All was still. The lights were out. The door, when Gerald tried it, was shut. They had missed the last train.
When he came back to the side of the trap, and stood looking up at her, Virginia perceived that he was terribly vexed. Up to this moment he had maintained a composure and cheerfulness which was reassuring. Now, he was obviously nonplussed.
In reply to questions, their driver said sullenly that it was of no use to fetch the station-master. He had gone home to bed. He couldn't make a train if there was no train. Gerald shook his cap, from the edge of which the water streamed, for the rain had become a downpour.
"One gets out of the habit of calculating distance when one is used to a car," he said to Virginia, in a voice which was an odd blend of rage and apology. "They were such a time bringing that food—we started too late. The only thing now is to go on to Pulborough, I suppose."
The lad intimated that this journey, if taken, would be made upon their own feet. The mare could do no more. She would just get home to her stable, and that was all.
Virginia could not offer to walk. She would not risk over-exertion, with her return to Gaunt so near. She tried to cheer Gerald with the reminder that, most likely, when they returned to the inn at Dilvington, they would find Baines and the car awaiting them.
As he knew this to be impossible, the thought could not console him. He climbed up at the back of the wet cart thoroughly out of temper, muttering that a wooden horse with three legs could have done two miles in three quarters of an hour.
Their discomfort was now far too great for further conversation. The rain was pitiless, and the horse-cloth over Virginia's knees, though thick, was not waterproof. Her head ached, and she was very cold, though she endured patiently, so as not to increase her companion's evidently acute sense of the pass to which he had brought her.
She felt a final lowering of her spirits when once more the comfortless inn came into sight. Their host and hostess were apparently no more pleased to see them than were they to return. Nothing had been seen of the car, and judging from their manner, these people did not seem sure that it existed. It seemed, however, that they had half anticipated the missing of the train. The only guest bed in the house had been made up. Gerald somewhat nervously explained to the woman that Mrs. Gaunt would have this room, and he would pass the night on the horse-hair sofa in the parlour.
At first the reaction from cold and darkness was such that they found it delightful to be seated by a fire, sipping some abominable spirits and water. The circumstances, however, were too deplorable for Virginia to be able to rally her spirits. The cloak she wore was really a dust-coat, and it had not kept out the rain. She could feel that she was very wet, and was solely occupied with the consideration of how long she ought, in politeness, to sit with Gerald, and how soon she could go upstairs and take off her uncomfortable clothing.