I SHALL never forget our arrival at Beckdale Station yesterday.
Everybody was in the highest spirits,—that is to say, the highest of which each was capable,—charmed with the glimpses of mountain scenery which we had during the last hour or so of our journey. Clouds hung rather low, shutting off the summits; but I don't know that this did not make the views only more Impressive. For imagination was free to add unknown altitudes, and a touch of mystery always gives sublimity,—not alone in landscapes.
Fine rain had begun to fall when we reached Beckdale Station, and the wind was gusty enough to send Nona's hat bowling along the platform. Of course a chase took place, with much laughter. The luggage was bundled out from the van; and we found a waggonette and dog-cart in waiting, besides two carts for the luggage.
Privately I wondered how we were all to pack into these two vehicles, for a drive of five or six miles; but I would not suggest difficulties, and after all the waggonette was a very roomy one. Mr. Romilly seemed greatly disturbed at the thought of a dog-cart for any of his party: two-wheelers being his pet aversion: and he also showed alarm about the steep descent before us. For the line of rail by which we had come, since our latest change, had gradually ascended to quite a respectable height on the mountain-sides, and a particularly rugged road led downward from the station into the valley,—Beckdale Station being at the head or upper end of the long valley or dale wherein our "summer residence" is situated.
Poor Mr. Romilly! He fidgeted up and down the platform, counting his packages, bemoaning the deploring his choice of this route, dolefully wondering how we should ever reach Beckdale House. I am afraid I must confess to a sense of amusement. Naturally I have not much sympathy with the state of mind which insists on manufacturing troubles out of nothing. Yet I hardly know whether any weakness is more deserving of pity than this,—just because it is so distinctly a character-weakness as to be seldom recognised as such by its possessor, and therefore seldom really cured.
For two or three minutes I listened; and then I forgot all about Mr. Romilly, standing outside the station-shelter. The rain drove against me in fine sheets, like spray; but what did that matter? I was revelling in my first view of mountains. Bath hills I know well, but aught like this I have never seen before.
Beyond the valley, on either side, there rose wild grey heights, capped by stormy grey clouds which seemed to drop long trains or fringes into every gorge and cleft. I think it was the wildness, the greyness, the lonely and solemn unworldliness of the scene, which told upon me most. The stately march of those cloud-battalions over the mountain-tops was grandly indescribable. I seemed to be gaining a glimpse of something high and pure, far removed from the littlenesses of everyday life. This small station and our tiny selves were a mere accessory—almost a mistake.
Then all at once everyday life came back to me. For somebody stepped up, and put a telegram-envelope into my hand.
I thought of Albinia instantly—Albinia as ill, or perhaps suddenly widowed. She would want me in London. Could I go, or was I tied to my duties at Beckdale? These questions flashed past while I opened the envelope. Elfie was close to my side,—I had not seen her before,—and her dusky eyes grew large with ready sympathy, as she murmured, "Poor Miss Con! I hope it isn't anything the matter with anybody."
Anybody belonging to me, she meant. But at once I saw.