3
On his return journey he had to wait at Liskeard to pick up the main line train for London, which would take him to Bodmin Road.
It was a glorious May evening. The day had been hot, but now there was a cool breeze from the sea, and the long shadow from the high bank of the cutting enwrapped the whole station in a pleasant twilight.
Gurney, deliberately pacing the length of the platform, was conscious of physical vigour and a great enjoyment of life. He had an imaginative temperament, and in his moments of exaltation he found the world both interesting and beautiful, an entirely desirable setting for the essential Gurney.
So he strolled up and down the platform, regarded any female figure with interest, and was in no way concerned that the train was already an hour late. He had expected it to be late. His own train from Looe, for no particular reason, had been half an hour late. If he missed his connexion at Wadebridge he would only have some seven or eight miles to walk.
Fifteen or twenty other people were waiting on the down platform, and presently Gurney became conscious that his fellow-passengers were no longer detached into parties of two and three, but were collected in groups, discussing, apparently, some matter of peculiar interest.
Gurney had been lost in his dreams and had hardly noticed the passage of time. He looked at his watch and found that the train was now two hours overdue. The sun had set, but there was still light in the sky. A man detached himself from one of the groups and Gurney approached him.
“Two hours late,” he remarked by way of introducing himself, and looked at his watch again.
The man nodded emphatically. “Funny thing is,” he said, “that they’ve had no information at the office. The stationmaster generally gets advice when the train leaves Plymouth.”
“Good lord,” said Gurney. “Do you mean to say that the train hasn’t got to Plymouth yet?”
“Looks like it,” said the stranger. “They say it’s the plague. It’s dreadfully bad in London, they tell me.”
“D’you mean it’s possible the train won’t come in at all?” asked Gurney.
“Oh! I should hardly think that,” replied the other. “Oh, no, I should hardly think that, but goodness knows when it will come. Very awkward for me. I want to get to St Ives. It’s a long way from here. Have you far to go?”
“Well, Padstow,” said Gurney.
“Padstow!” echoed the stranger. “That’s a good step.”
“Further than I want to walk.”
“I should say. Thirty miles or so, anyway?”
“About that,” agreed Gurney. “I wonder where one could get any information.
“It’s very awkward,” was all the help the stranger had to offer.
Gurney crossed the line and invaded the stationmaster’s office. “Sorry to trouble you,” he said, “but do you think this train’s been taken off, for any reason?”
“Oh, it ’asn’t been taken off,” said the stationmaster with a wounded air. “It may be a bit late.”
Gurney smiled. “It’s something over two hours behind now, isn’t it?” he said.
“Well, I can’t ’elp it, can I?” asked the stationmaster. “You’ll ’ave to ’ave patience.”
“You’ve had no advice yet from Plymouth?” persisted Gurney, facing the other’s ill-temper.
“No, I ’aven’t; something’s gone wrong with the wire. We can’t get no answer,” returned the stationmaster. “Now, if you please, I ’ave my work to do.”
Gurney returned to the down platform and joined a group of men, among whom he recognized the man he had spoken to a few minutes before.
The afterglow was dying out of the sky, in the south-west a faint young moon was setting behind the high bank of the cutting. A porter had lighted the station lamps, but they were not turned full on.
“The stationmaster tells me that something has gone wrong with the telegraphic communication,” said Gurney, addressing the little knot of passengers collectively. “He can’t get any answer it seems.”
“Been an accident likely,” suggested some one.
“Or the engine-driver’s got the plague,” said another.
“They’d have put another man on.”
“If we ain’t careful we shall be gettin’ the plague down ’ere.”
After all why not? The horrible suggestion sprang up in Gurney’s mind with new force. That remote city seemed suddenly near. He saw in imagination the train leaving Paddington, and only a journey of six or seven hours divided that departure from its arrival at Liskeard. It might come in at any moment, bearing the awful infection. Why should he wait? There was an inn near the station. He might find a conveyance there.
“Constantine Bay?” questioned the landlord.
“It’s near St Merryn,” said Gurney, but still the landlord shook his head.
“Not far from Padstow,” explained Gurney.
“Pard-stow!” exclaimed the landlord on a rising note. “Drive over to Pard-stow at this time o’ night?” He appeared to think that Gurney was joking.
“Well, Bodmin, then,” suggested Gurney.
“Aw, why not take the train?” asked the landlord.
Gurney shrugged his shoulders. “The train doesn’t seem to be coming,” he said.
“Bad job, that,” answered the landlord. “Been an accident, sure ’nough; this new plague or something.” He was evidently prepared to accept the matter philosophically.
“You can’t drive me then?” asked Gurney.
The landlord shook his head with a grin. He was inclined to look upon this foreigner as rather more foolish than the majority of his kind.
Gurney came out of the little inn, and looked down into the station. The number of waiting passengers seemed to be decreasing, but the light was so dim that he could not see into the shadows.
“I must keep hold of myself,” he was saying. “I mustn’t run.”
A man was coming up the steep incline towards him, and Gurney moved slowly to meet him. He found that it was the stranger he had spoken to on the platform.
“Any news?” asked Gurney.
“Yes, they’ve got a message through from Saltash,” replied the stranger. “It’s the plague right enough. They say they don’t know when there’ll be another train....”