The Geneva express jerked itself out of the Gare de
Lyons. For a few minutes the lights of outer
Paris twinkled past its windows and then with a spring
it reached the open night. The jolts and lurches
merged into one regular purposeful throb, the shrieks
of the wheels, the clatter of the coaches, into one
continuous hum. And already in the upper berth
of her compartment Mrs. Thesiger was asleep.
The noise of a train had no unrest for her. Indeed,
a sleeping compartment in a Continental express was
the most permanent home which Mrs. Thesiger had possessed
for a good many more years than she would have cared
to acknowledge. She spent her life in hotels
with her daughter for an unconsidered companion.
From a winter in Vienna or in Rome she passed to a
spring at Venice or at Constantinople, thence to a
June in Paris, a July and August at the bathing places,
a September at Aix, an autumn in Paris again.
But always she came back to the sleeping-car.
It was the one familiar room which was always ready
for her; and though the prospect from its windows changed,
it was the one room she knew which had always the same
look, the same cramped space, the same furniture—the
one room where, the moment she stepped into it, she
was at home.
Yet on this particular journey she woke while it was
yet dark. A noise slight in comparison to the
clatter of the train, but distinct in character and
quite near, told her at once what had disturbed her.
Some one was moving stealthily in the compartment—her
daughter. That was all. But Mrs. Thesiger
lay quite still, and, as would happen to her at times,
a sudden terror gripped her by the heart. She
heard the girl beneath her, dressing very quietly,
subduing the rustle of her garments, even the sound
of her breathing.
“How much does she know?” Mrs. Thesiger
asked of herself; and her heart sank and she dared
not answer.
The rustling ceased. A sharp click was heard,
and the next moment through a broad pane of glass
a faint twilight crept into the carriage. The
blind had been raised from one of the windows.
It was two o’clock on a morning of July and
the dawn was breaking. Very swiftly the daylight
broadened, and against the window there came into
view the profile of a girl’s head and face.
Seen as Mrs. Thesiger saw it, with the light still
dim behind it, it was black like an ancient daguerreotype.
It was also as motionless and as grave.
“How much does she know?”
The question would thrust itself into the mother’s
thoughts. She watched her daughter intently from
the dark corner where her head lay, thinking that
with the broadening of the day she might read the answer
in that still face. But she read nothing even
when every feature was revealed in the clear dead
light, for the face which she saw was the face of one
who lived much apart within itself, building amongst
her own dreams as a child builds upon the sand and
pays no heed to those who pass. And to none of
her dreams had Mrs. Thesiger the key. Deliberately
her daughter had withdrawn herself amongst them, and
they had given her this return for her company.
They had kept her fresh and gentle in a circle where
freshness was soon lost and gentleness put aside.
