the carriage. “we must get out here,” he said. all the momentarily-forgotten anguish came back to her as she stood beside him on the almost unoccupied platform.
“are we there at last?” she asked.
“i am sorry to say we have still a long drive; would you like to rest first?”
“no—no. come on, if you please.” she spoke with feverish eagerness.
the man bowed. “a carriage waits,” he said.
outside the station was a carriage of some sort, drawn by one horse, and driven by a man muffled up to the eyes. it was still night, but madeline fancied dawn could not be far off. her conductor opened the door of the carriage and waited for her to enter.
she paused. “ask him—that man must know if—”
“i am most remiss,” said the gentleman. he exchanged a few words with the driver, and coming back, told madeline that mr. carr was still alive, sensible, and expecting her eagerly.
“oh, please, please drive fast,” said the poor girl, springing into the carriage. the gentleman seated himself beside her, and for a long time they drove on in silence. at last they stopped. the dawn was just glimmering. they alighted in front of a house. the door was open. madeline entered swiftly. “which way—which way?” she asked. she was too agitated[240] to notice any surroundings; her one wish was to reach her lover.
“allow me,” said the conductor, passing her. “this way; please follow me.” he went up a short flight of stairs, then paused, and opened a door quietly. he stood aside for the girl to enter. the room was dimly lit, and contained a bed with drawn curtains. madeline flew past her travelling companion, and as she threw herself on her knees beside the bed upon which she expected to see the helpless and shattered form of the man she loved, heard, or fancied she heard, the door locked behind her.
