White Motley: A Novel

by Max Pemberton

This was merely a lull, as events proved, and she quickly perceived the wisdom of the advice offered by the landlady. No sooner was it known that the Englishman had succeeded than the sleighs began to return to the station. One would not have believed that there were so many horses in the Rhone Valley, and this was to say nothing of the thousands of excursionists who came down on foot besieging the railway station, and filling every café to the point of riot. Lily was glad that she had abandoned all idea of a journey to Locarno until to-morrow, and she went to bed early, avoiding her loquacious countrymen in the corridor of the hotel, and trying to believe that she was little interested in their excited stories of the day. When she arose next morning, it was snowing hard, and the wind had attained some force. She did not dare to venture out, and kept her own room until after dinner, when the news reached her that there was a delay upon the line at Brigue, and it was doubtful if the evening express could reach Milan at all that night.

Everyone seemed sure of this—the hall-porter, who spoke English like a German, and the amiable landlady, who spoke French like an Italian. Exactly what had happened no one could say with certainty, and the stories were so contradictory that Lily put on her hat about nine o'clock and went over to the station to hear the news for herself.

It was snowing heavily and the wind bitterly cold. She found a little group of officials upon the dimly-lighted platform and two or three English people, who, like herself, had been on the point of going into Italy. One of these was no other than Harry Clavering, who recognised her immediately, and came forward with both hands outstretched. She remembered that he had been the first of the guests at Andana to offer friendship upon her arrival, and she thought it an odd coincidence that she should meet him here at such an hour.

"They told me you had returned to England," he exclaimed, "but you never said good-bye to anyone. We did not even have an opportunity to snowball you. Why, everyone who goes away from Andana is snowballed. The more snow you get down your neck, the more popular you are. I was nearly smothered to-day. Yes, they were very kind to me. But it was a real disappointment to us all that you should go without a word."

She told him that urgent private business had summoned her to Italy, and expressed her pleasure to meet him.

"The hotel is full of English people," she said, "therefore one knows nobody. Of course, you have heard the news? The express runs no further than Brigue to-night—there is some trouble on the line. We should have gone by the slow train earlier in the day, it appears; but I am always so shy of slow trains in Italy. Now they will not promise to take us until to-morrow, and perhaps not then. I have just been speaking to the station-master about it, and learned the truth so far as he is capable of telling it. Poor man, one would think the end of the world was at hand."

Harry Clavering did not seem at all upset.

"It is quite unusual," he explained, trotting by her side as she began to pace the long platform; "the express runs usually with the regularity of a clock, though some clocks, by the way, strike at all the stations. I expect there has been a heavy fall of snow and one of the galleries is giving trouble; or there may have been a slight accident. They tell me that the gale last night was very severe on the other side. Was it not lucky that your friend, Mr. Benson, won the prize when he did? He would never have done it to-day."

She did not fail to notice that he spoke of "her friend, Mr. Benson," and she wondered that he had done so. Some women would have disclaimed the association; but Lily Delayne held the little hypocrisies of life in some contempt, and rarely stooped to them. So she accepted the charge, and found herself talking of Benny's victory.

"Is he not a very remarkable man?" she said. "I guessed it the first day I saw him, though that did not appear to be the common opinion. The Englishman is so often judged by the partialities of his critics that many such mistakes are made. Surely, of all the people in Europe, we are the slowest to discover those who do us most honour. Now don't you agree with that, Mr. Clavering?"