DELUSIONS.

Evening Star, Issue 9582, 31 December 1894, Page 4 (Supplement)

DELUSIONS.

■ i i »il| ni(l lIWMiI. [By Anthony Hops, f Westminster' Qiaa*B.»]- - ,\ I asked the guard to ask the lady whether she objected. While she was being asked I strolled, from motives of delicacy, to a distance of some yards. The guard returned. " The lady will be very pleased, sir. In fact, she says she used to know you, sir." "It is too late, guard," said I, " to draw back now without incivility. But how did she say it?" " "Oh, not unpleasantly, sir." "Regretfully?" " No, sir; not exactly regretfully."' " Guard, was it wist- ?" The whistle of the train Bounded, aud, running along, I leapt into the coupe, the guard throwing my belongings after me. "You didnt know me, she said, reproachfully, as she held out her hand. " No," said I, " or I wouldn't have risked destroying the work of years." "I don't think you've changed muoh, though." " I don't change. I'm- changed," said I. " For the better, 1 hope ?" " You don't know my husband ?" "No. Is he nice?" " Well, really, I'm hardly the person to ask." " Now I should have thought you were just the person." " I mean, of course, 1 think him nice." " Is he handsome ?" " Looks don't matter in a man." I brightened up. . /'When women say that," I observed, "they are always apologising; only, as a rule, one doesn't know his name." "I don't "think I shall talk to you any more. And aren't you married ?" " Thiß from you !" I cried tragically. " Oh, nonsense!" she smiled. " I happen to know.that since then " "Since when?" "Since since since we met, you've been " " They were mere narcotics," I .assured her. "That's a new name for it. I hope they acted?" "No. I did the acting." " You always could, couldn't you ?" She seemed really rather interested in the conversation. So I observed : ' "After all, a romance is a thing to cherish." " Do you think I believe ? " " To remember—to be proud of." "It's very silly of you," she remarked, looking out of the window. < "To be taken " "Not too seriously ?" "To be taken, I was about to say, between meals -or else, you know, it might spoil dinner." After this there was a long pause. Then she, still steadily regarding the landscape, remarked : " I always knew you never cared a bit." "What about?" 1 asked. "About—oh, about it all corning to nothing." "It hasn't come to nothing for you. It's come to a husband." She took no notice, but observed after a while: " I'm glad I met you to-day. It's taken a load off my mind." Then I'm glad of it too. What was the burden?" " Well, you know, somebody who knew you told' me that you had been really quite " " Ah, that must have been the man who found me on the parapet of Waterloo Bridge with a revolver in each hand." " Are you going far ?" "Oh, well, about a hundred miles?" "Because if you're going to be as disagreeable as this all the way " "That's the worst*of thesa coupeV'.l complained. "You can't get away from your fellow-passenger." " I am sofry I let you in ! " "Oh, you always did let me in. Yes, it's comfortable, but cramped. Rather like marriage, you know." " Mr " " Why not say-Tom ?" " I never said Tom." " A poor reasou, even if it were true." "Well, I believe I did—once. But I should have thought you'd have forgotten." " Well, I should have thought so too. But trifles hang in the memory." " Were no, I won't say that." " Much better not," I agreed cheerfully. " Were—were you thinking of that evening?" "No,", said I, smiling. "Of the other evening, you know." " Oh, yes, of course—at Brighton ?" " Forgotten that too ?" "Was it Brighton?" " I hardly lookechat the landscape." " Now that's almost a nice speech. Don't go and spoil it. W T as—was it after Brighton that you went to Waterloo Bridge ?" " t think it must have been, but one confuses these things. However, I'm pretty sure that it was about you, anyhow." " Pretty sure !" she exclaimed, dropping her newspaper aud eyeing me wrathiully. " Were there so many ?" When embarrassed by a question, ask another. " So many what?" I asked, blandly. " Well—delusions," she answered, smiling. " Should you call them delusions?" said I, much pained. "The sweetest " " You needn't make fun of it, even if you didn't care." I moved a little nearer the leathern arm that divided us. " Was I rude ?" I asked. "Very." "It is the highest compliment." " You mean ?" " But I shall make the load on your mind heavier." She lay back cosily, and she said softly: "I don't ni.id just a little load, you know.'' " Then there was a metaphorical Waterloo Bridge." " Ah ! Mr—oh, no, I can't say—well, there, I won't call you anyihing. Do —do you ever—go there now ?" I allowed myself to smile. "Not now," I answered. "Not just now, no." " Then you've quite got rid of the—delusion?" " Well, the truth is " " Oh, don't mind saying it, Mr Chichester. Don't think I mind." " No, no ; I know you'd be glad." " Well, of course I should. When is your Btation coming ?* Go on." " The truth is that just at present I've got a new delusion." "What?" There was a very long pause. Then she asked:. "Do you like it?" " Very much indeed." " And--and is it a pretty delusion ?" "It's a prettier delusion than I ever expected to have again." " And will it last, Mr Chiohester ?" " I expect not," said I gloomily. Probably she thought tbat under the circumstances I needed a little consolation. Otherwise I don't know why she should have leant forward and whispered : "I shan't mind much if it doesn't." "You are a very cruel woman," said I severely. " No, I'm not. Mr Chichester, I—l hope you'll be happy." " Thank you. I'm sure to be, if it lasts,', "And if it doesn't?" "Oh, I shan't be much more unhapiy " When I—-?No—I don't mean that." "Well, you know, no more did I. I meant, when I got into this coup&" "Into this coupe? Why, what's that got to do with it? This girl, whoever she is " " My dear Mrs Beauohamp, who's talking, about a girl?" " Why, you were. The girl you're in love with?" " Oh, no ! oh, no, really. I said I bad a delusion I didn't Bay anything' about a girl. I'm not in love." Mrs Beauchamp looked at me very severely, then she smiled a little; then she even blushed a very little. " Then what is the delusion?" she asked, " Why, no more than this: that you are a little penitent." " You meant me to think the other." " I confess it." "Why?" " Why, to test the truth of the delusion,"

in j_ ipi iniiini i|i iMjgiifflii fi iijMnnTifiiinmiiniy ."WeUi yrtob-m " Ah \h>sWmw®fo%m* abput that . ■ girl, didijrbttr f > ■ J^ ." #: f<*~-n 4 . The tram began to pull yp, ,s!h*y manage' ( our railways very;welL on the?tfholg.. ,;-\....„, "I hope It's ypur station?" Mid Mrs Beauohamp, , ." \ -i', •"(That's very ungrateful after-'—s'M " No, it ißn r t—ungrateful," she said;} and she said itquite in a pleasing way—as if she meant something more", you know., ;•. I began, to collect my bag, stick, papers, '< and so on. . , ~" '~t "Take care you don't leave; anything; behind," she said warningly. " That's past prayingior.' lam bound to leave something," said I resignedly. "Oh—well, shall I take care of it for you?" ■'/"■ "If you would be so kind. It won't be a; —load?" "Not more than I can manage. Goodbye." " Good-bye. I hope I have not been a bore ?" " N-no." " You've had a pleasant journey ?" " Yes—pretty well." "Thanks to ?" "A delusion?" We looked at ons another, and we both , laughed. "A game with just enough chance," , j said she; "A laugh With just enough sigh," said I. " And," she whispered, " a delusion with -jußt enough truth ! .Well, I daresay she has a dull time at home. ■'..•■'' ■ ■ ■ . ■