CHAPTER XI
That night Innocent made an end of all her hesitation. Resolutely sheput away every thought that could deter her from the step she was nowresolved to take. Poor old Priscilla little imagined the underlyingcause of the lingering tenderness with which the girl kissed her"good-night," looking back with more than her usual sweetness as shewent along the corridor to her own little room. Once there, she lockedand bolted the door fast, and then set to work gathering a few littlethings together and putting them in a large but light-weight satchel,such as she had often used to carry some of the choicest apples fromthe orchard when they were being gathered in. Her first care was forher manuscript,--the long-treasured scribble, kept so secretly and sooften considered with hope and fear, and wonder and doubting--then shetook one or two of the more cherished volumes which had formerly beenthe property of the "Sieur Amadis" and packed them with it. Choosingonly the most necessary garments from her little store, she soon filledher extemporary travelling-bag, and then sat down to write a letter toRobin. It was brief and explicit.
"DEAR ROBIN,"--it ran--"I have left this beloved home. It is impossiblefor me to stay. Dad left me some money in bank-notes in that sealedletter--so I want for nothing. Do not be anxious or unhappy--but marrysoon and forget me. I know you will always be good to Priscilla--tellher I am not ungrateful to her for all her care of me. I love herdearly. But I am placed in the world unfortunately, and I must dosomething that will help me out of the shame of being a burden onothers and an object of pity or contempt. If you will keep the oldbooks Dad gave me, and still call them mine, you will be doing me agreat kindness. And will you take care of Cupid?--he is quite a cleverbird and knows his friends. He will come to you or Priscilla as easilyas he comes to me. Good-bye, you dear, kind boy! I love you very much,but not as you want me to love you,--and I should only make youmiserable if I stayed here and married you. God bless you! "INNOCENT."
She put this in an envelope and addressed it,--then making sure thateverything was ready, she took a few sovereigns from the little pile ofhousekeeping money which Priscilla always brought to her to count overevery week and compare with the household expenses.
"I can return these when I change one of Dad's bank-notes," she said toherself--"but I must have something smaller to pay my way with just nowthan a hundred pounds."
Indeed the notes Hugo Jocelyn had left for her might have given hersome little trouble and embarrassment, but she did not pause toconsider difficulties. When a human creature resolves to dare and todo, no impediment, real or imaginary, is allowed to stand long in theway. An impulse pushes the soul forward, be it ever so reluctantly--theimpulse is sometimes from heaven and sometimes from hell--but as longas it is active and peremptory, it is obeyed blindly and to the full.
This little ignorant and unworldly girl passed the rest of the night intidying the beloved room where she had spent so many happy hours, andsetting everything in order,--talking in whispers between whiles to theghostly presence of the "Sieur Amadis" as to a friend who knew herdifficult plight and guessed her intentions.
"You see," she said, softly, "there is no way out of it. It is not asif I were anybody--I am nobody! I was never wanted in the world at all.I have no name. I have never been baptised. And though I know now thatI have a mother, I feel that she is nothing to me. I can hardly believeshe is my mother. She is a lady of fashion with a secret--and _I_ amthe secret! I ought to be put away and buried and forgotten!--thatwould be safest for her, and perhaps best for me! But I should like tolive long enough to make her wish she had been true to my father andhad owned me as his child! Ah, such dreams! Will they ever come true!"
She paused, looking up by the dim candle-light at the arms of the"Sieur Amadis"--who "Here seekinge Forgetfulnesse did here fyndePeace"--and at the motto "Mon coeur me soutien."
"Poor 'Sieur Amadis!'" she murmured--"He sought forgetfulness!--shall Iever do the same? How strange it will be not to WISH toremember!--surely one must be very old, or sad, to find gladness inforgetting!"
A faint little thrill of dread ran through her slight frame--thoughtsbegan to oppress her and shake her courage--she resolutely put themaway and bent herself to the practical side of action. Re-attiringherself in the plain black dress and hat which Priscilla had got forher mourning garb, she waited patiently for the first peep ofdaylight--a daylight which was little more than darkness--and then,taking her satchel, she crept softly out of her room, never oncelooking back. There was nothing to stay her progress, for the greatmastiff Hero, since Hugo Jocelyn's death, had taken to such dismalhowling that it had been found necessary to keep him away from thehouse in, a far-off shed where his melancholy plaints could not beheard. Treading with light, soundless footsteps down the stairs, shereached the front-door,--unbarred and unlocked it without any noise,and as softly closed it behind her,--then she stood in the open,shivering slightly in the sweet coldness of the coming dawn, andinhaling the fragrance of awakening unseen flowers. She knew of a gapin the hedge by means of which she could leave the garden withoutopening the big farm-gate which moved on rather creaking hinges--andshe took this way over a couple of rough stepping-stones. Once out onthe old by-road she paused. Briar Farm looked like a house in adream--there was not enough daylight yet to show its gables distinctly,and it was more like the shadowy suggestion of a building than anyactual substance. Yet there was something solemn and impressive in itsscarcely defined outline--to the girl's sensitive imagination it waslike the darkened and disappearing vision of her youth andhappiness,--a curtain falling, as it were, between the past and thefuture like a drop-scene in a play.
"Good-bye, Briar Farm!" she whispered, kissing her hand to the quaintlypeaked roof just dimly perceptible--"Good-bye, dear, beloved home! Ishall never forget you! I shall never see anything like you! Good-bye,peace and safety!--good-bye!"
The tears rushed to her eyes, and for the moment blinded her,--then,overcoming this weakness, she set herself to walk quickly and steadilyaway. Up the old by-road, through the darkness of the overhangingtrees, here and there crossed by pale wandering gleams of fitful lightfrom the nearing dawn, she moved swiftly, treading with noiselessfootsteps as though she thought the unseen spirits of wood and fieldmight hear and interrupt her progress--and in a few minutes she foundherself upon the broad highway branching right and left and leading ineither direction to the wider world. Briar Farm had disappeared behindthe trees,--it was as though no such place existed, so deeply was ithidden.
She stopped, considering. She was not sure which was the way to thenearest railway-station some eight miles distant. She was prepared towalk it, but feared to take the wrong road, for she instinctively feltthat if she had to endure any unexpected delay, some one from BriarFarm would be sent to trace her and find out where she went. While shethus hesitated, she heard the heavy rumbling of slow cart-wheels, andwaited to see what sort of vehicle might be approaching. It was a largewaggon drawn by two ponderous horses and driven by a man who, dimlyperceived by the light of the lantern fastened in front of him,appeared to be asleep. Innocent hailed him--and after one or twoefforts succeeded at last in rousing his attention.
"Which is the way to the railway-station?" she asked.
The man blinked drowsily at her.
"Railway-station, is it? I be a-goin' there now to fetch a load o'nitrates. Are ye wantin' to git?"
"Wantin' to git" was a country phrase to which Innocent was wellaccustomed. She answered, gently--
"Yes. I should be so glad if you'd give me a lift--I'll pay you for it.I have to catch the first train to London."
"Lunnon? Quiet, ye rascals!"--this to the sturdy horses who weredragging away at their shafts in stolid determination to moveon--"Lunnon's a good way off! Ever bin there?"
"No."
"Nor I, nayther. Seekin' service?"
"Yes."
"Wal, ye can ride along wi' me, if so be ye likes it--we be goin' mainslow, but we'll be there before first engine. Climb up!--that's right!'Ere's a corner beside me--ye could
sit in the waggon if ye liked, butit's 'ard as nails. 'Ere's a bit of 'oss-cloth for a cushion."
The girl sprang up as he bade her and was soon seated.
"Ye're a light 'un an' a little 'un, an' a young 'un," he said, with achuckle--"an' what ye're doin' all alone i' the wake o' the marnin' ismore than yer own mother knows, I bet!"
"I have no mother," she said.
"Eh, eh! That's bad--that's bad! Yet for all that there's bad motherswot's worse than none. Git on wi' ye!"--this in a stentorian voice tothe horses, accompanied by a sounding crack of the whip. "Git on!"
The big strong creatures tugged at the shafts and obeyed, their hoofsmaking a noisy clatter in the silence of the dawn. The daylight wasbeginning to declare itself more openly, and away to the east, justabove a line of dark trees, the sky showed pale suggestions of amberand of rose. Innocent sat very silent; she was almost afraid of thecoming light lest by chance the man beside her should ever have seenher before and recognise her. His sleep having been broken, he wasdisposed to be garrulous.
"Ever bin by train afore?" he asked.
"No."
"No! Eh, that's mighty cur'ous. A'most everyone goes somewhere by trainnowadays--there's such a sight o' cheap 'scursions. I know a man wotgot up i' the middle o' night, 'e did, an' more fool 'e!--an' off 'egoes by train down to seaside for the day--'e'd never seen the seabefore an' it giv' 'im such a scare as 'e ain't got over it yet. 'Esaid there was such a sight o' wobblin' water that 'e thort it 'udwobble off altogether an' wash away all the land and 'im with it. Ay,ay! 'e was main scared with 'is cheap 'scursion!"
"I've never seen the sea," said Innocent then, in a low cleartone--"but I've read about it--and I think I know what it is like. Itis always changing,--it is full of beautiful colours, blue and green,and grey and violet--and it has great waves edged with white foam!--ohyes!--the poets write about it, and I have often seen it in my dreams."
The dawning light in the sky deepened--and the waggoner turned his headto look more closely at his girl-companion.
"Ye talks mighty strange!" he said--"a'most as if ye'd been eddicatedup to it. I ain't been eddicated, an' I've no notions above my betters,but ye may be right about the sea--if ye've read about it, though thepapers is mostly lies, if ye asks me, telling ye one thing one day an'another to-morrow--"
"I don't read the papers"--and Innocent smiled a little as in thewidening light she began to see the stolid, stupid, but good-naturedface of the man--"I don't understand them. I've read about the sea inbooks,--books of poetry."
He uttered a sound between a whistle and a grunt.
"Books of poetry! An' ye're goin' to seek service in Lunnon? Take myword for't, my gel, they won't want any folks there wi' sort o' gammonlike that in their 'eds--they're all on the make there, an' they don'tcare for nothin' 'cept money an' 'ow to grab it. I ain't bin there, butI've heerd a good deal."
"You may have heard wrong," said Innocent, gathering more courage asshe realised that the light was now quite clear enough for him to seeher features distinctly and that it was evident he did not knowher--"London is such a large place that there must be all sorts init--good as well as bad--they can't all be greedy for money. There mustbe people who think beautiful things, and do beautiful work--"
"Oh, there's plenty o' work done there"--and the waggoner flicked hislong whip against the sturdy flanks of his labouring horses--"I ain'tdenyin' that. An' YOU'll 'ave to work, my gel!--you bet! you'll 'ave towash down steps an' sweep kitchens a good while afore you gits into theway of it! Why not take a service in the country?"
"I'm a little tired of the country," she answered--"I'd like a change."
"An' a change ye're likely to git!" he retorted, somewhat gruffly--"Lor'bless yer 'art! There ain't nothin' like the country! All thetrees a-greenin' an' the flowers a-blowin' an' the birds a-singin'!'Ave ye ever 'era tell of a place called Briar Farm?"
She controlled the nervous start of her body, and replied quietly--
"I think I have. A very old place."
"Ah! Old? I believe ye! 'Twas old in the time o' good Queen Bess--an'the same fam'ly 'as 'ad it these three 'undred years--a fam'ly o' thename o' Jocelyn. Ay, if ye could a' got service wi' Farmer Jocelyn ye'da' bin in luck's way! But 'e's dead an' gone last week--more's thepity!--an' 'is nephew's got the place now, forbye 'e ain't a Jocelyn."
She was silent, affecting not to be interested. The waggoner went on--
"That's the sort o' place to seek service in! Safe an' clean an' 'onestas the sunshine--good work an' good pay--a deal better than a place inLunnon. An' country air, my gel!--country air!--nuthin' like it!"
A sudden blaze of gold lit up the trees--the sun was rising--full daywas disclosed, and the last filmy curtains of the night were withdrawn,showing a heavenly blue sky flecked lightly with wandering trails ofwhite cloud like swansdown. He pointed eastward with his long whip.
"Look at that!" he said--"Fine, isn't it! No roofs and chimneys--justthe woods and fields! Nuthin' like it anywhere!"
Innocent drew a long breath--the air was indeed sweet and keen--newlife seemed given to the world with its exhilarating freshness. But shemade no reply to the enthusiastic comments of her companion. Thoughtswere in her brain too deep for speech. Not here, not here, in thisquiet pastoral scene could she learn the way to wrest the goldencirclet of fame from the hands of the silent gods!--it must be in theturmoil and rush of endeavour--the swift pursuit of the flying Apollo!And--as the slow waggon jogged along--she felt herself drawn, as itwere, by a magnet--on--on--on!--on towards a veiled mystery whichwaited for her--a mystery which she alone could solve.
Presently they came within sight of several rows of ugly wooden shedswith galvanised iron roofs and short black chimneys.
"A'most there now," said the waggoner--"'Ere's a bit o' Lunnona'ready!--dirt an' muck and muddle! Where man do make a mess o' things'e makes a mess all round! Spoils everything 'e can lay 'is 'ands on!"
The approaches to the railway were certainly not attractive--no railwayapproaches ever are. Perhaps they appear more than usually hideous whenbuilt amid a fair green country, where for miles and miles one seesnothing but flowering hedgerows and soft pastures shaded by thegraceful foliage of sheltering trees. Then the shining, slippery ironof the railway running like a knife through the verdant bosom of theland almost hurts the eyes, and the accessories of station-sheds,coal-trucks, and the like, affront the taste like an ill-doneforeground in an otherwise pleasing picture. A slight sense ofdepression and foreboding came like a cloud over the mind of poorlittle lonely Innocent, as she alighted at the station at last, andwith uplifted wistful eyes tendered a sovereign to the waggoner.
"Please take as much of it as you think right," she said--"It was verykind of you to let me ride with you."
The man stared, whistled, and thought. Feeling in the depth of acapacious pocket he drew out a handful of silver and counted it overcarefully.
"'Ere y'are!" he said, handing it all over with the exception of onehalf-crown--"Ye'll want all yer change in Lunnon an' more. I'm takin'two bob an' sixpence--if ye thinks it too much, say so!"
"Oh no, no!" and Innocent looked distressed--"Perhaps it's toolittle--I hope you are not wronging yourself?"
The waggoner laughed, kindly enough.
"Don't ye mind ME!" he said--"I'M all right! If I 'adn't two kids at'ome I'd charge ye nothin'--but I'm goin' to get 'em a toy they wants,an' I'll take the 'arf-crown for the luck of it. Good-day t'ye! Hopeyou'll find an easy place!"
She smiled and thanked him,--then entered the station and, finding theticket-office just open, paid a third-class fare to London. A suddenthrill of nervousness came over her. She spoke to the booking-clerk,peering wistfully at him through his little ticket-aperture.
"I have never been in a train before!" she said, in a small, anxiousvoice.
The clerk smiled, and yawned expansively. He was a young man whoconsidered himself a "gentleman," and among his own particular setpassed for being a wit.
"Reall
y!" he drawled--"Quite a new experience for you! A little countrymouse, is it?"
Innocent drew back, offended.
"I don't know what you mean," she said, coldly--and moved away.
The young clerk fingered his embryo moustache dubiously--conscious of ablunder in manners. This girl was a lady--not a mere country wench tojoke with. He felt rather uncomfortable--and presently leaving hisoffice, went out on the platform where she was walking up and down, andslightly lifted his cap.
"I beg your pardon!" he said, his face reddening a little--"If you aretravelling alone you would like to get into a carriage with otherpeople, wouldn't you?"
"Oh yes!" she answered, eagerly--"If you would be so kind--"
He made no answer, as just then, with a rush and crash and clatter, anddeafening shriek of the engine-whistle, the train came thundering in.There was opening and shutting of doors, much banging and confusion,and before she very well knew where she was, Innocent found herself ina compartment with three other persons--one benevolent-looking oldgentleman with white hair who was seated opposite to her, and a man andwoman, evidently husband and wife. Another shriek and roar, and thetrain started--as it began to race along, Innocent closed her eyes witha sickening sensation of faintness and terror--then, opening them, sawhedges, fields, trees and ponds all flying past her like scud in thewind, and sat watching in stupefied wonderment--one little handgrasping the satchel that held all her worldly possessions--the otherhanging limply at her side. Now and then she looked at hercompanions--the husband and wife sat opposite each other and spokeoccasionally in monosyllables--the old gentleman on the seat facingherself was reading a paper which showed its title--"The Morning Post."Sometimes he looked at her over the top of the paper, but for the mostpart he appeared absorbed in the printed page. On, on, on, the trainrushed at a pace which to her seemed maddening and full of danger--shefelt sick and giddy--would it never stop, she thought?--and a deepsense of relief came over her when, with a scream from theengine-whistle loud enough to tear the drum of a sensitive ear, thewhole shaking, rattling concern came to an abrupt standstill at astation. Then she mustered up courage to speak.
"Please, would you tell me--" she began, faintly.
The old gentleman laid down his "Morning Post" and surveyed herencouragingly.
"Yes? What is it?"
"Will it be long before we get to London?"
"About three hours."
"Three hours!"
She gave a deep and weary sigh. Three hours! Hardly till then had sherealised how far she was from Briar Farm--or how entirely she had cutherself off from all the familiar surroundings of her childhood's home,her girlhood's life. She leaned back in her seat, and one or two tearsescaped from under her drooping eyelids and trickled slowly down hercheeks. The train started off again, rushing at what she thought anawful speed,--she imagined herself as being torn away from the peacefulpast and hurled into a stormy future. Yet it was her owndoing--whatever chanced to her now she would have no one but herself toblame. The events of the past few days had crushed and beaten her sowith blows,--the old adage "Misfortunes never come singly" had beenfulfilled for her with cruel and unlooked-for plenitude. There is aturning-point in every human life--or rather severalturning-points--and at each one are gathered certain threads of destinywhich may either be involved in a tangle or woven distinctly as aclue--but which in any case lead to change in the formerly acceptedorder of things. We may thank the gods that this is so--otherwise inthe jog-trot of a carefully treasured conservatism and sameness ofdaily existence we should become the easy prey of adventurers, who,discovering our desire for the changelessness of a convenient andcomfortable routine, would mulct us of all individuality. Our veryservants would become our masters, and would take advantage of oureasy-going ways to domineer over us, as in the case of "lone ladies"who are often half afraid to claim obedience from the domestics theykeep and pay. Ignorant of the ways of the world and full of such dreamsas the world considers madness, Innocent had acted on a powerful inwardimpetus which pushed her spirit towards liberty and independence--butof any difficulties or dangers she might have to encounter she neverthought. She had the blind confidence of a child that runs alongheedless of falling, being instinctively sure that some hand will bestretched out to save it should it run into positive danger.
Mastering the weakness of tears, she furtively dried her eyes andendeavoured not to think at all--not to dwell on the memory of her"Dad" whom she had loved so tenderly, and all the sweet surroundings ofBriar Farm which already seemed so far away. Robin would be sorry shehad gone--indeed he would be very miserable for a time--she was certainof that!--and Priscilla! yes, Priscilla had loved her as her ownchild,--here her thoughts began running riot again, and she movedimpatiently. Just then the old gentleman with the "Morning Post" foldedit neatly and, bending forward, offered it to her.
"Would you like to see the paper?" he asked, politely.
The warm colour flushed her cheeks--she accepted it shyly.
"Thank you very much!" she murmured--and, gratefully shielding hertearful eyes behind the convenient news-sheet, she began glancing upand down the front page with all its numerous announcements, from the"Agony" column down to the latest new concert-singers and sailings ofsteamers.
Suddenly her attention was caught by the following advertisement--
"A Lady of good connection and position will be glad to take anotherlady as Paying Guest in her charming house in Kensington. Would suitanyone studying art or for a scholarship. Liberal table and refinedsurroundings. Please communicate with 'Lavinia' at--" Here followed anaddress.
Over and over again Innocent read this with a sort of fascination.Finally, taking from her pocket a little note-book and pencil, shecopied it carefully.
"I might go there," she thought--"If she is a poor lady wanting money,she might be glad to have me as a 'paying guest,' Anyhow, it will do noharm to try. I must find some place to rest in, if only for a night."
Here she became aware that the old gentleman who had lent her the paperwas eyeing her curiously yet kindly. She met his glance with a mixtureof frankness and timidity which gave her expression a wonderful charm.He ventured to speak as he might have spoken to a little child.
"Are you going to London for the first time?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
He smiled. He had a pleasant smile, distinctly humorous andgood-natured.
"It's a great adventure!" he said--"Especially for a little girl, allalone."
She coloured.
"I'm not a little girl," she answered, with quaint dignity--"I'meighteen."
"Really!"--and the old gentleman looked more humorous than ever--"Ohwell!--of course you are quite old. But, you see, I am seventy, so tome you seem a little girl. I suppose your friends will meet you inLondon?"
She hesitated--then answered, simply--
"No. I have no friends. I am going to earn my living."
The old gentleman whistled. It was a short, low whistle at first, butit developed into a bar of "Sally in our Alley," Then he lookedround--the other people in the compartment, the husband and wife, wereasleep.
"Poor child!" he then said, very gently--"I'm afraid that will be hardwork for you. You don't look very strong."
"Oh, but I am!" she replied, eagerly--"I can do anything in houseworkor dairy-farming--I've been brought up to be useful--"
"That's more than a great many girls can say!" he remarked,smiling--"Well, well! I hope you may succeed! I also was brought up tobe useful--but I'm not sure that I have ever been of any use!"
She looked at him with quick interest.
"Are you a clever man?" she asked.
The simplicity of the question amused him, and he laughed.
"A few people have sometimes called me so," he answered--"but my'cleverness,' or whatever it may be, is not of the successful order.And I'm getting old now, so that most of my activity is past. I havewritten a few books--"
"Books!"--she clasped her hands nervously, and her eyes grewbr
illiant--"Oh! If you can write books you must always be happy!"
"Do you think so?" And he bent his brows and scrutinised her moreintently. "What do YOU know about it? Are you fond of reading?"
A deep blush suffused her fair skin.
"Yes--but I have only read very old books for the most part," shesaid--"In the farm-house where I was brought up there were a great manymanuscripts on vellum, and curious things--I read those--and some booksin old French--"
"Books in old French!" he echoed, wonderingly. "And you can read them?You are quite a French scholar, then?"
"Oh no, indeed!" she protested--"I have only taught myself a little. Ofcourse it was difficult at first,--but I soon managed it,--just as Ilearned how to read old English--I mean the English of QueenElizabeth's time. I loved it all so much that it was a pleasure topuzzle it out. We had a few modern books--but I never cared for them."
He studied her face with increasing interest.
"And you are going to earn your own living in London!" he said--"Haveyou thought of a way to begin? In old French, or old English?"
She glanced at him quickly and saw that he was smiling kindly.
"Yes," she answered, gently--"I have thought of a way to begin! Willyou tell me of some book you have written so that I may read it?"
He shook his head.
"Not I!" he declared--"I could not stand the criticism of a young ladywho might compare me with the writers of the Elizabethanperiod--Shakespeare, for instance--"
"Ah no!" she said--"No one can ever be compared with Shakespeare--thatis impossible!"
He was silent,--and as she resumed her reading of the "Morning Post" hehad lent her, he leaned back in his seat and left her to herself. Buthe was keenly interested,--this young, small creature with herdelicate, intelligent face and wistful blue-grey eyes was a newexperience for him. He was a well-seasoned journalist and man ofletters,--clever in his own line and not without touches of originalityin his work--but hardly brilliant or forceful enough to command theattention of the public to a large or successful issue. He was,however, the right hand and chief power on the staff of one of the mostinfluential of daily newspapers, whose proprietor would no more havethought of managing things without him than of going without a dinner,and from this post, which he had held for twenty years, he derived asufficiently comfortable income. In his profession he had seen allclasses of humanity--the wise and the ignorant,--the conceited and thetimid,--men who considered themselves new Shakespeares inembryo,--women in whom the unbounded vanity of a little surfacecleverness was sufficient to place them beyond the pale of commonrespect,--but he had never till now met a little country girl makingher first journey to London who admitted reading "old French" andElizabethan English as unconcernedly as she might have spoken ofgathering apples or churning cream. He determined not to lose sight ofher, and to improve the acquaintance if he got the chance. He heard hergive a sudden sharp sigh as she read the "Morning Post,"--she hadturned to the middle of the newspaper where the events of the day werechronicled, and where a column of fashionable intelligence announcedthe ephemeral doings of the so-called "great" of the world. Here oneparagraph had caught and riveted her attention--it ran thus--"Lord andLady Blythe have left town for Glen-Alpin, Inverness-shire, where theywill entertain a large house-party to meet the Prime Minister."
Her mother!--It was difficult to believe that but a few hours ago thisvery Lady Blythe had offered to "adopt" her!--"adopt" her own child andact a lie in the face of all the "society" she frequented,--yet,strange and fantastic as it seemed, it was true! Possiblyshe--Innocent--had she chosen, could have been taken to "Glen-Alpin,Inverness-shire!"--she too might have met the Prime Minister! Shealmost laughed at the thought of it!--the paper shook in her hand. Her"mother"! Just then the old gentleman bent forward again and spoke toher.
"We are very near London now," he said--"Can I help you at the stationto get your luggage? You might find it confusing at first--"
"Oh, thank you!" she murmured--"But I have no luggage--only this"--andshe pointed to the satchel beside her--"I shall get on very well."
Here she folded up the "Morning Post" and returned it to him with apretty air of courtesy. As he accepted it he smiled.
"You are a very independent little lady!" he said--"But--just in caseyou ever do want to read a book of mine,--I am going to give you myname and address." Here he took a card from his waistcoat pocket andgave it to her. "That will always find me," he continued--"Don't beafraid to write and ask me anything about London you may wish to know.It's a very large city--a cruel one!"--and he looked at her withcompassionate kindness--"You mustn't lose yourself in it!"
She read the name on the card--"John Harrington"--and the address wasthe office of a famous daily journal. Looking up, she gave him agrateful little smile.
"You are very kind!" she said--"And I will not forget you. I don'tthink I shall lose myself--I'll try not to be so stupid! Yes--when Ihave read one of your books I will write to you!"
"Do!"--and there was almost a note of eagerness in his voice--"I shouldlike to know what you think"--here a loud and persistent scream fromthe engine-whistle drowned all possibility of speech as the trainrushed past a bewildering wilderness of houses packed close togetherunder bristling black chimneys--then, as the deafening din ceased, headded, quietly, "Here is London."
She looked out of the window,--the sun was shining, but through a dullbrown mist, and nothing but bricks and mortar, building upon building,met her view. After the sweet freshness of the country she had leftbehind, the scene was appallingly hideous, and her heart sank with asense of fear and foreboding. Another few minutes and the train stopped.
"This is Paddington," said John Harrington; then, noting her troubledexpression--"Let me get a taxi for you and tell the man where to drive."
She submitted in a kind of stunned bewilderment. The address she hadfound in the "Morning Post" was her rescue--she could go there, shethought, rapidly, even if she had to come away again. Almost before shecould realise what had happened in all the noise and bustling to andfro, she found herself in a taxi-cab, and her kind fellow-travellerstanding beside it, raising his hat to her courteously in farewell. Shegave him the address of the house in Kensington which she had copiedfrom the advertisement she had seen in the "Morning Post," and herepeated it to the taxi-driver with a sense of relief and pleasure. Itwas what is called "a respectable address"--and he was glad the childknew where she was going. In another moment the taxi was off,--aparting smile brightened the wistful expression of her young face, andshe waved her little hand to him. And then she was whirled away amongthe seething crowd of vehicles and lost to sight. Old John Harringtonstood for a moment on the railway-platform, lost in thought.
"A sweet little soul!" he mused--"I wonder what will become of her! Imust see her again some day. She reminds me of--let me see!--who doesshe remind me of? By Jove, I have it! Pierce Armitage!--haven't seenhim for twenty years at least--and this girl's face has a look ofhis--just the same eyes and intense expression. Poor old Armitage!--hepromised to be a great artist once, but he's gone to the dogs by thistime, I suppose. Curious, curious that I should remember him just now!"
And he went his way, thinking and wondering, while Innocent went hers,without any thought at all, in a blind and simple faith that God wouldtake care of her.
Innocent : her fancy and his fact Page 11