“And you would not answer the second letter I wrote to you?
“We were in great perplexity. One cannot be always answering young gentlemen’s letters. I had considerable doubt about answering a note I got from Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square,” says the lady’s chapeau. “No, Clive, we must not write to one another,” she continued more gravely, “or only very, very seldom. Nay, my meeting you here to-day is by the merest chance, I am sure; for when I mentioned at Lady Fareham’s the other evening that I was going to see papa at Brighton to-day, I never for one moment thought of seeing you in the train. But as you are here, it can’t be helped; and I may as well tell you that there are obstacles.”
“What, other obstacles?” Clive gasped out.
“Nonsense—you silly boy! No other obstacles but those which always have existed, and must. When we parted—that is, when you left us at Baden, you knew it was for the best. You had your profession to follow, and could not go on idling about—about a family of sick people and children. Every man has his profession, and you yours, as you would have it. We are so nearly allied that we may—we may like each other like brother and sister almost. I don’t know what Barnes would say if he heard me! Wherever you and your father are, how can I ever think of you but—but you know how? I always shall, always. There are certain feelings we have which I hope never can change; though, if you please, about them I intend never to speak any more. Neither you nor I can alter our conditions, but must make the best of them. You shall be a fine clever painter; and I,—who knows what will happen to me? I know what is going to happen to-day; I am going to see papa and mamma, and be as happy as I can till Monday morning.”
“I know what I wish would happen now,” said Clive,—they were going screaming through a tunnel.
“What?” said the bonnet in the darkness: and the engine was roaring so loudly, that he was obliged to put his head quite close to say—
“I wish the tunnel would fall in and close upon us, or that we might travel on for ever and ever.”
Here there was a great jar of the carriage, and the lady’s-maid, and I think Miss Ethel, gave a shriek. The lamp above was so dim that the carriage was almost totally dark. No wonder the lady’s-maid was frightened! but the daylight came streaming in, and all poor Clive’s wishes of rolling and rolling on for ever were put an end to by the implacable sun in a minute.
Ah, why was it the quick train? Suppose it had been the parliamentary train?—even that too would have come to an end. They came and said, “Tickets, please,” and Clive held out the three of their party—his, and Ethel’s, and her maid’s. I think for such a ride as that he was right to give up Greenwich. Mr. Kuhn was in waiting with a carriage for Miss Ethel. She shook hands with Clive, returning his pressure.
“I may come and see you?” he said.