CHAPTER XXX
A QUESTION OF IMPORTANCE
It had been chance pure and simple which happened to take Doctor Hilary to Woodleigh on the day the Duchessa received Trix’s telegram, but it cannot be equally said that it was chance which took him to Exeter on the following day, and which made him travel down again to Kingsleigh by the four o’clock train. Also it was certainly not chance which induced him to be on the platform at least a quarter of an hour before the train was due at the station, ready to keep a careful lookout on all the passengers in it.
Trix had had an uneasy journey from London. She had re-read Miss Tibbutt’s letter at least a dozen times. At first she had allowed herself to be almost unreasonably depressed by it; afterwards she had been almost more unreasonably depressed because she had allowed herself to be depressed in the first instance. Quite possibly it was all a storm in a tea-cup, and this man had nothing whatever to do with Pia’s unhappiness. Of course the chance meeting and the overheard conversation had fitted in so neatly as to make Miss Tibbutt think it had, and she had easily communicated the same idea to Trix. But quite probably it had nothing more to do with it than her own surmise regarding Doctor Hilary had had. And that had proved entirely erroneous, though at the time it had appeared the most sane of conclusions. Also Miss Tibbutt might quite conceivably be wrong as to Pia’s being now unhappy at all, whatever she had seemed to be in the summer.
Trix’s visit began to appear to her somewhat in the light of a wild-goose chase. Anyhow she had not given Pia the smallest hint as to why she was coming. Naturally she could not possibly have done that. She had still to invent some tangible excuse for her sudden desire to visit Woodleigh again. Sick of London greyness would be quite good enough, though certainly not entirely true. But possibly a slight deviation from truth would be excusable under the circumstances. And she was sick of London greyness. The fog yesterday had got on her nerves altogether, though quite probably it would not have done so if it had not been for Miss Tibbutt’s letter, which had made her feel so horribly restless. But then there was no need to say why the fog had got on her nerves.
Yes; the fog would be excuse enough. And it was not an atom of good worrying herself as to whether Miss Tibbutt had been right or wrong regarding the idea communicated in her letter. If she were right it made Trix unhappy to think about it, and if she were wrong it made Trix cross to think she had thought about it. So the wisest course was not to think about it at all. But the difficulty was not to think about it.
Trix knew perfectly well that absurd little things had this power of depressing her, and she wished they had not. She knew, also, that other quite little things had the power of cheering her in equal proportion, and she wished that one of these other things would happen now. But that was not particularly likely.
The depression had been at its lowest ebb as they ran into Bath. It was, however, slightly on the mend by the time Trix reached Exeter, though she was still feeling that her journey had probably, if not certainly, been a piece of pure foolishness on her part.
The carriage she was in was up in the front of the train. She was the sole occupant thereof. She now put up something akin to a prayer that she might remain in undisturbed possession. Apparently, however, the prayer was not to be granted. A tall figure, masculine in character, suddenly blocked the light from the window. Trix heaved a small sigh of patient resignation.