To Marian there came also at this moment a sharp consciousness of something else. She was walking at midnight in a strange city with a stranger. That, she could not help, but to discover that she was positively enjoying it, had the effect to make her "good-night" seem cold as the winter air as they stepped on the sleeping car and she vanished into the section assigned her.
It had been arranged by Marian and her friends that she should travel alone only to a certain city. There, an uncle would join her, and accompany her home. The distance was not great, and it was not to be supposed that any difficulties would attend so short a journey. In the uncertain state of things caused by the storm it was quite improbable that he could make connections so as to keep his appointment. Marian had decided in case he did not appear, to proceed alone, feeling by this time quite like a veteran traveller.
In the gray dawn of the Christmas morning they reached the city. They had just entered the depot, and Mr. Lynde was inquiring of Marian how he could serve her as to checks and tickets, when a stout, gray-haired gentleman bustled up with, "Ah, Marian, here you are!" bent and kissed her cheek, saying in the same breath, "So glad you came this morning, my dear. We are not going on to-day, however. My old friend, Col. Winslow, wishes me to spend Christmas with him, and I have accepted the invitation for you, too." Marian's face put in a protest.
"Oh! you will enjoy it, my dear; the house is filled with young people; you will have a gay time. Come, let us hasten, the carriage is waiting."
As soon as she had opportunity to speak, Marian presented Mr. Lynde, as one who had been kind to her. Accordingly the uncle bestowed on him a hurried bow, and a penetrating glance, from keen, gray eyes under shaggy brows. Then he tucked Marian's hand under his arm and was moving off.
One moment she lingered. There was a brief hand clasp, some murmured thanks, and she was gone.
To say that Mr. Lynde was astonished, would but feebly express it. Who was this man, and where had he taken her? She evidently went most reluctantly. He felt as if he ought to pursue them and recover her. He remembered now that she had said something about an uncle who, perhaps, would join her on the way. He discovered that he had been looking forward to a day's travel in her company with keenest pleasure. Now it had all changed; travelling was the depth of drudgery.
In his half-dazed, disappointed state, he nearly forgot the imperative need of haste on account of business, etc., and barely escaped being left as he sprang on the train at the last moment. He realized presently that a certain volume of essays was no longer in his possession. He did not regret it, though, much as he valued it, inasmuch as he had in its stead two tiny books he should greatly prize. He brought them out now, and looked at them, brought, too, from his side pocket, a sprig of evergreen that he had surreptitiously broken from the bunch fastened to the basket he had carried, partly because he enjoyed the fragrance, and partly—he knew not why. He laid it with the books. And that was every trace there was left of the bright presence that, he was obliged to confess to himself, he missed intolerably. Soon he tossed them all into his satchel almost fiercely, and called himself a fool for allowing any influence to take possession of him in that manner. He brought out his law papers again, and sternly set himself a task. But a face, that two days before he had not known, came between him and the cumbersome phrases, so that, instead of defining and arranging the strong points of the case, he went to puzzling his brain to determine whether or no there was just the least shadow of regret in her eyes as she took leave of him. Then he went over all their conversation, treasured up words and tones of hers, and pictured again her attitude and look of sweet gravity, like some veritable angel when she came to minister to his necessities. "Not one in a hundred would have done that so simply and gracefully, if they would have done it at all, indeed," he told himself.
The thing that tried him most was his own stupidity that he had not obtained her address; "Massachusetts," that was all he knew.
He took out the books again. Possibly there was a clue. Her name was there: "Marian Chester." What a fair name it was; how it just suited her. That was all, though. No tell-tale sign of where she lived, or where Aunt Ruth lived. He read the line below: "The Lord bless thee and keep thee." It was long since Stuart Lynde had prayed, but he found his heart re-echoing that prayer.