Chapter XII: On a Platform

I HAD been asked to Mrs. Withers' for two or three weeks, but she kept me there for six weeks and more.

Once in every few days I had a letter from Mary. She spoke of mother as better for the change to Bristol, but still as not herself. I wondered if she ever would be her true self again; but Mrs. Withers bade me trust and hope; and I did try, though it wasn't easy.

Mary didn't say much about plans in her letters. I could not make out whether I was to join her and mother in Bristol, or whether we were to meet in Claxton again. Once I asked, and there came no answer to the question. So I let it alone, and just waited, not knowing.

Mrs. Withers had heard from Mr. Armstrong, I knew; and he was sure to have been told everything about mother.

It wasn't so hard to wait, with the new help and life that had come to me.

And yet nobody need suppose that I hadn't plenty of battling, or that doing right was all at once quite easy to me. No such thing. I had to fight hard, and pray hard. But there was the difference that I did pray, and that I was learning how to fight.

Old temptations had power over me yet; of course they had. Was it to be expected they'd die out in a moment?

I was getting to a more true and right notion of what Walter Russell was. He had led me into evil. He had deceived and taught deceit. I saw all this, and I did resolve that, God helping me, there should be nothing further between us, even if he wished it, at least until he should be another sort of man—and nothing at any time hidden from my mother.

But still I couldn't at once cast aside all thoughts of him. I do believe there's an unhealthy power which some people have over some others, and which makes the breaking loose from them a hard matter. But I believe that anybody who wills may break loose from such a bondage, through prayer and resolute doing.

Well, at last I heard I was to go to Bristol. Mary wrote that the doctors were afraid of Claxton for mother yet, and of course Mrs. Withers couldn't be expected to keep me on for any length of time. Besides, it was right I should go to mother, now I was all right in health, and strong again. Mary didn't say this; but I felt it.

The puzzle to me was how Mary had managed to be so long away from her brother. She never so much as said his name in her letters, and I knew she had taken to dressmaking again among her old friends.

The six weeks at Deane Rectory had been a wonderful help to me; and so had Mr. Withers' teaching, though I haven't said anything about that. His sermons were beautiful, and now and then he'd say a thing in passing that stayed by one for days.

But the one I minded most of all leaving was little Miss Kathleen. She cried, and so did I, when we said good-bye; and she promised to write long letters to me, and made me promise I'd write to her.

The through-train for Bristol left Littleburgh at twelve o'clock, and I got there a good while before, being driven in the little light cart which was often in and out for all sorts of purposes. The man had a lot of things to do, so we started early; and I had to wait a good time at the station—something near three-quarters of an hour, I believe.

I had a little book to read which Miss Kathleen had given me; and I sat down on a quiet bench, in a corner, with it open on my knee.

All of a sudden a queer sort of feeling came over me; for there on the platform, not far off, was Walter Russell.

He had his jaunty air, and kept moving about with a look of being very important. I don't know why, but he didn't seem to me so much of a gentleman as he'd seemed once. He put on such airs; and when he stopped to speak to somebody, he laughed so loud.

And yet my heart went pit-a-pat, and I was all in a flutter. I hoped he wouldn't see me; but still I didn't know how to bear being passed over by him.

If he did know I was there, he mightn't choose to speak. And that would be the best thing for me. I knew it, yet a longing came into my mind for just a word—only a word! I never could feel sure he had really known me that day I drove by him in the fly.

He went to the other end of the platform, and walked back, keeping up his jaunty air. All of a sudden, he stopped opposite, and our eyes met.

There was nobody near, except one old market-woman, half asleep, at the other end of the bench.

"Hallo! Why, it's Kitty Phrynne!" says he; and his mouth dropped open in a sort of amaze. He didn't look delighted. I could see that plain enough.

I did not move, or get up. All at once, clear like a bell, I seemed to hear mother's voice saying her favourite saying— "Least said, soonest mended!" "Least said, soonest mended!" And I sat still, determined I'd not be drawn into any folly. I would show mother I had some self-respect. I had nothing more to do with Walter, nor he with me; and the less we said to each other the better. If I got into a talk, I couldn't depend on myself.

"I declare it's—Kitty," says he again. And I kept still. I wouldn't stir.

"Come! come! you don't bear malice, I hope," says he, and he came up to shake hands.

"Bear malice! What for?" said I slowly. I thought I'd keep strict to the "least said" plan.

"What for! Oh, come! that's good," he broke out, with a laugh.

He meant about the watch, of course—but I did wonder he could laugh.

"I don't see anything to make fun of," I said.

"Well, no—nor do I," says he. "Most serious event in a man's life, isn't it?"

And he sat down by my side. "Kitty, you're prettier than ever," says he softly.

But that was going too far. I couldn't stand it. Something in his manner and speech angered me; and I thought how he had led me into saddening my father's last days—how perhaps even, but for him, father might have been living still, and mother well, and I a happy girl in the dear old home! No; that was going too far!

"Good-bye," I said. "My train will start soon." And I got up and walked away.

But he was at my side.

"Kitty—Kitty—I didn't mean to vex you," says he, in a sort of wheedling manner. "Just say you're not vexed. Say we can be friends still."

"Friends!" I said, and I turned to look at him. I hadn't a wish for any more soft words. A change seemed to have come over me. Perhaps it had been coming long, though I didn't find it out till then. "Friends!" I said.

"Well, yes," said he. "We've been friends, haven't we?"

And I said—I couldn't help it, for the words seemed to be squeezed out of me, I thinking of my poor father—

"No! You've been the worst enemy I ever had."

I didn't add another word. "Least said—" was sounding in a whisper somewhere. I had to say enough, but not too much. There's never any good in piling on a lot of words, if one dozen are all that's wanted.

"Kitty!" says he, as if he was confounded.

I didn't speak.

"You don't mean that," says he, wheedling again.

But I held my tongue.

"Kitty, I do assure you I couldn't help it," says he. "I didn't mean to take you in."

"When you said it was lent—and then to have sold it!" says I slowly.

"Lent! Sold it!" says he, looking uncomfortable, and then he gave a sort of laugh. "Oh, I see—you mean that wretched watch," says he.

And I just said "Yes."

"But I thought you meant something else," says he. "Mary has told you—"

"Mary has told me nothing at all," I said.

And I turned and walked away once more. He didn't follow me this time. I saw he was all taken aback like, to find I thought so much of his dishonesty.

The train was waiting, and I got into a third-class carriage. I felt so glad that talk was over, and so glad I hadn't said more. Mother would be pleased, I thought—some day when I could tell her. It wouldn't do to speak Walter Russell's name in her hearing yet awhile.

I had to sit a good while in the carriage, waiting; but Walter didn't come near me again. Presently I caught sight of him sauntering along the platform; and then a smart sort of girl joined him. He put his arm through hers, and she laughed and joked in a shrill voice. I didn't like her look.

After that they went out of sight. I believed it was the same girl I had seen him speak to, the day I drove from Littleburgh to Deane Rectory; but I could not be sure. I hadn't noticed her then so much as him.

The train started, and there was nobody in the compartment with me. I had it to myself. Presently I found myself saying aloud—

"That is all over!"

The words did not mean pain. I had a feeling of being set free from bondage. So often I had felt that I couldn't break loose from Walter's mastery; yet here was I loose, and the mastery gone. I had so feared to meet him; yet now we had met, and he had not his old power over me.

I did not know whether he was changed or I was changed; but either way I knew it was an answer to prayer. For I had prayed.

All through the journey to Bristol I was feeling so glad and thankful, so happy to be free.

It was a long journey. The train stopped at pretty nearly every station, and people got in and out. All of them were civil to me; and one old woman took me under her care, begging me to eat a lot of rich plum-cake. But I had been well supplied with sandwiches and cake before I left Deane Rectory.

Bristol station was reached at last; and an uncommon big bustling place it seemed to be, different as could be from Claxton. I felt very lone and strange, till I caught sight of Mary's face on the platform; and then it was all right.

"Are you ready for a good walk, Kitty?" she asked.

I said "Yes," for I was cramped with long sitting. So we settled about having my box sent, and Mary and I started off. We could have done a good part of the way by tram, if we'd been minded; but I liked the walk, and there was no harm in saving a few pence.

The rooms Mary had taken for my mother and herself were not actually near the part that had been her girlhood's home; not down in Bristol, but higher up in Redland. Mary had feared the narrow streets and noise of Bristol for my mother. Still she had found out all her old friends, and had had lots of kindness from them, as well as getting plenty of work.

She told me this as we toiled up one of the steep hills out of Bristol, with houses on both sides, and houses around everywhere.

"I shouldn't like to live down there," I said.

"No; it isn't as if you'd been used to the place always," Mary answered.

Then I asked, "Will mother be pleased to see me?"

"I can't tell yet, but I hope so, Kitty. She seemed glad this morning, when I told her you were coming."

"She hasn't ever written to me," I said.

"No; she has written to nobody. She doesn't seem able. But she keeps the rooms nice, so as to leave me free for work; and sometimes she works too."

"I'm sure I can never thank you enough for staying with her all this time," I said. "I couldn't have thought you'd have been able."

"Things are changed," Mary said.

I didn't know what she meant. I looked for more, but she wouldn't speak. So I said—

"How soon will mother and I have to go back to Claxton?"

"Do you wish very much to go?" she asked.

"I don't know. Yes," I said. "Claxton is our home." And yet I felt it would be sad, with everything so different.

"Could Claxton be home to you again, I wonder?" says she. "In another house, and without your father?"

"Mother wouldn't like to live anywhere else," I said.

"Yes; she will be content with whatever is decided."

"But when you go home to Littleburgh?"

"I am not going to Littleburgh. I have no home there now," she answered.

I was that startled with her words, I came to a standstill on the pavement.

"Not got any home in Littleburgh?"

"No," said she. "That's one of the things that are changed."

But what was to become of Walter, all alone there?

"Kitty, I haven't spoken of my brother to you lately," said she, as I was thinking this.

"No," I said, "not once."

"I thought it might be best not," she said. "Perhaps the time is come now to speak."

"I saw him at Littleburgh station to-day," I said.

"You did?" said she.

And I looked up, and our eyes met. Mary must have seen something in my face which pleased her, for she broke into a smile.

"He was on the platform," I said; "and we had a few words. I didn't say much; I thought mother would rather I shouldn't. He talked about hoping I didn't bear malice. I fancied he meant the watch, you know, but he didn't; and I don't know what he did mean. And he asked if we could be friends still; and I said he had been my enemy. He seemed sure I had heard something about him from you, and I said I had not. And then I walked away."

"Right!" Mary said.

"But what did he mean?"

"He meant—that he has treated you as he has treated a good many girls," she said. "He is married."

"Married!"

I didn't feel as if it was a blow, or hard to bear. I almost felt like laughing, when I remembered the things I had said, and how he had looked.

"Yes. Are you sorry for your own sake, Kitty?" asked she. "I think you have had an escape to be thankful for."

"I do think so too," I answered; and I spoke from my heart.

"Ah, that is right, that is right," said she. "Then you understand now. But I have not told you all. Walter married three weeks after I left him, to take care of you and your mother. My dear, it would have been just the same if I had stayed there," says she. "He was bent on having the girl, and I knew it. He married her, saying nothing to me. And a week later—"

"Is she a nice girl?" I asked.

"No; not a nice girl at all," Mary said; and her face took its stern look for just a moment. "Not a girl I could wish to live with, even if she wished to have me; which she does not."

"And they are living at Littleburgh," I said in a sort of dreamy way. It all seemed so queer.

"At Littleburgh, but not in our old home. Walter was dismissed from his situation within a week of being married. Yes, dismissed. He had been falsifying the school accounts. Of course he quite forfeited all hope of another situation as schoolmaster."

"And he has nothing to live on?"

"He has something just now. His wife has a few hundreds of her own. She is an orphan. I suppose they will spend all they have, and then—" Mary sighed. "My poor Walter!" she said. "Yes, I love him still— unhappy boy! But I do not respect him. How can I?"

I don't think I made any answer. I was thinking what an escape I had had of being his wife! That had grown plain to me at last.

"So I have come back to my old haunts," she said, "and to old friends. The question is now—shall I live alone, or will you and your mother live with me?"

"O Mary!—may we?" I cried. "May we—always?"

"I should like it," she answered. "I love your mother dearly—and you too," though I could see that was the afterthought. "Why shouldn't you take to dressmaking?" says she. "But I am afraid there wouldn't be work enough in Claxton."