Fortunately, or rather unfortunately, she had money with her, so she did not waste time in going to Mr. Douglas. In spite of the crushing blow she had received the girl had all her wits about her. A train would start in ten minutes’ time. She took her ticket, then found an idler outside the station, and paid him to take the pony and carriage back to the farm, with the message as repeated to Carriston.
The journey passed like a long dream. The girl could think of nothing but her lover, dying, dying—perhaps dead before she could reach him. The miles flew by unnoticed; twilight crept on; the carriage grew dark; at last—London at last! Miss Rowan stepped out on the broad platform, not knowing what to do or where to turn. Presently a tall well-dressed man came up to her, and removing his hat, addressed her by name. The promise as to her being met had been kept.
She clasped her hands. “Tell me—oh tell me, he is not dead,” she cried.
“Mr. Carr is not dead. He is ill, very ill—delirious and calling for you.”
“Where is he? Oh take me to him!”
“He is miles and miles from here—at a friend’s house. I have been deputed to meet you and to accompany you, if you feel strong enough to continue the journey at once.”
“Come,” said Madeline. “Take me to him.”
“Your luggage?” asked the gentleman.
“I have none. Come!”