“No, sir,” I answered, timidly, without venturing to turn my head, until I felt myself uncomfortably crowded; then I looked around, and behold! the dark stranger was sitting behind me near the door, while at my side was a man of mammoth dimensions, with immense moustaches, watery eyes, and a brandy breath flavored with tobacco!
I wanted to cry, and should probably have done so, had not my companion immediately commenced a conversation by asking “if I had come very far, and where I was going?”
He was exceedingly loquacious, and for several hours plied me with questions as to my own name—my parents—my grand-parents—my brothers—my sisters—our standing in the world—our religion—our politics, and our opinion of spiritualism, of which last he was a zealous advocate. At length just as it was growing dark, he gathered up his huge proportions, and to my great joy bade me adieu, expressing his regret at leaving me, and also assuring me that I would one day be a medium, which assumption he based upon the fact of my having admitted that sometimes when falling away to sleep I started suddenly and awoke. This, he said, was a spirit shock, and would in the end lead to great results.
About nine o’clock we stopped for refreshments, and on re-ëntering the cars, I found to my joy that the dark stranger’s seat was appropriated by a son of Erin, who seemed nowise inclined to surrender it, inasmuch as he had with him his wife, baby, and bundle. This time the fates were propitious, for after looking around him awhile, the stranger asked permission to sit by me, saying he should not discommode me more than two or three hours, as by that time he hoped to reach his journey’s end, a remark which gave me more pain than pleasure, for every nerve thrilled with joy at being thus near to one who, though an entire stranger, possessed for me a particular attraction. It was quite dark where we sat, and the night lamp burned but dimly, so he did not once obtain a full view of my face. He proved a most agreeable and attentive companion, opening and shutting the window just as often as I evinced an inclination to have him, holding my sachel in his lap; placing his own travelling trunk at my feet for a footstool, and offering me his fur-lined overcoat for a pillow; besides expressing many fears that I would take cold whenever the window was open. At almost every station, too, he asked “if I wished for anything,” but I did not, except indeed to know whether he was yet the husband of Ada Montrose, and to obtain that information I would have given almost anything. At last I hit upon the following expedient. He made some remark about the country through which we were passing, and I replied by saying that “I believed it was not the first time he had been over that road, as, if I mistook not, I saw him in the cars with his wife the year before.”
The wrinkle in his forehead grew deeper, and his face flushed as he said quickly, “I do not remember of meeting you before, though I was here last fall, but not with my wife, for I have none. It was my ward, Miss Montrose.”
Nothing could have given me more satisfaction than this announcement, for if Ada were his ward, it explained, in a measure, his attentions to her; and as I cast stolen glances at him, I felt more and more convinced that there could be no affinity between him and the haughty, imperious girl to whom he was guardian. It seemed to me a very short time ere he arose, and offering me his hand, said he must go, adding, “We shall undoubtedly meet again, as I occasionally travel this way.”
Yes, we should meet again. I felt sure of that, though how and where I could not tell.
It was nearly noon of the next day when I reached Meadow Brook, where I found my father at the dépôt, waiting to receive me. Very kindly he greeted me, inquiring eagerly after Anna and her boy, his grandson, whom he expressed a strong desire to see. “But I never shall,” he said sadly, as he walked slowly beside me up the long hill which led to the village. Of Herbert he spoke not a word, though my mother and my sisters did, asking me numberless questions, some of which I answered, while the others I managed to evade, keeping them ignorant of the existing state of things.
I found them all busied with the preparations for Juliet’s wedding, which took place within a week after my return, I officiating as bridesmaid, while the groomsman was none other than my old enemy, John Thompson, now a tall young man of eighteen, and cousin to Juliet’s husband. When first the plan was suggested to me I refused, for I bore him no good will; but my objections were overruled by Juliet, who told me how much he had improved, and that I would find him very agreeable, which was indeed true. He was very polite and attentive, referring laughingly to the “freaks of his boyhood,” as he termed them, while at the same time he laid his hand upon his chin, caressing the beard which was there only in imagination, and even apologizing to me in a kind of off-hand way for his conduct of three years before. Of course I forgave him, and we are now the best of friends. So much for childish prejudices.
In the course of the evening I asked him about the doctor, and was told that he was still in Boston, and doing remarkably well. “And do you know,” said John, “he imputes his success to you! I verily believe he thinks you a perfect angel! Any way, I know he likes you better than he does Dell, for he told me so in plain English, and I don’t blame him either; the way she cuts up is enough to kill any man. Why, if I were in his place, I’d get a divorce from her at once, and offer myself to you!”