The time passed pleasantly away, despite the gloomy surroundings, until Marian was called to account by Dame Propriety, who administered so sharp a reprimand that the color came to her cheeks, and she grew suddenly demure and silent. She conversing with a stranger! What would her father think? And what did the stranger himself think? Who would have believed that she could have been guilty of making advances, of drawing the attention of anybody, much less one of whom she knew utterly nothing? She had heard of others doing such things, and she had judged them severely. It was too humiliating! Her transparent face reflected her inner self like a mirror, so, when she became suddenly silent and wore a troubled look, Mr. Lynde divined the cause and reverenced her for it. He had a strong impression that he ought to go back to his own seat, and leave this sensitive plant to itself, but it was dreary work to sit alone and think over one's misfortunes, and her society was so charming; so he lingered, taking the burden of talk upon himself, and managing so adroitly as to necessitate few replies; and Marian listened, taking very little part in the conversation, as she supposed. She forgot, though, that eyes and mouth can talk when tongues are still, and it would have been an obtuse person, indeed, who would not have felt flattered with the responses he received from the eloquent face of his listener, as the eyes lighted with a smile or grew dark with shadows of thought. When he went away at last he asked her to take pity on him, and lend him a book, as he had exhausted his library.
"And this is the extent of mine," Marian said, producing her little books, "my Christmas present from a dear old auntie," and she gave them into his hands, and received his volume of essays.
It had been such a pleasant diversion from the wearisome monotony, this new acquaintance, with his varied knowledge, his fascinating conversation and graceful courtesy, and yet Marian felt ill at ease and disturbed by what she had done. He would never have noticed her, she told herself, if she had not invited his attentions. But how could she do otherwise? It was a mere act of humanity. She did not compel him to talk with her all the afternoon, though it was too true that she felt acquainted with him at once and talked on as if he had been an old friend, and that encouraged him. Perhaps he was the greatest villain in the world; but even as the thought flashed through her mind, it was indignantly repelled. He was good and noble; she was sure of it, and she set herself to work to see what proof she possessed on that point. His conversation was refined; he liked good books; he was kind to an old lady, and he had remarked that his chief regret at the detention was that his mother would be wretchedly anxious at his nonappearance in his home. A bad man would not care for his mother, nor concern himself as to the comfort of old ladies.
During the afternoon the condition of things changed for the better. Food was obtained for the nearly famished passengers, and at last the train was in motion again, moving heavily and slowly, and with many a jerk and jar, as if in remonstrance at being obliged to move at all. With much effort and many detentions they arrived late at night at their long-wished-for destination. Among those that were obliged to change roads at this point, necessitating a walk of a few blocks across the city, were Marian and Mr. Lynde. He took possession of her shawl and basket as if he were, without question, her protector. It was pleasant to be taken care of, too, amidst the clanging of many trains among bewildering tracks. She had expected to make this transfer by daylight. It would have been decidedly dreary in the darkness, at this late hour, without an escort, although there was quite a procession of other travellers bound for the same train.
All hint of storms had passed away. The far off sky was full of stars, and the air was keenly cold. Just twelve o'clock. The Christmas morning already begun. This thought came to at least two of the travellers as they stepped out into the calm night, and there stole into the mind of each a strain of that wondrous Christmas poem, beginning—"Within that province far away."
"'In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago,'"
quoted Mr. Lynde.
Marian was surprised into saying: "How very singular! The same words were running through my own brain at that moment, and I was about to ask if you recollected what night this is, and if you were familiar with that poem."
"Ah, you are fond of it, too! Is it not fine, especially these lines:
"'The earth was still—but knew not why,
The world was listening—unawares.
How calm a moment may precede
One that shall thrill the world forever!
To that still moment none would heed,
Man's doom was linked, no more to sever,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago."