“Dear Madam,—Leave Charing Cross to-morrow (Thursday), at 3.30 you will reach Wyngham at 6.5 (if you don’t get into the wrong train when you change at Abbey Marsh), and you will find a conveyance at the station to bring you to the house.—Yours faithfully,
“John Bradfield.”
Mrs. Abercarne drew a long breath.
“To-morrow!” she gasped. “Oh, Chris! we must give the whole thing up. The man is evidently quite mad. I shouldn’t wonder if the place were to turn out to be a private lunatic asylum. To-morrow!”
And the poor lady, bitterly disappointed, although she would not own it, fell to laughing hysterically. Chris threw her arms round her neck; she did not mean the project to fall through now.
“Why not to-morrow, as well as any other day, mother, and get it over?” suggested she. “He isn’t mad, I expect. Only eccentric. You know that people who live in the country always grow eccentric and very self-willed. Don’t give up until you have seen what he is like.”
To the girl’s mind nothing could be more enchanting than the prospect of missing the round of farewell visits, the half-sincere condolences of her mother’s large circle of friends, the dread of facing whom had been haunting her; and in the end Chris had her way, and by a mighty effort everything was packed that night, except a few necessaries which Chris herself unmethodically rammed into the trunks on the following morning, while Mrs. Abercarne made a rapid circuit of such friends as lived near, that she might not quite miss the ceremony and the sympathy of a formal leave-taking.
Mrs. Abercarne had scarcely recovered the breath which Mr. Bradfield’s last letter had taken away, when the train, on a cold but fine November evening, arrived at Wyngham station.
There were few people on the platform, but there was a footman evidently looking out for some one, and Chris suggested that it must be for them, and her guess was correct. The man got their luggage out, under the supervision of Mrs. Abercarne, and as the lady had thought proper to bring a great many more trunks than she really wanted in order to give a sense of her dignity and importance, this was a work of time.
Meanwhile Chris, by her mother’s direction, stood back a little, and to be under her mother’s eye, waited. She was stiff and cold, and she stood first on one leg, and then on the other, weary and impatient at her mother’s lengthy proceedings.
“You can sit down on that bench if you’re tired. There’s no extra charge,” said a harsh voice, ironically, close to her ear.