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[Illustration: "WILL HE COME?"

_From the Painting by Marcus Stone, R.A._

_By Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London, W._]

       *       *       *       *       *

The
HARMSWORTH

MONTHLY PICTORIAL

MAGAZINE.


VOLUME 1, 1898-9. No 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

My travelling companion

A COMPLETE STORY

BY CATHERINE CHILDAR.

_Illustrated by Fred. Pegram._


It was a miserable day in November--the sort of day when, according to
the French, splenetic Englishmen flock in such crowds to the Thames, in
order to drown themselves, that there is not standing room on the
bridges. I was sitting over the fire in our dingy dining-room; for
personally I find that element more cheering than water under depressing
circumstances.

My eldest sister burst upon me with a letter in her hand: "Here, Tommy,
is an invitation for you," she cried.

My name is Charlotte; but I am generally called Tommy by my
unappreciative family, who mendaciously declare it is derived from the
expression "tom-boy."

"Oh, bother invitations," was my polite answer. "I don't want to go
anywhere. Why, it's a letter from Mysie Sutherland! How came you to open
it?"

"If she will address it to Miss Cornwall, of course I shall open it.
I've read it, too--it's very nice for you."

"Awfully jolly," put in Dick, who had followed my sister Lucy into the
room.

"Oh, I don't want to go a bit."

"Well, then, you'll just have to. It's disgraceful of you, Tom; why, you
may never get such a chance again. You'll meet lots of people in a big
country house like that, and perhaps--who knows?--marry a rich
Scotchman."

"I declare, Lucy, you are quite disgusting with your perpetual talk
about marrying! Why, I shan't have the time to get fond of anyone!"

"You're asked for a month; and if that isn't time enough, I don't know
what is."

"Time enough to be married and divorced again," cried Dick.

"But I shan't come to that; and besides, I have no clothes fit to be
seen."

"Oh, never mind; I'll lend you my white silk for evenings." And my
sister, who was always good-natured, carried me off to ransack her
wardrobe.

There was no help for it; remonstrances were useless; I had to go. The
invitation was from a schoolfellow of mine, Mysie Sutherland by name.
She lived near Inverness, and asked me to go and stay a month with her.
The idea filled me with apprehension. She was the only daughter, and
lived in style in a large house: I was one of a numerous family herded
together in a small house in Harley Street. Her father was a wealthy
landed proprietor: mine was a struggling doctor. Altogether I was shy
and nervous, and would much have preferred to remain at home; but Lucy
and Dick had decided I should go, and I knew there was no appeal.

A few days afterwards I was at Euston Station, on my way to the North.
My mother and sister had come to see me off, and stood at the carriage
door, passing remarks upon the people.

A knot of young men standing by the bookstall attracted our attention,
from their constant bursts of laughter. There was evidently a good joke
amongst them, and they were enjoying it to the full. The time was up,
and the train was just about to start, when one of them rushed forward
and jumped into my carriage. The guard slammed the door, his friends
threw some papers after him in at the window, and we were off.

For some time we sat silent, then a question about the window or the
weather opened a conversation. My companion was a good-looking young
man, with thick, curly brown hair. He had neither moustache, beard, nor
whiskers, which gave him a boyish appearance, and made me think he might
be an actor. His eyes were peculiar--they were kind eyes, honest eyes,
laughing eyes, but there was something about them that I could not make
out. As he sat nearly opposite to me I had every opportunity of studying
them, but not till we had travelled at least a hundred miles did I
discover what it was. They were not quite alike. There was no cast--not
the slightest suspicion of a squint--no, nothing of that kind; only they
were not a pair--one eye was hazel, the other grey; and yet the
difference in colour varied so much that sometimes I thought I must be
mistaken. At one moment, in the sunlight, the difference was striking;
but when next I saw them, in shadow, the difference was hardly
perceptible. Yet there it was, and it gave a peculiar but agreeable
expression to the face.

He was extremely kind and pleasant, and I must own that when an old
gentleman got in at Rugby I was sorry our _tete-a-tete_ should be
interrupted. We had been talking over all sorts of subjects, from
pitch-and-toss to manslaughter, exclusive--for those two subjects had
not yet been discussed. (I know it is a very vulgar expression, and I
ought not to use it, only I am always with the boys and I am a "Tommy"
myself.)

The old gentleman, however, did not trouble us long, for he had made a
mistake and had got into the wrong train. He hobbled out much quicker
than he got in, and my friend the actor was most polite in helping him
and handing out his parcels.

When that was over we settled down again comfortably. By the time we got
to Crewe we were like old friends, and chatted together over my
sandwiches, or at least while I ate them, for he had his lunch at
Preston, as Bradshaw informed us the passengers were expected to do.

I fully expected we should get an influx of companions here, for the
platform was crowded, but my carriage door was locked and I noticed the
guard hovering near; he seemed particularly anxious to direct people
elsewhere. Perhaps he thought that as I was an unprotected female I
should prefer to be quite alone, and I was busy concocting a little
speech about "a gentleman coming back," in case he should refuse to let
my actor come into the carriage. It was quite unnecessary, however, as
directly he caught sight of him in the distance he opened the door with
an obsequious bow. I began to wonder if he knew him. Perhaps he was a
celebrated actor, and when actors are celebrated nowadays they are
celebrated indeed. I felt quite elated at having anything to do with a
member of such a fashionable profession, and looked at him with more
interest than ever.

I was dreadfully sorry when we reached Carlisle, for there my journey
ended--for that day at least. I was to spend the night with a maiden
aunt, living near Carlisle, and go on to Inverness the next morning. The
station came in sight only too soon. My companion had been telling me
some mountaineering experiences which had been called to his mind by the
scenery we had been passing through, and the train pulled up in the
middle of a most exciting story. I had to leave him clinging to a bare
wall of rock in a blinding snowstorm, while I went off to spend the
night with my Aunt Maria. There was no help for it. My aunt, a thin,
quaint old lady, stood waiting on the platform. She wore a huge
coalscuttle bonnet, which in these days of smaller head coverings looked
strange and out of proportion, a short imitation sealskin jacket, and a
perfectly plain skirt, which exposed her slender build in the most
uncompromising (or perhaps I ought to say compromising) fashion.

I recognised her at once, and felt secretly ashamed of my poor relation.
It was horrid of me, and I hated myself for it; but at that moment I
really did feel ashamed of her appearance, and actually comforted myself
with the thought that my companion had seen my fashionable and befrilled
sister at Euston.

I was pleased to find that he was as sorry to part as I was. He broke
off his story with an exclamation of disgust. "I thought you said you
were going to Scotland," he cried.

"So I am," I answered; "but not till to-morrow."

Here Aunt Maria came forward. I had to get out and be folded in the
embrace of two bony arms. My companion (I had not found out his name)
had, in the meantime, put my bag and my bundles upon the platform, and
was standing, cap in hand, bowing a farewell.

He looked so pleasant, and Aunt Maria so forbidding, that my heart sank
at the thought that he was going away, and that in all probability I
should never see him again. Involuntarily I stretched out my hand to bid
him a more friendly good-bye. Perhaps it was forward of me--Lucy always
says I have such queer manners--but really I could not help it; I felt
so sorry that our pleasant acquaintance should come to an end so soon.

[Illustration: "PERHAPS IT WAS FORWARD OF ME."]

Mysie Sutherland met me at Inverness. A pompous-looking footman came
forward and condescended to carry my bag; one porter took my box to a
cart in waiting, another put my rugs into the carriage, and Mysie and I
went off at the rate of ten miles an hour. The pleasure of meeting her,
the speed of the motion, the comfort of the well-stuffed cushions, quite
raised my spirits. How different from trudging along with cross Aunt
Maria!

We soon arrived at Strathnasheen House, and a very fine place it looked
as we drove through the park. I began to get a little nervous again at
the thought of meeting strangers; but Mysie comforted me, saying that
her mother was just an angel, and her father very nice when you got used
to him. As I had never been intimate with angels, and hardly expected to
be there long enough to get used to an old man's peculiarities, I still
trembled.

[Illustration: "I WALKED IN TO DINNER ON SIR ALEXANDER'S ARM."]

We had reached the porch. The pompous footman got down and executed a
fantasia with elaborate "froisture" upon the knocker. The butler, who
must have been waiting in the hall in a stunned condition till the
performance was over, flung open the door, and I entered Strathnasheen
House. The pompous one clung to my bag as a dainty trifle he could
carry without loss of dignity. The butler stood motionless, content with
"existing beautifully," the more so as a second footman, with powdered
hair, plush breeches, and unimpeachable calves, rushed forward to our
assistance. He was such a magnificent and unexpected apparition that I
gazed in wonder, and eventually in horror.

[Illustration: THE NEW FOOTMAN SPILT THE GRAVY OVER MY WHITE SILK
DRESS.]

It was my travelling companion of the day before!

I never knew how I got through the dreaded introduction to Sir Alexander
and Lady Sutherland. I have a faint recollection of going up to a tall
old man in spectacles, and answering his polite inquiries in a dazed,
bewildered way. I recollect, also, that Lady Sutherland made an
impression of softness and warmth, and that she said something about
"changing my feet," which I looked upon as a mysterious and
uncomplimentary suggestion.

Then Mysie carried me off to show me my room. There was a blazing fire,
which was very inviting, and I was glad to plead fatigue and sit down
till dinner.

Tired I certainly was, but that was nothing to my mental condition. My
hero a footman! What would Lucy say to me? And Dick? Well, they