She got in, and they drove, away to the
stationer's. Martha Malcolm was standing there,
and saw it all. Then turned and went home.
As the stationer was about shutting up, a lady
and gentleman entered, called hurriedly for pen
and paper, and the lady wrote a hasty letter.

"We may send away the Brougham," said
the gentleman, "and take a cab. The servants
have enough to talk of without these things.
Recollect, charity and the dying! You will
have scruples on the journey, but reassure yourself
with those words. Now I shall take
charge of this, and promise to deliver it at the
house in half an hour. You will be there in
two or three hours at most. Good-bye, Mrs.
Tillotson. God speed you for this generous
action. Wait. This is an awful night. You
will be destroyed with the cold. Here is a
shawl-shop. We can get something here—
rugs and everything."

At the South-Western station, the express
was all but ready. Already the bell had rung.
There was the dropping musketry of closing
doors; the engine was dripping dew, and blowing
off white clouds; the station-master was
looking up and down, when a lady came
fluttering through the doorway, quite against the
regulations, for the door had been shut. But
that gorgeous gold hair and that piteous and
most musical soft face were not to be resisted
by mortal porter, still less the temptation that
was forced into his hand. In a second, a
carriage door was opened, the lady was put in,
and the Southampton night-express had rumbled
out, as if it were kicking and pawing the ground,
into the night and the very heart of the bitter
east wind.

Mr. Grainger, faithful to his engagement,
went straight to Mr. Tillotson's house. He
asked to see the master, was refused, and then
handed to Martha Malcolm the hastily written
letter. It was not sealed; it was not in an
envelope. She took it. She herself had only
come in a minute before. When he was gone,
she opened it, thought for a few moments, read it,
and then, with one of her grim smiles, tore it up.

For an hour later there was silence in the
house, and Mrs. Tillotson had not returned.
Towards seven, Martha Malcolm went up to
Mr. Tillotson with some light refection, such as
he made a feint of taking, and told him—was
it not her duty?—that Mrs. Tillotson had not
come home. A flush came into the pale face,
and the thin hands pressed the ends of his chair as
he heard this news. But he was unable to speak.

"And the carriage," Martha went on, "has
come home without her."

Mr. Tillotson half rose. "Come home without
her—her?" he repeated.

"Come home without her. Yes. Come
without her. I knew it would end in this way
from the day that you married her. I said it,
and it has come true."

"But she will return?" he gasped.

She shook her head. "No; she has left
you. I knew she would. She thought no one
was watching her. She sent away the carriage,
and took a cab. But I followed her, and took
another. She is gone."

"You followed her," he almost gasped, "and
where? Tell me at once. No concealment,
woman."

Martha Malcolm paused a moment, then
lifted her long fingers, and pointed as if in the
direction of the town. "Down to
Southampton."

For a long time he lay there in his chair half
stunned by this news, then gradually
recovered. Martha was gone. He passed his
hand over his forehead; and then, quick as
lightning, a resolution flashed into his mind.
"She has abandoned me. But I shall try and
save her yet."

CHAPTER XXXI. A LONG NIGHT.

WHEN Mr. Tillotson found himself on the
platform of the railway, it seemed all deserted
and dismal. The lights were half down; the
huge arching—which hung in the air, and
appeared to gather clouds in its recesses—seemed
like the vaulting of a huge cave, and to hold
awful mysteries in its iron waves. Only a
large clock, with a great ghastly dial, on which
played a concealed lamp, and which looked as
if held out by a stiff straight arm from the wall,
told the hour with an unwearied brilliance,
showing Mr. Tillotson that it was now past
one. The place was deserted. The lines of
rails went off, away into darkness. The lines of
carriages—funereal, and not glistening now—
went off away into darkness too, and seemed
like endless strings of mourning-coaches laid
up in ordinary. All up through this vast
archway—which seemed now like a huge tube—
swept the cutting night winds at intervals;
and, passing through Mr. Tillotson's frame,
made him shrink and cower.

Yet he was not conscious of it. This was
but a physical instinct. A strong porter came
by, and he asked him about the next train for
the seaport. It was, indeed, the same station
to which he had come on the day of his gloomy
departure from St. Alans. And this thought
came back on him at the moment. He thought
of his state of mind then almost with a smile
—a smile of despair. Foolish, frantic, twisted
yarn of follies that go to make up what is
called man! And this porter was actually the
"intelligent" man who on the same day had
done the honours of the place to our captain.

The porter entered into the spirit of what
was asked of him. The mail, of course—the
express—even the night-luggage—every train
was gone; there would not be another until
six to-morrow. By-and-by there would be a
"packet train" in, and that, was what they were
waiting for. And then they could get home
to their beds.

Mr. Tillotson was almost stunned by this
news. And with the news up came a shower
of sharp stinging Minnié bullets from the dark
end of the cave, and swept through him once
more. The porter drew his jacket about him.