"But I shan't come to that; and besides, I have no clothes fit to be seen."
"Oh, never mind; I'll lend you my white silk for evenings." And my sister, who was always good-natured, carried me off to ransack her wardrobe.
There was no help for it; remonstrances were useless; I had to go. The invitation was from a schoolfellow of mine, Mysie Sutherland by name. She lived near Inverness, and asked me to go and stay a month with her. The idea filled me with apprehension. She was the only daughter, and lived in style in a large house: I was one of a numerous family herded together in a small house in Harley Street. Her father was a wealthy landed proprietor: mine was a struggling doctor. Altogether I was shy and nervous, and would much have preferred to remain at home; but Lucy and Dick had decided I should go, and I knew there was no appeal.
A few days afterwards I was at Euston Station, on my way to the North. My mother and sister had come to see me off, and stood at the carriage door, passing remarks upon the people.
A knot of young men standing by the bookstall attracted our attention, from their constant bursts of laughter. There was evidently a good joke amongst them, and they were enjoying it to the full. The time was up, and the train was just about to start, when one of them rushed forward and jumped into my carriage. The guard slammed the door, his friends threw some papers after him in at the window, and we were off.
For some time we sat silent, then a question about the window or the weather opened a conversation. My companion was a good-looking young man, with thick, curly brown hair. He had neither moustache, beard, nor whiskers, which gave him a boyish appearance, and made me think he might be an actor. His eyes were peculiar—they were kind eyes, honest eyes, laughing eyes, but there was something about them that I could not make out. As he sat nearly opposite to me I had every opportunity of studying them, but not till we had travelled at least a hundred miles did I discover what it was. They were not quite alike. There was no cast—not the slightest suspicion of a squint—no, nothing of that kind; only they were not a pair—one eye was hazel, the other grey; and yet the difference in colour varied so much that sometimes I thought I must be mistaken. At one moment, in the sunlight, the difference was striking; but when next I saw them, in shadow, the difference was hardly perceptible. Yet there it was, and it gave a peculiar but agreeable expression to the face.
He was extremely kind and pleasant, and I must own that when an old gentleman got in at Rugby I was sorry our tête-à-tête should be interrupted. We had been talking over all sorts of subjects, from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter, exclusive—for those two subjects had not yet been discussed. (I know it is a very vulgar expression, and I ought not to use it, only I am always with the boys and I am a "Tommy" myself.)
The old gentleman, however, did not trouble us long, for he had made a mistake and had got into the wrong train. He hobbled out much quicker than he got in, and my friend the actor was most polite in helping him and handing out his parcels.
When that was over we settled down again comfortably. By the time we got to Crewe we were like old friends, and chatted together over my sandwiches, or at least while I ate them, for he had his lunch at Preston, as Bradshaw informed us the passengers were expected to do.
I fully expected we should get an influx of companions here, for the platform was crowded, but my carriage door was locked and I noticed the guard hovering near; he seemed particularly anxious to direct people elsewhere. Perhaps he thought that as I was an unprotected female I should prefer to be quite alone, and I was busy concocting a little speech about "a gentleman coming back," in case he should refuse to let my actor come into the carriage. It was quite unnecessary, however, as directly he caught sight of him in the distance he opened the door with an obsequious bow. I began to wonder if he knew him. Perhaps he was a celebrated actor, and when actors are celebrated nowadays they are celebrated indeed. I felt quite elated at having anything to do with a member of such a fashionable profession, and looked at him with more interest than ever.