The journey was a very pleasant one; every one was good-humoured, and Miss Montressor had her own way. She and Mr. Foster talked a good deal more than any of their companions, but the tone of the conversation was necessarily general. Thus, there was no reference on his part to the domestic circumstances which had annoyed Miss Montressor when he confided them to her at Richmond, and her versatile nature had enabled her almost entirely to dismiss the recollection of her sister Bess, except in the general sense of being rather glad than otherwise that she should have an opportunity of seeing her.
In her present sanguine mood, Miss Montressor doubted not that she should be able to induce Bess to say, or to leave unsaid, precisely whatever she pleased to indicate--at the worst, this was an annoyance to be postponed for consideration, until after her arrival on the other side; she was not going to trouble herself about it prematurely.
To tell the truth about Miss Montressor, she thought very little of Mr. Dolby during the pleasant hours of her journey to Liverpool. It would be good fun finding him in New York, and either making up the quarrel which had marked their parting or not making it up, precisely as it should suit her humour and her convenience, when the time had arrived. That, too, she need not think of beforehand. Altogether, Miss Montressor could recall few days in her life which had passed more completely to her satisfaction than that of her departure from London, and she mentioned the fact to Mr. Foster, when, for the first time, she found herself out of hearing of her companions on the arrival of the train, when he gave her his arm to walk along the platform at Lime-street.
During a momentary pause in order to rally their party, the attention of Miss Montressor and Mr. Foster was attracted to the unloading of the luggage van. A solitary portmanteau had been chucked upon the platform with a contemptuous indifference, which is the destiny of waifs and strays among luggage.
'I am sure that is the unclaimed portmanteau,' said Miss Montressor; 'looks new too. What will they do with it?'
'Put it in the parcel-office, of course,' said Mr. Foster, 'for the present, and then they forget all about it.'
The portmanteau, a shiny black one of the most commonplace appearance, lay upon the pavement until all the claimed luggage had been disposed of and wheeled away on trucks to its various destinations; then the waif was carried by a porter to the parcel-office and there deposited, with a brief intimation to the official who resided behind a sliding window, amid huge barricades of packing-cases, hampers, and every description of impedimenta, from camel trunks to brown-paper parcels and stray hand-bags, 'That this 'ere box, name o' Dunn, hadn't been owned.'
Travellers to Liverpool by all trains, at all hours, are a motley crew; all ranks and classes of society, all industries, all circumstances, may be found represented in the voyagers going towards the great outlet of England. The train which conveyed Bryan Duval and his troop was no exception, but rather a notable example of this truth. Only two components of the crowd which were whirled from the great social to the great commercial capital on that particular day have any interest for us; they are our theatrical friends, and one other man, a solitary and insignificant unit among the number.
This man wore a sailor's dress, and carried a parcel, done up in a bit of tarpaulin, under his arm. He had arrived at Euston Station a few minutes before the party whose departure had formed a feature of the day; had stood wholly unnoticed among the third-class passengers crowding that portion of the platform opposite to the pens appointed for their use, and had quietly taken his seat in the farthest corner of the last compartment in the train. There was nothing remarkable in this man's appearance or manner. His sailor's clothes were clean, and fitted with characteristic looseness. He did not remove his cap or relinquish his hold of his tarpaulin bundle, which he placed upon his knees, and folding his arms upon it, kept them there during the whole of the journey. He exchanged not a word with his fellow passengers, except a mechanic and his family about to exchange the used-up old world for the new and happy land--though they thought him a morose surly sort of fellow, no doubt; but they were full of their own hopes, interests, and regrets, which they discussed with the simple unreserve of the poor, and, after a few minutes, did not notice him.
He was a dark-complexioned man, with a rough red beard and hair to match, and had probably but recently adopted the avocation of a sailor, for his hands were rather delicate for a man of that class, and had evidently had no prolonged acquaintance with the ropes or great familiarity with tar. Though he travelled down the whole way to Liverpool without appearing to be conscious of the presence of his immediate companions, this sailor seemed to have some attraction towards the more distinguished passengers by the train. He lingered for a few minutes on the platform on their arrival at Lime-street, though he had put no luggage in the van, and had no occasion to wait while its contents were being turned out and sorted; and during this delay he surveyed,--with an intentness probably caused by his knowledge of their celebrity,--the party of actors as they took their way to the exit. He was but a few steps behind them when they reached the entrance of the station, and he stood in the doorway while they crossed the street on foot and entered the hospitable portals of the Adelphi Hotel, where their rooms had been engaged. When they had gone in, and were quite hidden from his view, he still lingered; indeed, the greater part of the burden which the train had carried had been discharged from the station before this desultory mariner moved on. Even then he only crossed the street, still hugging his tarpaulin bundle under his arm, and slouched along under the windows of the Adelphi, as though the place had some attraction for him.