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Updated: May 7, 2025
"We shall get there in capital time that's nice!" said Polly Mason, putting down the little railway guide she had just purchased at Marsland Station, with a general rustle of satisfaction. Polly indeed shone with good temper and new clothes. Her fringe even halved was prodigious.
The station-master turned to the telegraph office in some astonishment. It was not the ordinary signal message, or the down signal would have dropped. He read off. "If a lady arrives by 10.20, too late for Marsland train, kindly help her make arrangements for night. Direct her to White Hart Inn, tell her will meet her Marsland first train. Reply. Helbeck, Bannisdale."
Never till this year was he restless in this way so says Mrs. Denton, whose temper grows shorter and shorter. Oh as to fun and frolic! The girl yawns as she looks out of window. What a long hot day it is going to be and how foolish are all expeditions, all formal pleasures! 9.10 at Marsland about seven, she supposes, at Froswick?
Trains were starting and arriving, the platforms were packed with passengers. Mason said a word to a porter as they rushed in. The porter answered; then, while they fled on, the man stopped a moment and looked back as though about to run after them. But a dozen passengers with luggage laid hands upon him at once, and he was left with no time for more than the muttered remark: "Marsland?
"Well! it is very unlucky and very disagreeable. But the station-master says there is a respectable inn. Will you go and see, while I wait? If it won't do if it isn't a place I can go to I'll rest here while you ask, and then I shall walk on over the sands to Marsland. It's eight miles I can do it." He exclaimed: "No, you can't."
"For God's sake, man, whoever you are, whatever your injuries may be, do not shed the blood of an old man on his son's grave!" and the captain sprang forward with outspread, appealing hands. "His son!" and the point of the gleaming weapon drooped. "His only son. Have mercy on him, as you hope for mercy yourself." "Stop, Captain Marsland. Do not ask for mercy for me.
She is in the hall at Bannisdale on the Marsland platform in the woodland roads through which Mr. Helbeck has driven home. No! by now he is in his study. She sees the crucifix, the books, the little altar.
She would be glad of course she would be glad to see him as soon as she discovered her dilemma. After all he was her cousin her blood relation. And Mr. Helbeck? The lad's hand clenched. A clock-face came slowly into view at a wayside station. 8.45. He was now waiting for her at Marsland. For the Squire himself would bring the trap; there was no coachman at Bannisdale.
Then again, why not go to the inn? Could she not easily have found a woman on whom to throw herself, who would have befriended her? Or why not have tried to get a carriage? Fifteen miles to Marsland eighteen to Bannisdale. Even in this small place, and at midnight, the promise of money enough would probably have found her a fly and a driver. But these thoughts only rose to be shuddered away.
Hatton, one evening soon after, as he blew a cloud of "Lynchburg sun-cured" tobacco-smoke across the top of the old Argand and tossed McLean a Cheyenne paper. "Celestine has gone to the penitentiary, and here's the sentence of the court in the case of Marsland and Parsons, five years apiece."
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