"We have not long to wait for the mail train," said Claude, "and then, thank goodness, there will be no more changing until we reach London."
The faint gray dawn of the morning was just breaking into rose and gold. Hyacinth looked pale and cold; the excitement, the fatigue, and the night travelling were rapidly becoming too much for her.
They walked up and down the platform for a few minutes. A quarter of an hour passed—half an hour—and then Claude, still true to his determination that Hyacinth should not be seen, bade her to sit down again while he went to inquire at the office the cause of delay. There were several other passengers, for Leybridge Junction was no inconsiderable one.
Suddenly there seemed to arise a scene of confusion in the station. The station master came out with a disturbed face; the porters were no longer sleepy, but anxious. Then the rumor, whispered first with bated breath, grew—"An accident to the mail train below Lewes. Thirty passengers seriously injured and half as many killed. Traffic on the line impossible."
Claude heard the sad news with a sorrowful heart. He did not wish Hyacinth to know it—it would seem like an omen of misfortune to her. "When will the next train start for London?" he asked one of the porters.
"There is none between now and seven o'clock," the man replied.
"Was there ever anything so unfortunate?" muttered Claude to himself.
Leybridge was only twenty miles from Oakton.
"I should not like any one to see me about the station," he thought; "and Hyacinth is sure to be known here. How unfortunate that we should be detained so near home!" He went out to her: "You must not lose patience, Hyacinth," he said; "the mail train is delayed, and we have to wait here until seven."
She looked up at him, alarmed and perplexed. "Seven," she repeated—"and now it is only three. What shall we do, Claude?"