Chapter XXIV A Red Tie
Archibald had ordered a coupé to be ready for him at Westchester, but when the Bournemouth express dashed up, the stationmaster was obliged to confess that a blunder had taken place; no coupé was on the train. A first-class carriage was found, in which two seats were already occupied.
“Somebody ought to be censured for this,” said the bridegroom, as the train slid out of the station. “It’s inexcusable carelessness. I shall write to the directors about it.”
“Pray don’t,” said Betty. “The matter’s not worth a penny stamp.”
“We shall find a coupé at Victoria,” he whispered, bending forward. They were en route for France, having agreed to spend their honeymoon in Touraine. Betty glanced at the elderly couple, whose curiosity had been quickened. Archibald drew back with a slight frown. “I shall write from Dover,” he said. “I regard it as a duty.”
Betty pouted, surprised that he should treat her injunction so cavalierly. Men, she reflected, were men, and must be humoured. After all, her husband’s annoyance was a compliment to her. She blushed as she lay back against the cushions, shutting her eyes. Her husband! She repeated the word very softly, the colour ebbing and flowing in her cheeks, as she gave herself up to the thought of him. Archibald said nothing; that was tactful. He had plenty of tact—a great gift—and most agreeable manners. Suddenly she realised that she was making an inventory of his good qualities, repeating them to herself like a parrot. She sat up, opening her eyes, opening them indeed wider than usual when she saw what had happened. Archibald had risen early; he had spent a busy and exciting morning; he had made an excellent breakfast, although, being a total abstainer, he had refused the Pomméry and Waterloo brandy. Now, not being able to talk to his bride in the presence of strangers, seeing that she wanted to rest and reflect, he had settled himself comfortably into his corner and—had fallen asleep!
Betty eyed him furtively. She did not like to wake him, but his appearance distressed her. She bent forward and touched his arm.
“Dear me,” he said. “I saw you close your eyes, Betty, and I closed mine. You did right to wake me.”
“I couldn’t help it,” she replied. “Your hat had fallen over your left eye. It made you look—ridiculous.”
They spoke in whispers, leaning forward, so that their heads almost touched. But at the word “ridiculous” the bridegroom winced.
Betty had pierced a sensitive skin. Seeing this, she tried to turn the incident into a joke, laughing lightly, sorry that she should have hurt him, yet still seeing the hat tilted over the left eye.
At Victoria the coupé was awaiting them. The train, however, had only just backed into the station and would not leave for a quarter of an hour. Archibald and Betty arranged their belongings, and proceeded to walk up and down the platform. A great station was a never-failing source of interest to Betty. The infinite variety of faces, the bustle, the pervading air of change and motion, even the raucous, ear-splitting sounds, stimulated her imagination. Nothing amused her more than to invent stories concerning fellow-travellers. She brought to this an ingenuity and an insight which had often delighted Lady Randolph. Now, as usual, her eye drifted here and there in search of some attractive lay figure. As a rule she selected someone out of the ordinary groove. The flare of an eye, the twist of a moustache, a peculiarity in figure or gait instantly aroused her interest. Passing the bookstall, she saw a man in an Inverness cape made out of Harris tweed. Because he had the appearance of coming straight from Scotland, she examined him more closely. At the moment he turned, and their eyes met. The stranger was very brown of complexion and wore a beard, but the eyes, blue eyes with sparkling pin-points of frosty light, were Mark’s eyes.
“That’s Mark!” said Betty excitedly, clutching her husband’s arm. “Look—look!”
Archibald looked and laughed.
“You have an amazing imagination, my dearest Mark? That man in homespun, and a red tie! He’s twice Mark’s size, and he wears a beard. I noticed him just now. Mark? Why Mark’s in Sutherland.”
“I was mistaken,” said Betty absently. She walked on quite sure that the man’s eyes were following her. She was sure of it, although her back was turned to him. A minute before Archibald had asked her if she would like a tea-basket. The refreshment-room was just opposite. An impulse seized her.
“I think I should like a tea-basket,” she said, pausing. “Will you get one? I’ll go back to the carriage.”
Archibald obeyed, unsuspecting. Betty turned and ran to the bookstall. The man was no longer there. She looked right and left. That was he—disappearing, melting into the crowd outside. Without a moment’s hesitation she hastened after him, came up behind, plucked at his cape. He turned at once. It was Mark.
“You?” she gasped. “You—here?”
Her eyes, wide open, glaring interrogation, fell before his. He took her hand, grasping it firmly.
“I can explain. I heard of your plans from Mrs. Samphire. I knew that you were leaving by this train. I came on the off chance of getting a glimpse of you.”
“You are well, strong!”
She raised her eyes, devouring him. He could see that people in the crowd were nudging each other, grinning and pointing. He drew her aside.
“Yes; I am strong.” As he said it, he realised that he would need all his strength. What a mad fool he had been to come, to risk so much. “Look here,” he said harshly, “you must go back to Archie. Tell him—tell him that I couldn’t come to his wedding, because, b-b-because I’ve left the Church. I wasn’t going to set every tongue wagging in Slowshire. Do you see? Do you understand? Now—go—run!”
He almost pushed her from him. Her eyes never left his face.
“Can’t you see me to my carriage?”
This, the obvious thing, had not occurred to him. He walked beside her. As they passed into the station, Archibald appeared on the platform, followed by a boy carrying a tea-basket.
“It is Mark,” said Betty, as her husband joined them. They walked towards the carriage, the most amazing trio in that vast station. Mark repeated his reasons for not taking part in the wedding. Archibald looked confused.
“You have left our Church?”
He repeated it three times.
“Yes; yes—we can’t go into reasons here and now.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I am writing.”
The guard began to slam the doors. He came up to the brothers, smiling, seeing the bride, feeling in his broad palm the tip of the bridegroom.
“Better get in, sir,” he said to Mark, who, in his Inverness cape and rough cap, looked the traveller.
Archibald pushed Betty into the coupé and shook hands with Mark.
“You must tell us everything when we get back. It has been a great shock,” he stared at the red tie; “but I’m delighted to see you looking so well.”
He sprang into the coupé as the train began to move. Betty pushed him aside and leaned out of the window. Mark never forgot the expression on her face framed by the small, square window. The engine was screeching lamentably, like a monster in agony. Another train was entering the station, adding its strident note to the chorus, filling the atmosphere with clouds of white steam. A third-class carriage full of soldiers glided by. The soldiers, mostly boyish recruits, were singing at the top of their voices, “Good-bye, my lover, good-bye.” A girl standing near burst into hysterical sobbing. Mark noted these details, as a man notes some irrelevant trifle in a dream, which remains part of that dream for ever after. But his eyes were on Betty’s face. She had been borne away by a force slow but irresistible, the relentless Machine, the symbol of progress, of Fate, if you will, which tears asunder things and men, and brings some together again, but not all, nor any just as they were before. The face was white and piteous, the face of an Andromeda. Upon it, in unmistakable lines, were inscribed regret and reproach. Mark turned sick. He had wished to save this woman; had he sacrificed her?
Betty heard her husband say, “This has been very upsetting.” Immediately she laughed, withdrawing her face from the window. Nothing else, probably, would have erased the tell-tale lines. She thought that her laugh was a revelation of what was passing in her mind; but Archibald took other notice of it.
“You laugh?” he said heavily. “I know what has happened. I am not much surprised. Mark has gone over to Rome. Really, my dear little woman, you must not laugh like that. I give you my word that I am terribly distressed. That red tie!”
“The scarlet woman.”
“Pray don’t joke! This is most upsetting.”
She laughed again, knowing that she was on the verge of hysterics, trying to control herself. The train, rushing on out of the mists of London into the splendid May sunshine of the country, rocked violently as it crossed the points. Betty fell back upon the cushions, still laughing and repeating Archibald’s words.
“Upsetting? I should think so.”
Like Mark, she was reflecting that Force was bearing her away, whirling her asunder, leaving heart and soul here, flinging her body there. The irony of it was stunning in its violence. She covered her face with her hands, pressing her finger-tips upon her temples, but she did not close her eyes, which followed Archibald’s slow, methodical movements. He was arranging the baggage—her handsome travelling-bag, a wedding present from the Squire, his own massive suit-case, the parasols and umbrellas, the tea-basket. In the contracted space wherein he moved he loomed colossal. She felt herself shrinking, collapsing. In a minute, a moment, he would turn, he would take her cold hands in his, removing them gently but masterfully from the face quivering beneath. Then he would surely read and know. He had nearly finished his fiddle-faddling arrangements. He took his hat from his head, looked at it, brushed a few specks of dust from the crown and rim, and placed it carefully in the rack. Out of the pocket of an overcoat he drew a soft travelling cap, putting it on deliberately, making himself comfortable. At last he was coming towards her, the tea-basket in his hand, a smile upon his face, an endearing phrase upon his lips. Betty closed her eyes. The words of the marriage service sounded loud in her ears, rhythmic, like the roar of waves breaking on an iron-bound coast: the echo of her oath before the altar thundering down the empty corridors of the future—“From this day forward... to love, cherish, and to obey till Death us do part!”
Archibald dropped the tea-basket with a crash. His bride had fainted.