“Ah, mister, mister,”—he knew this one word of English and thought it the correct way to address an Englishman—“you can do me a service. I beg of you. I am in sore perplexity.”
“What is the matter?”
“A country-woman of yours. She sets me at defiance and does not understand a word I say. The last train for three hours has gone and the law is that I shut the station. She will not go out.”
“Do you want me to put her out for you?”
“No, no; you can explain to her that the law requires the station to be shut now; and they are very strict because of this last conspiracy they have discovered. No one is allowed to remain, mister. Besides, my wife is waiting for me; and you know her. She is not patient when the dinner is kept waiting. Ah, mister?”
“Where is she?”
I pictured to myself a typical strong-minded British matron, or spinster, stern of feature, sturdy of will, Baedeker in hand, insistent upon her rights, and holding the station grimly against the chattering officious little Pole; and I looked for some fun. But, instead, he led me up to a girl, who contradicted in every particular my anticipation. She was some twenty years of age, well-dressed and as pretty as a painting; straight, regular features, flaxen hair and blue eyes; glorious eyes meant for laughter, but now clouded with trouble and nervous agitation. A picture of pale, shrinking misery that went straight to my heart.
“Here is an English mister who will explain,” said the stationmaster with elaborate gesture.
I raised my hat and as she glanced at me, the colour flushed into her cheeks and her large eyes seemed to dilate with a new fear connected with my presence. In a moment it flashed into my thoughts that she had understood him quite well.
“The stationmaster tells me you are a country-woman of mine,” I said in English; “and has asked me to explain that the station is to be closed now.”