Left to Themselves: Being the Ordeal of Philip and Gerald

by Edward Prime-Stevenson

There sat back to back with Gerald, the tall chair doing its usual office of a screen, a strikingly handsome and well-dressed man of about forty years of age, who wore eye-glasses and was running over the contents of a newspaper when they settled down. Before long this well-appointed traveler, in changing the position of his chair, happened to let his eye fall on Gerald’s traveling-bag lying overturned in the aisle, and painted, as to the bottom, in large black letters with the name, “Gerald B. Saxton, Jun., New York City.”

A name—only a name! But what mysterious recollections, what quick impulses, it must have stirred up to vivid life in the mind of that grave traveler sitting so close to the fair-haired owner of the satchel and his friend! A slight start, a frown showing itself between his level eyebrows, a sudden sharpness of attention to the speakers beside him, and his sinking himself, little by little, down into his chair, while at the same time he drew the Herald over his face as if in an after-breakfast doze—these things succeeded one another rapidly in his conduct, until whoever watched him would have inferred, if with some surprise, that this man was surely doing every thing in his power to play the spy upon the two lads near him, and to overhear whatever they might say, without their even suspecting that they had a neighbor. Leaning his head against the cushion, well toward the left, he listened and listened, motionless, without a rustle of that sheltering newspaper; and often, now, as he so curiously fixed his attention on their desultory talk and discussion, one of his firm, well-shaped lips bit the other nervously under his dark mustache, and that frown of concentration became deeper on his forehead. Strange.

Ah! A letter was lying on the carpet within reach of his hand, between his chair and Gerald’s. A letter—was it the same letter, he wondered, that he had just heard them speaking about—from a Mr. Hilliard? It was, because Gerald had carelessly dropped it from his hand, and the loss was not yet noticed. It was, indeed, odd and disgracefully ill-bred that any stranger should carry his curiosity or his interest, or whatever it was that influenced him, so far as to get possession of that letter very gently by a single motion of his arm, and, then raising it noiselessly to his eyes, to read it through behind the boys’ backs. But this unseen companion of theirs did so; and, more than that, he read it through so carefully that you might have supposed he was getting it by heart. At length he laid it again on the carpet, just where he had noticed it, and presently Gerald’s eye caught sight of it, and with an exclamation the letter was put safely into Philip’s care once more. The name “Touchtone” written on it, and overheard from Gerald’s lips, “Philip Touchtone,” seemed to be another singularly interesting surprise to this reserved traveler.

But all at once he made up his mind to change his position. He did more than that. He raised himself gracefully in his seat, got possession of his silk hat, umbrella, and bag, and, rising quickly, walked down the length of the car he had faced, and vanished in the one coming behind it. Neither Philip nor Gerald remarked this sudden retreat any more than they had remarked that he had sat so near them for more than an hour. They were both in a gale of good humor, and, with Gerald, to laugh hard was simply to forget every thing else but the fun on hand.

Did it ever occur to you from experience, my friend, young or old, what a small place is this big world after all? We do nothing, it sometimes seems, but jog elbows with folk we know or with folk who know us. You may go to Australia or Crim Tartary to get out of the way of people; but it may not be a week before you find that neither place is a safe retreat. I once knew of a man who wished to fly from the face of all humanity that he happened to be acquainted with; he being, if one must tell all the truth, very miserable because of an unlucky love-affair, and anxious not to be reminded of the persons or places that had been nearest to him before his woes came to a climax. So our friend forthwith set out for northern Africa, and he decided to cross the great Sahara country with a caravan. Lo and behold! when the party was made up that were to go with the traders over the desert, he found that two cousins of—well, the cause of his gloomy spirits were to meet the expedition at a certain station, early on the route, both men he knew being in the same heart-broken state as himself, from the same reason. That was too much for him. Like a sensible man, he went straight home to Boston, and took to business energetically, and got back his health and spirits with his friends much sooner than he could have done in the Sahara, I am pretty sure. But I am getting away from this story of Touchtone and Gerald Saxton.

“Youngwood Manor,” called out the guard, suddenly, as they steamed into a tiny station. The stop was only for an instant. They had hardly time to put their heads out. Nobody was getting aboard.

“Well, I declare! He couldn’t have come up from New York,” said Gerald, in disappointment. “I’m sorry. It would be more fun to have him meet us on the train than for us to go and hunt him up in his own street.”

“Wait a minute or so,” returned Philip. “Mr. Hilliard would have jumped on the car very quickly, knowing what a short stop the train makes. If he did, he is looking through it for us this minute.”

The rear door opened. A tall gentleman with a fine face stood looking along the seats, his satchel in his hand.

His look fell on the boys. He started, gave a half-smile of recognition, and came slowly toward them.