“Hardly at all,” said Beatrice. “D’you care to see her letter?”
Mrs. Lithgow took it eagerly. She had a passion for reading letters, anybody’s letters, even if she knew nothing of the writers, but in this Lady Dobie she took a profound interest.
“Yes,” she said, handing it back a minute later, “quite a nice letter. I’m sure I hope you will be happy with them. And now,” briskly, “what about getting things ready? You would need to have everything as nice as possible.”
“Why, Mother,” Peggy protested, “are you implying that Beatrice hasn’t?
“No, no, I’m sure she has everything perfect. But London, you know. And Portland Place. Not to speak of Lady Dobie. You’ve seen her photo in the papers, haven’t you, Mrs. Murray?”
“I may have,” said Mrs. Murray guardedly, “but you see so many queer sights in the papers.”
“And you’ll need to be a lot smarter in London than in Glasgow,” Mrs. Lithgow continued. “Will you order some things at once, or would you rather wait till you get to London, Be’trice?”
“What do you think?” said Beatrice, while Peggy broke in, “What a mercy that it’s Beatrice and not me! Bee is all right, she’s been a lot abroad and picked up an English accent. They’ll never suspect, Bee, that you hail from Clyde-side. But I’d give away the show at the start.”
“What show?” said her mother. “Are you pretending to be ashamed of Glasgow, Peggy?”
“Only pretending,” said Beatrice.
“I should hope so,” said Mrs. Lithgow.
CHAPTER IV
“I will even take my leave Of you, and pace softly towards my kinsmen.”
The Winter’s Tale.
Beatrice was not allowed to leave Glasgow like a knotless thread. Not only did Mrs. Lithgow and Peggy accompany her to the Central Station, but Mr. Lithgow delayed going to his office for an hour, and bought every variety of magazine as well as several daily papers to help to while away the journey for her. Fairlie was waiting on the platform with a carefully prepared luncheon-box, in case, as she said, Miss Beatrice didn’t fancy a big hot meal on the train; and Mrs. Murray, panting a good deal with her early start and the effort of walking the length of the platform, and holding tightly a bunch of violets and a large box of Manson’s chocolates, arrived just before the train started.
“How can I thank you all?” Beatrice said, quite overcome by the kindness shown her.
“Uch, thanks!” said Mrs. Lithgow, “we’ve done nothing. Let us hear from you, my dear; you know how I love letters, and I’ll be interested in everything you tell me. And remember, when you come back to Glasgow there’s always a welcome with us.”
“And with us,” panted Mrs. Murray, “don’t forget that.”
“But I’ve first claim,” said Mrs. Lithgow, “for I was at school with your mother.” Fairlie poured a long, half-whispered story into her nursling’s ear, cried a little, wiped her eyes and said, “But there, we must just hope that everything’ll turn out for the best.”
Mr. Lithgow stood with his watch in his hand. “Off in half a minute,” he announced. “Good-bye, Be’trice. Don’t marry an Englishman if you can help it. What? Oh, not at all, not at all. The kindness was yours in putting up with us; that’s the way to look at it, eh?”
“Good-bye, Bee,” Peggy cried. “See and stand up for yourself.”
“Good-bye! Good-bye!” Beatrice leant out for a last wave and stood for a few minutes in the corridor before going back to her compartment. There was only one other occupant, a woman who was established in a corner, with a neat pile of papers on her knee, and a business-like leather case at her side. She glanced up for a moment as the girl entered, gave a quick half smile, and went back to her papers.
Beatrice’s own side of the carriage presented a distinctly festive appearance, piled as it was with fruits, flowers and chocolate boxes, not to speak of novels and magazines. Where, she wondered, would she find such kindness as in Glasgow? Never would she forget what the Lithgows had done for her. She had thought she would be better left in the Park Place house for a little, among the familiar things and with the servants who had lived with and worked for her mother, but now she saw that Mrs. Lithgow had been wise to insist on her leaving at once. It had done her good, living with the Lithgows; the homely, happy atmosphere, Peggy’s noisy fun, Mrs. Lithgow’s motherly understanding, and Mr. Lithgow’s pressing offers of food and drink, they had all warmed and heartened her, chilled and saddened as she was. She had had to make a great effort, so that it wouldn’t be too difficult for them to entertain her, and she had ended by enjoying herself—almost. There was always now—would always be, she supposed—a queer lonely feeling behind everything, a feeling that accompanied her by day, and at night when she shut her bedroom door became so overpowering that she often had to throw herself into a chair and cry and cry. But when she broke down she took herself severely to task, reminding herself that she was now alone no longer a child but a woman grown, and she must see to it that she got over her silly fear of the largeness of the world, her dislike of strangers, her inclination to shut herself up and hide.
Having put everything tidily on the rack Beatrice opened the morning papers. She was not acutely interested in any of the news, and kept glancing in her companion’s direction. She was interested, obviously, absorbing every word. Forty-five, Beatrice judged her to be, trim, pleasant to look at, with a clever mouth. There was something about the quiet face that was rather fascinating.
Once she glanced up and, finding the girl’s eyes fixed on her, dropped hers quickly.
“She’s afraid,” said Beatrice to herself, “that if she makes a remark it’ll make an opening for conversation, but she needn’t be,” and she sat conscientiously reading every word of the leaders, hoping she looked as intelligent over it as her companion in the other corner.
She had taken off her tight little black hat, the better to cope with the affairs of the world as reported in the press, and the woman opposite, having finished her paper, looked at her, thinking what a pleasure it was to see a pretty girl whose face was left alone. She congratulated herself on having something refreshing to look at through the day’s journey. Was she in black for effect, she found herself wondering, or because she had lost some one? The latter, probably; there was a pathetic droop at the corner of the mouth, and shadows round the eyes. Perhaps she was going to London to take up some job. But a second glance at the girl’s clothes, her fur coat, her dressing-case, decided her against that theory. Well, it was no business of hers. Later on she might make some advances. Meantime, she had work to do and she took a bundle of MSS. from her case and forgot everything except the matter in hand.
After lunch Beatrice stood in the corridor for half an hour, watching the landscape fly past, and when she returned to her compartment found her companion busily knitting.
As the girl settled herself in her corner the older woman said:
“Do you find the journey long?”
“Oh, no. I like it. I wish it were longer.”
“That doesn’t sound as if you were in any hurry to reach your destination.”
“No,” said Beatrice.
“Personally,” her companion went on, “there’s nothing I enjoy more than a day in the train; it’s such a rest.”
This was a new light on travelling. Beatrice had been in the habit of hearing people make rather a fuss about it. Kind Mrs. Lithgow had urged her that morning to eat more breakfast, “because, you know, you’ve a journey