Chapter 1

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_Title:_ The Five-Thirty Train
_Date of first publication:_ 1913
_Author:_ L. M. (Lucy Maud) Montgomery (1874-1942)
_Date first posted:_ Mar. 4, 2017
_Date last updated:_ Mar. 4, 2017
Faded Page eBook #20170307

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Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

The Five-Thirty Train
_A Thunderstorm That Welded Together a Broken Engagement_
L. M. Montgomery
First published _New England Homestead_, August 16, 1913.

The three-thirty train was just puffing out from Loweway station when a
young man, with an overcoat on his arm and a valise in one hand, came
pelting up the long, dusty road. When he reached the platform the last
car was just disappearing behind a shaggy fringe of woodland beyond the
curve.

Harris Allen did not swear, possibly out of respect for the three
awkward looking girls, in loud shirt-waists and sailor hats, who were
gaping after the receding train. But he looked things not lawful to be
uttered as he stalked into the waiting room and thumped his valise down
on the hard, uncomfortable bench which ran around three sides of it.

“Missed your train, hey?” said the red-headed station master in a
bicycle suit.

“Looks like it,” said Allen grimly. “When does the next one go?”

“The next train is the evening express at five-thirty,” was the
consoling answer, as the official sauntered away.

“Two hours to wait in this hole,” thought Allen in disgust.

He made up his mind to go for a walk, but a glance at the sky convinced
him that a drenching would be poor compensation for his delay. A
thunderstorm was coming up. The air was hot and close, the clouds dark
and lowering. Allen, with a muttered exclamation strode back into the
dingy waiting room and flung himself down beside his valise. The station
master locked his private office and went home. The shirt-waist girls
and the small boy hangers-on disappeared and Loweway station became as
silent as the grave.

Just as the first big drops splashed down on the dusty road a buggy
drove rapidly up to the platform and a girl sprang out, carrying a
satchel and a shawl strap. She dismissed her small, freckled driver with
a nod, and the buggy whirled down the road again with all the
recklessness of a youthful Jehu, while the girl hurried along the
platform into the waiting room.

When her eyes met Allen’s he started very perceptibly, while Margaret
King was guilty of a blush. But the only greeting that passed between
them was a cool nod. Allen’s unspoken thought was, “How on earth did
Margaret come here?” while Margaret’s was, “Harris Allen, of all
people!”

She looked inquiringly at the ticket window, which was tightly shut, and
took out her watch with a frown.

“Do you know where the ticket agent is, Mr Allen?” she inquired
politely, with the air of one who would much rather not speak if she
were not possessed with a burning desire for information.

“I think he’s gone home,” said Harris impersonally. “If you want to see
him I’ll go after him.”

“Oh, no, I only want to get my ticket. Of course he’ll be back directly.
The four o’clock train is almost due.”

“There isn’t any four o’clock train,” said Allen quickly. “The next
train goes at five-thirty. The three-thirty train went half an hour ago.
That is probably the one you meant to take. I missed it, too,
unluckily.” He hesitated slightly over the adverb. After all, the ill
luck had been qualified.

Miss King looked dismayed. “I don’t understand. I certainly thought
there was a four o’clock train. Aunt Hester said there was. And Jimmy
has gone back home!”

“The time table has been changed lately, I think,” said Allen, wondering
fiercely who Jimmy was. “At any rate, we can do nothing but wait
patiently. I undertook to walk from the Bay Shore hotel over here and
got left.”

Miss King did not answer. She arranged her traps neatly on the opposite
bench, sat down, and looked out of the door. She was a very pretty girl,
with such brilliantly perfect coloring and ruddy golden hair that the
bare-necked lady in the soap advertisement above her looked quite faded
and pale by contrast. Her eyes were a delicious brown, her lips the most
kissable ever molded, and the dimple in her chin something no mere man
could resist.

She was dressed in a natty traveling suit and looked every whit as
pretty and provoking and unattainable as she had looked on the occasion
of their last meeting, when they had quarreled and broken their
engagement.

Allen was determined that he would not look at her, so he fixed his eyes
firmly on the gorgeously framed map of a trunk line hanging on the wall
and glared at it for ten seconds. At the end of that time he found
himself looking at Margaret instead, without being conscious of having
moved his eyes.

Those little fluffy rings of hair were falling on her forehead just as
they used to do when he had liked to slip his fingers through them—in
particular, through the one that lay on her left temple, and the two
others that curled close against her neck from behind.

He squirmed restlessly. What a fool he had been! It had been all his
fault; he had been a jealous brute, and she had been quite right in
declaring she would never forgive him. He knew she never would; she
would probably annihilate him with one scornful glance of those brown
eyes if she even suspected what a wild desire he had to go over and sit
down beside her, drew her head against his shoulder, and slip his finger
through those rings of hair.

At this point in his musings Margaret turned her head and Allen gazed
with his soul in his eyes at the lady of the advertisement.

“He looks dreadfully thin,” thought Margaret, trying to believe that it
was the approaching thunderstorm which made her heart beat so. “But he
is as handsome as ever. I wonder if he cared. No, of course he didn’t.
If he had wanted to come back of course he would have. I daresay he is
engaged to some other horrid girl by now. He told me dozens of times
that he never would or could love any girl but me. But, of course, he
has forgotten all about that. Oh, dear, I wish I hadn’t made such a
silly mistake about the trains.”