“And what has become of Whalley's widow,—if she be a widow?” asked one.
“She's in a poor way. She's up at the village yonder, and, with the help of one of her girls, she's trying to keep a children's school.”
“Lady Whalley's school?'” exclaimed one, in half sarcasm.
“Yes; but she has taken her maiden name again since this disaster, and calls herself Mrs. Herbert.”
“Has she more than one daughter, sir?” I asked of the last speaker.
“Yes, there are two girls; the younger one, they tell me, is going, or gone abroad, to take some situation or other,—a teacher, or a governess.”
“No, sir,” said the pluffy man, “Miss Kate has gone as companion to an old widow lady at Brussels,—Mrs. Keats. I saw the letter that arranged the terms,—a trifle less per annum than her mother gave to her maid.”
“Poor girl!” sighed the sad man. “It 's a dreary way to begin life!”
I nodded assentingly to him, and with a smile of gratitude for his sympathy. Indeed, the sentiment had linked me to him, and made me wish to be beside him. The conversation now grew discursive, on the score of all the difficulties that beset women when reduced to make efforts for their own support; and though the speakers were men well able to understand and pronounce upon the knotty problem, the subject did not possess interest enough to turn my mind from the details I had just been hearing. The name of Miss Herbert on the trunks showed me now who was the young lady I had met, and I reproached myself bitterly with having separated from her, and thus forfeited the occasion of befriending her on her journey. We were to sup somewhere about eleven, and I resolved that I would do my utmost to discover her, if in the train; and I occupied myself now with imagining numerous pretexts for presuming to offer my services on her behalf. She will readily comprehend the disinterested character of my attentions. She will see that I come in no spirit of levity, but moved by a true sympathy and the respectful sentiment of one touched by her sorrows. I can fancy her coy diffidence giving way before the deferential homage of my manner; and in this I really believe I have some tact. I was not sorry to pursue this theme undisturbed by the presence of my fellow-travellers, who had now got out at a station, leaving me all alone to meditate and devise imaginary conversations with Miss Herbert. I rehearsed to myself the words by which to address her, my bow, my gesture, my faint smile, a blending of melancholy with kindliness, my whole air a union of the deference of the stranger with something almost fraternal. These pleasant musings were now rudely routed by the return of my fellow-travellers, who came hurrying back to their places at the banging summons of a great bell.
“Everything cold, as usual. It is a perfect disgrace how the public are treated on this line!” cried one.