“You’ll say that on the Day of Judgment,” said Reggie.
It was on the next day that he found a telegram waiting for him when he came home to dress for dinner:
Gerald ill again very anxious beg you will come sending car to meet evening trains.
Warnham
Fernhurst
Blackover.
He scrambled into the last carriage of the half-past six as it drew out of Waterloo.
Mrs. Warnham had faithfully obeyed his orders to take Gerald to a quiet place. Blackover stands an equally uncomfortable distance from two main lines, one of which throws out towards it a feeble and spasmodic branch. After two changes Reggie arrived, cold and with a railway sandwich rattling in his emptiness, on the dimly-lit platform of Blackover. The porter of all work who took his ticket thought there was a car outside.
In the dark station yard Reggie found only one: “Do you come from Fernhurst?” he called, and the small chauffeur who was half inside the bonnet shut it up and touched his cap and ran round to his seat.
They dashed off into the night, climbing up by narrow winding roads through woodland. Nothing passed them, no house gave a gleam of light. The car stopped on the crest of a hill and Reggie looked out. He could see nothing but white frost and pines. The chauffeur was getting down.