she moved slowly along, with a sort of undulating motion, and with the utmost unconcern walked up and down until the bell had rung, and the train was just starting, when, to my surprise, she stopped opposite my carriage, gently opened the door, and placed herself on the opposite side to me. ’Hang the fellow!’ said I to myself, ’I thought he told me the door was locked.’ But there was no time for remonstrance then, for the train had started. She sat quite still with her veil down, and I began to wish very much to see her face.”
“Very pardonable, as you thought she was young,” muttered I.
“There was a long bright curl hanging from beneath the veil which took my fancy very much—”
“I should have taken the curl, I think,” said I.
“—So, to begin a conversation, I said I was afraid she might find the carriage smell of smoke. As I spoke, she turned her head towards me. ‘I am afraid, then, sir,’ she said, ‘that I am a most unwelcome intruder in your carriage, for I must have interfered with your smoking.’ As she spoke, she lifted the thick veil, and—upon my life, Fred, I never saw so beautiful a face. It was a perfect oval, with beautiful soft brown eyes, very delicately traced eyebrows above them, and long lashes that rested on her cheek when she looked down.”
“How they must have tickled,” I once more interpolated.
“The only fault of her face was perhaps a want of colour.”
“Result probably of dissipation—hot rooms,” interrupted I, but Charley got impatient.
“Positively, Fred, I will tell you no more, if you won’t attend.”
“Attend, my dear fellow! my little remarks are all to show the unflagging attention with which I am listening. But go on, Charley, I won’t say much more if I can help it.”
“What more I have to say will soon be said,” continued Charley, speaking more to himself than to me—which was rude, but I forgave him. “I have seldom had a more witty and intellectual companion. She could talk of every subject below the stars and some beyond them. I can’t talk to women generally; for I can’t pay compliments, and never go to the opera. But this woman was as reasonable as a man, while she was as quick as a woman.”
“Ah, intellectual women—wisdom and water; I know,” suggested I, but this time so low that he did not hear me, and went on.
“It had meanwhile got dark, but there was a young moon, and by the uncertain light of the lamp, I could only see the soft outline of her figure and the dazzling whiteness of her face, supported by her hand on which I, for the first time, noticed a wedding-ring; but, to my surprise, the hand was streaked with blood. ’Good gracious! madam, I am afraid you have hurt your hand,’ I said, starting forward.
“‘I have not hurt it,’ she replied faintly, ‘it is stained.’
“She did not attempt to move it or to change her position, and I sat looking at it and at the wedding-ring, and wondering what her history was, i.e., thinking it must be a mournful one, for she never once smiled—not even the shadow of a smile—all the time we were talking, though we were witty enough, as I have told you—”
“I heard you say she was,” I replied, “and don’t deny the possibility of that; but from what I know of you, can scarcely credit it of you both.”
“—when a sudden gust of wind coming whistling down the cutting, extinguished the lamp” (“What a disagreeable smell it must have made,” said I.)—“and left us in perfect darkness. ‘How very unfortunate,’ said I to the lady, ‘just as we are coming to a tunnel, too.’ I thought I heard a faint sigh and her dress rustling. I remember thinking how cold it was in that tunnel. There was such a rush of cold damp air over us; then we began to emerge and I wondered with a kind of childish speculation how soon, by the feeble moonlight, I should be able to trace her outline on the opposite seat. I sat with my eyes fixed on it, but could see nothing. It is too dark, thought I to myself, though I could distinguish the divisions of the seats and my cloak and rug on one of them. ‘We must get the lamp re-lighted,’ said I, aloud, but there was no answer, and I shivered at the sound of my own voice. I bent forward and felt over the seats. I could feel nothing there. I spoilt match after match of my cigar lights, as I endeavoured to make one burn. I thought we should never stop again; at last, however, we came to a station, and I hallo’ed to the guard to light the lamp. ‘The door is not locked after all your promises,’ said I to him, ‘take it out that way.’
“‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said a porter, ‘the door is locked;’ and he lighted the lamp from the top.
“I was alone in the carriage. ‘Good heavens!’ said I, ‘where is the lady?’
“The men stared at me. ‘I tell you there was a lady here,’ I repeated, ‘she must have got out in the tunnel.”
“‘There was no lady, sir,’ said the guard; but the porter, with a mysterious face, shook his head, and said, ‘Ah, you’ve seen her, too, sir, have you?’
“The train, however, went on at that moment, and I had no time to investigate the subject further. Well, Fred, what do you think? Don’t think me mad, for it is true.”
“Mad! certainly not, my dear fellow, only a little sleepy, as indeed your most interesting story has made me.”
“I was not asleep, Fred,” replied Charley; “I was as broad awake as I am now. Besides, the porter evidently knew there was a mystery.”
“Oh, if you are going to make the whole thing turn upon the porter’s shaking his head, I have done with you,” said I, incredulously. “I could make as good a romance, and call it the Porter’s Wink, if that is all that is necessary. Seriously, Charley, how can you be such an old fool? You had been dreaming, or else eating cat-pie at the last station.”
Charley shook his head, and began murmuring something about never eating cat-pies at stations.
