Pretty severe, this; but I do not think the words touched Albinia. She said only, "I have brought you a little packet of sandwiches."
"Thank you," I answered. "Craven's plan of luncheon at Hurst is not quite feasible. I shall have just three minutes there."
"You need not say anything about the sandwiches downstairs," observed Albinia. Craven, with all his wealth, is no "lover of hospitality."
Another hour, or less, and I found myself alone in a second-class carriage, passing swiftly out of London, with nearly two unoccupied hours lying ahead.
The train was not an express, and several stoppages took place. Yet no one came into my compartment; and the solitude was not unwelcome. Between the closed chapter of my past life and the opening chapter of my future, this little pause seemed well. I had a book with me, but I could not read. There is something in the steady rush of a train which always inclines me to steady thought; and I had so much to think about.
It is odd to look back to one's previous imaginings of people or things, and to compare those imaginings with the realities.
I can recall clearly now some of the pictures which floated through my mind as I sat in the train. Probably they would soon fade, if I did not jot them down while fresh.
There was Margaret, the second daughter, "my sweet Maggie," as Mrs. Romilly calls her. I felt that I already knew well this dear girl, just nineteen in age, and of a nature so humble and winning that none could fail to love her. Mrs. Romilly doubtless leans more upon the capable Nellie; but it is around Maggie, her "tender, clinging Maggie," that I have seen her heartstrings to be most closely twined. Poor gentle Maggie! How I pitied the young girl yesterday, picturing her left thus suddenly at the head of a large household. She would indeed need all the help and advice that I might be able to give. I longed for Maggie's sake to have had more experience. She was not naturally a gifted manager like Nellie,—so I had heard,—but had always depended on her mother and elder sister.
Then there was Thyrza, some fourteen months younger than Maggie—"that dear difficult Thyrza," she is termed by her mother. I meant to win Thyrza in time, to gain her confidence by slow degrees. But in the reserved and brusque Thyrza, I could not look for so pleasant a return as in the sweet and lovable Maggie. Unconsciously, perhaps, I was a little prejudiced against Thyrza. Mrs. Romilly had so often spoken of her with a sigh.
The twins, Nona and Elfleda came up next, aged sixteen and a half. "My bright Nona," and "my lovely gipsy Elf!" Mrs. Romilly has called them. I could see in imagination the fair face of the one—"all sunshine, with such clouds of auburn hair and such a complexion!"—and the brilliant merry eyes of the little dark beauty. "Not very fond of study, either of them, but able to do anything they liked,—so quick and clever." Yes; Nona and Elfie could not fail to be favourites.