374
ONCE A WEEK*
twenty-five and fifty, got into the carriage with
the air of one who did not see me. He pat his
bag within an inch of my legs, and when I moved
took no notice of the fact; he arranged himself
and several small parcels with so perfect an
appearance of being alone, that I had suddenly a
disagreeable sense of being invisible, and I found
myself choking a cough lest I should disturb my
companion. He spoke to the porters, and inquired
the hour of arrival at Newport. It was comforting
to learn from this that I should not have my un-
conscious companion all the way to Beachly. I had
not recovered from the peculiar sensations excited
by this person when another station was reached.
As we slackened our pace I saw a lady on the platform, whose sudden animation as our carriage passed her was evidently a recognition of my companion. But his countenance exhibited no emotion, not until this lady spoke, and said: “0, Leslie!” did he appear to be aware of his being known.
“Terese!” he answered, with a slightly foreign accent, and opening the door was in an instant at her side. She was accompanied by an elderly woman whom I took for her servant. This person proceeded to place a shawl on the seat opposite to my companion, and in another moment Terese got in. The step was of an impossible height.
“Will you take my hand?” I said. She thanked me, and got in with my help.
Her “thank you ” was gentle; her smile— though it was more given to the seat of the car- riage than to me — was extraordinarily sweet; and her “Now, Leslie,” made me feel that the so- called was an insolent fellow, though my reason for so sudden a verdict would not be very easy to give. In an instant we were off, and in another instant I had begun to feel myself again invisible; and with such force did the sensation cling to me, that I felt the discomfort increasingly. I was annoyed, unhappy, and I became nervous. I wondered if I should get to the end of the journey alive; was I losing my personal identity? Another and another station. We stopped ten minutes for refreshment. The elderly woman came to the door. A cup of coffee in her hand.
“Have some coffee, Leslie?”
“Yes, Terese.”
“Nugent! another.”
The woman brought another. I jumped out of the carriage, drank a glass of sherry in some soda- water. To get in I had to come to their side of the carriage. The man held his empty coffee-cup towards me as if I had been one of the waiters. An impulse— of generous kindness I hope — made me take it. Terese blushed, not rosy but deep-red — red, like a damask rose. A strong emotion of anger took hold of me. It all passed in a moment. But astonishment at his insolence— at his ^alm indifference, though he was gazing with a smile on her agitated form; and my perception and inex- pressible admiration of her great beauty, as she raised towards me the face that a very thick veil had shaded till now, all in that moment mingled with my anger — my anger which so suddenly vanished — fled for ever — leaving only admiration behind, as she said: “Forgive us, sir; my hus- band is blind!”
[November 5, 1859.
“What have I done?” asked Leslie, emotion-
less no longer.
I jumped into the carriage, and we were off again. A cry from the platform — a woman help- lessly running, with her arms stretched out towards us.
“Nugent is left behind!” cried the lady. As the woman said afterwards, somehow she did not think the train would start till she had taken master's coffee cup. The blind man was dis- tressed.
“You will have so much trouble at Newport, Terese; such quantities of luggage. I know where it all is: but I am so vexed.”
The woman made light of it. “01 shall get on capitally. Don't mind. You must stay in the waiting-room. I will manage it alL”
“I was so glad to see you,” he said; “and now I wish you had not come.”
She turned to me pleasantly: “I was to have met Mr. Barrington at Newport, where we are to leave the railway: we are staying with friends in that neighbourhood. But I thought the journey would be so long for him alone, that I could not;;; resist my wish to meet him; so Nugent and I started early, and we met as you saw.”
“I have to stay half an hour at Newport,” I answered; “I hope you will let me be of service to you.”
She had told me their name. I had my carpet-; bag, with my full direction in easily read letters on the white canvas cover, on the seat before me.! She read it as I ceased speaking.;
“‘Reginald Deane!* My father had a friend j! of that name, a man of large property; he was! fond of literature and antiquities. He lived a ' great part of his life in Germany. There my father lived. I was born in Germany; Leslie, too, was bora there — at Heidelberg.”
There was such music in her voice, such sweet- ness in her upturned face, I was sorry that the husband of this beautiful young woman could not; see what I saw. I wondered if he could guess at her great loveliness — if he had any correct idea of ; a mingled gentleness and majesty that seemed to me to distinguish her from all other beauties of I her age and sex that I had ever had the luck to i look upon. She ceased speaking, and I said:
“That Reginald Deane was my uncle. His property was divided by seven when he died, and one such portion came to me.” I 1
The blind man spoke: “My wife’s father's name was Leslie; I was called after him: we are cousins. We had been engaged to be married! almost from childhood. Was she not good to i keep her word? Two years before our marriage I went to the West Indies, and by my own folly I had a sun-stroke there. I always think that my blindness grew out of that. I was very ill for a! year and a half, suffering from painful variations of sight. Then I woke one morning, and knew I was awake, yet all was dark! She married me, nevertheless.”
Scream went the whistle — “Newport, Newport. Change for Beachly.” Here we were then. The blind Mr. Barrington collected all his parcels, jumped out, helped his wife, and said, “Where is
Mr. Deane?”