"I'm going to the station," said the Warden, and he struck off by himself and began to walk faster. He had run it too close, he risked missing her altogether. That he did not intend. He meant to arrive a moment before the train started. It was surely not part of his duty to be absolutely discourteous! He must just say "Good-bye." He began to walk still faster, for it seemed likely that he might be too late even to say "Good-bye."
In Beaumont Street a taxi was in sight. He hailed it and got in. The man seemed an outrageously long time getting the car round and started. He seemed to be playing with the curb of the pavement. At last he started.
The squalor of the approach to the station did not strike the Warden this afternoon. It always had struck him before unpleasantly. Just now he was merely aware of vehicles to be passed before he could reach the station, and he had his eyes on his watch continually to see how the moments were going. Suppose the train moved off just as he reached the platform? The Warden put his hand on the door ready to jump out. He had the fare already in the other hand. The station at last!
He got out of the taxi swiftly. No, the train was there and the platform was sprinkled with people—some men in khaki; many women. He was just in time, but only just—not in time to help her, or to speak with her or say anything more than just "Good-bye."
A sudden rage filled him. He ran his eyes along the whole length of the platform. She was probably seated in a carriage already, reading, Oxford forgotten perhaps! In that case why was he hurrying like this? Why was he raging?
No, there she was! The sight of her made his heart beat wildly. She was there, standing by an open carriage door, looking wistfully along the platform, looking for him! A porter was slamming the doors to already.
The Warden strode along and came face to face with her. Under the large brimmed hat and through the veil, he could see that she had turned ashy pale. They stared for a moment at each other desperately, and he could see that she was trembling. The porter laid his hand on the door. "Are you getting in, m'm?"
Only a week ago the Warden had committed the one rash and foolish action of his life. He had done it in ignorance of his own personal needs and with, perhaps, the unconscious cynicism of a man who has lived for forty years unable to find his true mate. But since then his mind had been lit up with the flash of a sudden poignant experience. He knew now what he wanted; what he must have, or fail. He knew that there was nothing else for him. It was this or nothing. The sight of her face, her trembling, pierced his soul with an amazing joy, and it seemed as if the voice of some invisible Controller of all human actions, great and small, breathed in his ear saying: "Now! Take your chance! This is your true destiny!"
There was no one in the carriage but a young girl at the further end huddled behind a novel. But had there been twenty there, it would not have altered his resolution. The Warden placed his hand on May's arm.
"I am travelling with this lady as far as Reading," he said to the porter, "but I have come too late to get a ticket. Tell the guard, please."