The Railway Man and His Children

by Mrs. Oliphant

Evelyn took the paper almost with alarm. She gazed at it with a look at first of intense surprise and disappointment. What did it mean? her husband’s signature written two or three times on a piece of paper, as if he had been trying a pen. James—James, twice or thrice repeated; then “Rowland.” Then in full, “James Rowland,” with a characteristic flourish at the end. She looked at the paper and then at Eddy, and then——

It was his look that forced conviction on her mind, not the guilty witness in her hand. She gave a great cry, “Eddy!” and put her hand over her eyes, as if to shut out some unwelcome sight.

“Yes,” he said, swinging his foot, his head sunk upon his breast; “that is just about what it is: and I am a—a—everything that is bad. But not such a cad as to let another man be ruined instead of me,” he cried.

Evelyn got up to her feet, stumbling, not seeing where she went, her eyes blinded with tears. “Oh, my poor boy, my poor boy!” she cried, putting her arms round him, drawing him to her.

“Is that how you take it?” he said, with a sob. “I did not expect you to take it like that.”

“Oh, Eddy!” she said, not able to find other words; “oh, my poor boy!”

He drew himself away from her a little, dashing off the tears that were in his eyes. “You know what that means, Mrs. Rowland,” he said, “though you may be sorry for me, and he may forgive me for your sake; but it is separation for ever. I mustn’t presume to let you be kind to me.” He took her back to her chair and placed her in it, and kissed her hand. And then he took up his hat. “It could mean nothing else, and I should be too thankful that he takes no step. Of course, I shall never see any of you again.” Then he suddenly laughed out, the colour coming back to his face. “And I was fond of that little Marion,” he said; “I was, though you might not think it, and she did not deserve it any more than I do. I was—but all that’s at an end now.”

CHAPTER XLIII.

These movements of Evelyn’s were watched, although she did not know it, and in the strangest way. Rowland left home leaving no address, nor any other indication of what he meant to do the evening after his return to Rosmore. He came back on the Wednesday, and on Friday morning he arrived in London, and followed his wife’s steps to the hotel, where he felt sure she would go. When he arrived he was told that Mrs. Rowland was indeed there, but had just gone out. “She cannot be out of sight yet,” the porter said, pointing the direction she had taken, and Rowland, without a word, followed his wife. He had no intention when he did so, no plan but to overtake her, to join her, to ask for an explanation of her conduct: but he had scarcely caught sight of the well-known figure walking before him along the thronged pavement before another idea struck him. He would not make himself known, he would watch what she was doing, and leave his eventual conduct to the guidance of the moment. One great motive which induced him to come to this resolution was that the moment he caught sight of her, James Rowland, who had left home breathing flame and fire, shrank into himself, and felt that he no more dared approach his wife with an air of suspicion and demand an explanation of her conduct, than he dared invade the retirement of the Queen. The one thing was about as possible as the other. All his old reverence for his lady-wife, all his conviction of her absolute superiority to everybody he had ever known came back upon him like a flood. Who was he to demand an explanation from her? Was it likely that he could know better what was seemly and becoming than she did? Was it possible that she, the crowning glory of his life, could do anything against his honour, could commit or compromise him in any way? A hush fell upon his troubled tempestuous mind the moment he perceived her before him, walking along with quiet dignity, unpretending, yet not, he said to himself in his pride, to be overlooked anywhere, moving among the common crowd as if she were in a presence chamber. He held his breath with a sort of horror at the thought that he might have been capable of going up to her, in his passion, asking her what she did there, whom she wanted, commanding her to return home at once. The sight of the sweep of her dark skirt, the carriage of her head, arrested him, temper and irritation and all, in a moment. He fell back a step or two, with a vague inclination to turn tail altogether, turn back homewards and humbly await her coming, which should be in her own time. But his heart was so sore that he could not do that. He followed her mechanically till she turned off the great thoroughfare to the smaller street, where he still followed, taking some precaution to keep himself out of her sight. He might have saved himself the trouble, for Evelyn saw nothing save the great object she had in view—the interview which was before her.

He watched her into Saumarez’s house, divining whose house it was, with a pang at his heart. There was a convenient doorway opposite in which he could stand and wait for her return; and there he placed himself, with the most curious shame of himself and his unwonted unnatural position. Watching his wife! which was only less intolerable than accusing her, disclosing to her that he was capable of suspecting her spotless meaning whatever it might be. No one who has not tried that undignified métier can have any idea how the watcher can divine what is going on inside a house from the minute signs which show outside. He saw a certain commotion in the upper storey, a vague vision of her figure at the window, the blinds quickly drawn up in the next room, enough to make him, all his senses quickened with anxiety and eagerness, divine, more or less, what was taking place. He saw a man come to the window, looking moodily out as if in thought, turning round to speak to some one behind. Whoever it was, it was not the crippled Saumarez, who, it had been so intolerable to him to think, was to be consulted on his affairs. Then he seemed to perceive by other movements below that the visitor was received in the lower room; and then she came hurriedly out, taking him by surprise, with no decorous attendance to the door, rushing forth almost as if escaping. He had to hurry after to keep up with her hasty excited steps. And then he followed her to the telegraph office, and then back to the hotel. He had got without difficulty a room close by, being anxious above measure not to betray to any one that he was not with her, that there was any separation between them—only not quite so anxious for that as that she should not see him, or divine that he had followed her. He sat with his door ajar all the afternoon, in the greatest excitement, watching her, making sure that she expected some one, listening to her enquiries at the servants if no telegram had come. She expected, then, a reply; was it from himself at home? Finally, Rowland saw Eddy, to his infinite surprise, arrive in the evening, and heard from where he watched the sound of a conversation, not without audible risings and fallings of tone, which marked some gamut of emotion in it. Eddy! what could his wife have to do with Eddy? Was it on that boy’s business, in answer to any appeal from him, that she had come? Was it perhaps to ask help for Eddy that she had sent that useless telegram? James Rowland had been deeply offended by the idea that his wife had come to consult another man upon his affairs; but it stung him again into even hotter momentary passion now, when the conviction came upon him that it was not his affairs, but something altogether unconnected with him that had brought her so suddenly to London away from her home. The first would have been an error of judgment almost unpardonable. The second was—it was a thing that could not bear thinking of. His wife consecrated to the sharing of all his sorrows, and who had shown every appearance of taking them up as her own, to leave her home and her husband in his trouble, and come here all this way in so strange and clandestine a manner at the call of Eddy—Eddy! He had himself been very favourable to Eddy, better than the boy deserved, who, however, had been generous about Archie, seeking an opportunity of making his obligations known: but that she, who had pretended to such interest in Archie, should suddenly be found to be thinking not of him but of another boy!