“Please, would you tell me—” she began, faintly.
The old gentleman laid down his “Morning Post” and surveyed her encouragingly.
“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 she realised how far she was from Briar Farm — or how entirely she had cut herself 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 tears escaped from under her drooping eyelids and trickled slowly down her cheeks. The train started off again, rushing at what she thought an awful speed, — she imagined herself as being torn away from the peaceful past and hurled into a stormy future. Yet it was her own doing — whatever chanced to her now she would have no one but herself to blame. The events of the past few days had crushed and beaten her so with blows, — the old adage “Misfortunes never come singly” had been fulfilled for her with cruel and unlooked-for plenitude. There is a turning-point in every human life — or rather several turning-points — and at each one are gathered certain threads of destiny which may either be involved in a tangle or woven distinctly as a clue — but which in any case lead to change in the formerly accepted order of things. We may thank the gods that this is so — otherwise in the jog-trot of a carefully treasured conservatism and sameness of daily existence we should become the easy prey of adventurers, who, discovering our desire for the changelessness of a convenient and comfortable routine, would mulct us of all individuality. Our very servants would become our masters, and would take advantage of our easy-going ways to domineer over us, as in the case of “lone ladies” who are often half afraid to claim obedience from the domestics they keep and pay. Ignorant of the ways of the world and full of such dreams as the world considers madness, Innocent had acted on a powerful inward impetus which pushed her spirit towards liberty and independence — but of any difficulties or dangers she might have to encounter she never thought. She had the blind confidence of a child that runs along heedless of falling, being instinctively sure that some hand will be stretched out to save it should it run into positive danger.
Mastering the weakness of tears, she furtively dried her eyes and endeavoured 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 of Briar Farm which already seemed so far away. Robin would be sorry she had gone — indeed he would be very miserable for a time — she was certain of that! — and Priscilla! yes, Priscilla had loved her as her own child, — here her thoughts began running riot again, and she moved impatiently. Just then the old gentleman with the “Morning Post” folded it 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 her tearful eyes behind the convenient news-sheet, she began glancing up and down the front page with all its numerous announcements, from the “Agony” column down to the latest new concert-singers and sailings of steamers.
Suddenly her attention was caught by the following advertisement —
“A Lady of good connection and position will be glad to take another lady as Paying Guest in her charming house in Kensington. Would suit anyone studying art or for a scholarship. Liberal table and refined surroundings. Please communicate with ‘Lavinia’ at—” Here followed an address.
Over and over again Innocent read this with a sort of fascination. Finally, taking from her pocket a little note-book and pencil, she copied 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 no harm 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 paper was eyeing her curiously yet kindly. She met his glance with a mixture of 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 and good-natured.
“It’s a great adventure!” he said— “Especially for a little girl, all alone.”
She coloured.
“I’m not a little girl,” she answered, with quaint dignity— “I’m eighteen.”
“Really!” — and the old gentleman looked more humorous than ever— “Oh well! — of course you are quite old. But, you see, I am seventy, so to me you seem a little girl. I suppose your friends will meet you in London?”
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, but it developed into a bar of “Sally in our Alley,” Then he looked round — the other people in the compartment, the husband and wife, were asleep.
“Poor child!” he then said, very gently— “I’m afraid that will be hard work for you. You don’t look very strong.”
“Oh, but I am!” she replied, eagerly— “I can do anything in housework or 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 to be 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 have written a few books—”
“Books!” — she clasped her hands nervously, and her eyes grew brilliant— “Oh! If you can write books you must always be happy!”
“Do you think so?” And he bent his brows and scrutinised her more intently. “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,” she said— “In the farm-house where I was brought up there were a great many manuscripts on vellum, and curious things — I read those — and some books in 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. Of course it was difficult at first, — but I soon managed it, — just as I learned how to read old English — I mean the English of Queen Elizabeth’s time. I loved it all so much that it was a pleasure to puzzle 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— “Have you 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! Will you 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 lady who might compare me with the writers of the Elizabethan period — Shakespeare, for instance—”
“Ah no!” she said— “No one can ever be compared with Shakespeare — that is impossible!”
He was silent, — and as she resumed her reading of the “Morning Post” he had lent her, he leaned back in his seat and left
her to herself. But he was keenly interested, — this young, small creature with her delicate, intelligent face and wistful blue-grey eyes was a new experience for him. He was a well-seasoned journalist and man of letters, — clever in his own line and not without touches of originality in his work — but hardly brilliant or forceful enough to command the attention 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 most influential of daily newspapers, whose proprietor would no more have thought of managing things without him than of going without a dinner, and from this post, which he had held for twenty years, he derived a sufficiently comfortable income. In his profession he had seen all classes of humanity — the wise and the ignorant, — the conceited and the timid, — men who considered themselves new Shakespeares in embryo, — women in whom the unbounded vanity of a little surface cleverness was sufficient to place them beyond the pale of common respect, — but he had never till now met a little country girl making her first journey to London who admitted reading “old French” and Elizabethan English as unconcernedly as she might have spoken of gathering apples or churning cream. He determined not to lose sight of her, and to improve the acquaintance if he got the chance. He heard her give a sudden sharp sigh as she read the “Morning Post,” — she had turned to the middle of the newspaper where the events of the day were chronicled, and where a column of fashionable intelligence announced the ephemeral doings of the so-called “great” of the world. Here one paragraph had caught and riveted her attention — it ran thus— “Lord and Lady Blythe have left town for Glen-Alpin, Inverness-shire, where they will entertain a large house-party to meet the Prime Minister.”
Her mother! — It was difficult to believe that but a few hours ago this very Lady Blythe had offered to “adopt” her!— “adopt” her own child and act a lie in the face of all the “society” she frequented, — yet, strange and fantastic as it seemed, it was true! Possibly she — Innocent — had she chosen, could have been taken to “Glen-Alpin, Inverness-shire!” — she too might have met the Prime Minister! She almost laughed at the thought of it! — the paper shook in her hand. Her “mother”! Just then the old gentleman bent forward again and spoke to her.
“We are very near London now,” he said— “Can I help you at the station to get your luggage? You might find it confusing at first—”
“Oh, thank you!” she murmured— “But I have no luggage — only this” — and she 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 a pretty air of courtesy. As he accepted it he smiled.
“You are a very independent little lady!” he said— “But — just in case you ever do want to read a book of mine, — I am going to give you my name and address.” Here he took a card from his waistcoat pocket and gave it to her. “That will always find me,” he continued— “Don’t be afraid 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 with compassionate kindness— “You mustn’t lose yourself in it!”
She read the name on the card— “John Harrington” — and the address was the office of a famous daily journal. Looking up, she gave him a grateful little smile.
“You are very kind!” she said— “And I will not forget you. I don’t think I shall lose myself — I’ll try not to be so stupid! Yes — when I have read one of your books I will write to you!”
“Do!” — and there was almost a note of eagerness in his voice— “I should like to know what you think” — here a loud and persistent scream from the engine-whistle drowned all possibility of speech as the train rushed past a bewildering wilderness of houses packed close together under bristling black chimneys — then, as the deafening din ceased, he added, quietly, “Here is London.”
She looked out of the window, — the sun was shining, but through a dull brown mist, and nothing but bricks and mortar, building upon building, met her view. After the sweet freshness of the country she had left behind, the scene was appallingly hideous, and her heart sank with a sense of fear and foreboding. Another few minutes and the train stopped.
“This is Paddington,” said John Harrington; then, noting her troubled expression— “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 had found in the “Morning Post” was her rescue — she could go there, she thought, rapidly, even if she had to come away again. Almost before she could realise what had happened in all the noise and bustling to and fro, she found herself in a taxi-cab, and her kind fellow-traveller standing beside it, raising his hat to her courteously in farewell. She gave him the address of the house in Kensington which she had copied from the advertisement she had seen in the “Morning Post,” and he repeated it to the taxi-driver with a sense of relief and pleasure. It was what is called “a respectable address” — and he was glad the child knew where she was going. In another moment the taxi was off, — a parting smile brightened the wistful expression of her young face, and she waved her little hand to him. And then she was whirled away among the seething crowd of vehicles and lost to sight. Old John Harrington stood for a moment on the railway-platform, lost in thought.
“A sweet little soul!” he mused— “I wonder what will become of her! I must see her again some day. She reminds me of — let me see! — who does she remind me of? By Jove, I have it! Pierce Armitage! — haven’t seen him for twenty years at least — and this girl’s face has a look of his — just the same eyes and intense expression. Poor old Armitage! — he promised to be a great artist once, but he’s gone to the dogs by this time, 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 would take care of her.
CHAPTER XII
To be whirled along through the crowded streets of London in a taxi-cab for the first time in one’s life must needs be a somewhat disconcerting, even alarming experience, and Innocent was the poor little prey of so many nervous fears during her journey to Kensington in this fashion, that she could think of nothing and realise nothing except that at any moment it seemed likely she would be killed. With wide-open, terrified eyes, she watched the huge motor-omnibuses almost bearing down upon the vehicle in which she sat, and shivered at the narrow margin of space the driver seemed to allow for any sort of escape from instant collision and utter disaster. She only began to breathe naturally again when, turning away out of the greater press of traffic, the cab began to run at a smoother and less noisy pace, till presently, in less time than she could have imagined possible, it drew up at a modestly retreating little door under an arched porch in a quiet little square, where there were some brave and pretty trees doing their best to be green, despite London soot and smoke. Innocent stepped out, and seeing a bell-handle pulled it timidly. The summons was answered by a very neat maid-servant, who looked at her in primly polite enquiry.
“Is Mrs. — or Miss ‘Lavinia’ at home?” she murmured. “I saw her advertisement in the ‘Morning Post.’”
The servant’s face changed from primness to propitiation.
“Oh yes, miss! Please step in! I’ll tell Miss Leigh.”
“Thank you. I’ll pay the driver.”
She thereupon paid for the cab and dismissed it, and then followed the maid into a very small but prettily arranged hall, and from thence into a charming little drawing-room, with French windows set open, showing a tiny garden beyond — a little green lawn, smooth as velvet, and a few miniature flower-beds gay with well-kept blossoms.
“Would you please take a seat, miss?” and the maid placed a chair.
“Miss Leigh is upstairs, but she’ll be down directly.”
She left the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Innocent sat still, satchel in han
d, looking wistfully about her. The room appealed to her taste in its extreme simplicity — and it instinctively suggested to her mind resigned poverty making the best of itself. There were one or two old miniatures on little velvet stands set on the mantelpiece — these were beautiful, and of value; some engravings of famous pictures adorned the walls, all well chosen; the quaint china bowl on the centre table was full of roses carefully arranged — and there was a very ancient harpsichord in one corner which apparently served only as a stand for the portrait of a man’s strikingly handsome face, near which was placed a vase containing a stem of Madonna lilies. Innocent found herself looking at this portrait now and again — there was something familiar in its expression which had a curious fascination for her. But her thoughts revolved chiefly round a difficulty which had just presented itself — she had no real name. What name could she take to be known by for the moment? She would not call herself “Jocelyn” — she felt she had no right to do so. “Ena” might pass muster for an abbreviation of “Innocent” — she decided to make use of that as a Christian name — but a surname that would be appropriately fitted to her ultimate intentions she could not at once select. Then she suddenly thought of the man who had been her father and had brought her as a helpless babe to Briar Farm. Pierce Armitage was his name — and he was dead. Surely she might call herself Armitage? While she was still puzzling her mind over the question the door opened and a little old lady entered — a soft-eyed, pale, pretty old lady, as dainty and delicate as the fairy-godmother of a child’s dream, with white hair bunched on either side of her face, and a wistful, rather plaintive expression of mingled hope and enquiry.
Delphi Collected Works of Marie Corelli Page 813