When May went up to her room, she neglected her aunt's advice as to the
rose-water. She sat down beside the fire, and tried to think of what she
had best do.
Help from her aunt was clearly not to be hoped for. She did not feel
anger against Aunt Pauline at that moment. She had felt it some time
before, but not now. Would it not be like feeling angry with a Chinese
for not comprehending English? They simply did not understand one
another. There was a barrier between their minds--at least, on the one
subject which May had at heart--which, as it seemed, neither of them
could pass or penetrate.
She would go to Granny! There she would find love and sympathy, and the
sheltering mother-wings she yearned for. And, at the bottom of her
heart, there was the half-unconscious feeling that Granny would be a
staunch partisan of Owen's, and would be able to justify her trust in
him.
But then Aunt Pauline had refused to let her go, and had said she might
write. Write! and lose time, and probably fail to convince Granny of the
sick longing, the positive _need_ she felt to get away from London.
There would be correspondence and discussion, and then her uncle would
come back, and there would be more discussion, and she could not see
Owen. If she wrote to him and he came, he would not be admitted to the
house; and she could not go to him.
Well, then, she would run away. There was nothing for it but to run away
to Granny, and she made up her mind to do so. Nothing should prevent
her. Nothing! She started up and took her purse out of a drawer. She was
but slenderly provided with pocket-money, the bulk of her allowance from
Mrs. Dobbs being administered by Aunt Pauline. She counted out the
contents of the little smart _porte-monnaie_ with deep anxiety. There
was half a sovereign and some silver. Only fifteen shillings! That would
not suffice to carry her to Oldchester--and then she must have a cab.
She could not find her way to the station on foot: and, besides, it
would take such a long time! How much time she did not know exactly; but
she remembered that it had seemed a rather long drive from the terminus
to Kensington. And even if she could walk the distance, she would not
know at what hour to set out in order to catch the express train, which
would bring her into Oldchester a little after five o'clock the same
evening.
A little thrill ran through her veins as she pictured herself arriving
at Jessamine Cottage in one of the station flys, looking from the
vehicle at the cheerful firelight which would surely be shining from the
parlour window at that hour. And then Martha would come to the door, and
not recognize her at first in the darkness; and Granny would cry out in
surprise at the sound of her voice; and then there would be the dear
motherly arms round her, the dear motherly breast to lay her troubled
head upon, the blessed sense of rest, and trust, and comfort!
Feverishly May counted and re-counted her money. The fifteen shillings
remained inexorably fifteen, and no more. All sorts of schemes passed
through her mind. Cecile might perhaps lend her some money--or Smithson!
But to ask for a loan from either of them would excite too much wonder
and suspicion; it would at once be reported to her aunt.
Suddenly there darted into her mind the recollection that Harold had
some money. Uncle Frederick had given the child half a sovereign on his
birthday, a day or two ago. That was an inspiration! She would ask
Harold to lend her the money, and to keep the secret until she should be
gone. She knew that she could trust him; the child was staunch, and
would be proud of being confided in. Poor little Harold! She remembered
that it was he who had told her of Owen's presence in the house on that
day--when was it? _Yesterday?_ Impossible! It was weeks--months ago,
surely! A large part of her life seemed to have passed since then.
May lay down to rest, tired out with the various emotions of the day,
but with her brain so beleaguered by shifting thoughts and images that
she was certain she should not be able to sleep. But she might at least
rest her body, which felt bruised and weary, as though she had been
walking with a heavy burthen all day long. She dropped off to sleep,
nevertheless, almost immediately, but soon awoke again with a start and
a sensation of falling swiftly, and a vague terror. But at length,
towards morning, she did sleep continuously and heavily; and when she
next awoke her watch, and a dull yellowish glimmer through the
window-blind, told her it was day.
It was a dismal London morning, wet and cold. The wind was howling among
the chimney-pots, and sending down showers of soot and smoke, mingled
with sleet. It was the day appointed for the funeral of Lucius
Cheffington. Mr. Dormer-Smith was not expected home that night; the
trains did not fit conveniently. It had therefore been arranged that he
should stay at Combe Park until the following morning. Her uncle's
absence made her opportunity, May thought. The train she wished to
travel by started from London, she believed, at about two o'clock; but
she resolved to be at the terminus much earlier. The departure might be
at some minutes before two; it would be too dreadful to miss the train!
She felt an irrational hurry and eagerness to be gone, as if each
minute's delay might be fatal. She knew the feeling was groundless, but
it mastered her.
Preparations she had none to make, except clothing herself in a warm
gown, and putting a few toilet necessaries into a little handbag. Mrs.
Dormer-Smith always breakfasted late, and, during the cold weather, in
her own room; and May shared the morning meal with her uncle. To-day, at
her request, Harold and Wilfred were allowed to come downstairs and
breakfast with her. This arrangement suited Cecile, who much preferred
breakfasting with Smithson in the housekeeper's room to cutting
bread-and-butter and pouring out milk-and-water in the nursery.
As soon as the meal was over, May asked Harold for the loan of his
golden half-sovereign. His first reply was a severe blow. "You mean that
yellow sixpence papa gave me? I haven't got it, Cousin May."
May felt as though the child had struck her. But the next moment he
added--
"Papa put it into that little box with a slit in it. You can't get it
out. Nobody can get it out. It belongs to me, you know; only I can't buy
anything with it. Papa says it's proper--property."
May coaxed him to bring the box to her room, and found that it was
closed by a little cheap lock, which it would be perfectly easy to force
open. When she proposed this strong measure to Harold, he demurred at
first; but finally yielded, on his cousin's saying that she wanted the
money very much, and would be unhappy if she could not get it. A
glove-box lined with quilted satin was offered him by way of immediate
compensation; and he was promised that his yellow sixpence should be
repaid with ample interest in the shape of coin which would not share
the inconvenient dignity of being "property," but might be freely spent.
May felt as if she were a criminal as she wrenched open the little
money-box, and took out the half-sovereign, which lay glistening amid a
small heap of pennies and sixpences. Harold stood watching her intently.
"You do look funny, Cousin May!" he said. "Your cheeks are quite white,
and your eyes are queer, and your hand burns. Mine is ever so cold.
Feel!" He put his little red, cold hand on May's forehead, and the touch
seemed deliciously refreshing to her.
"My head aches a little, Harold. I shall soon be well, though. I am
going to see my dear granny. I have often told you about her. She is so
good and kind! She makes people well when they are sick or sorry."
Harold's experience of being made well when he was sick was not of such
a nature as to make this praise particularly attractive to him.
"I s'pose she gives you powders?" he said, in a disparaging tone, and
then added gloomily, "I wouldn't go to her, if I was you."
May kissed him, and assured him that Granny's methods were all pleasant
ones.
Wilfred--who had been kept outside the room during the financial
transaction, as being too young to be trusted with a secret of such
importance--was now admitted in compliance with his reiterated petition;
and the two little fellows stood quietly watching their cousin, as in a
hurried, feverish way, she put a few articles into her little bag, and
took a fur-lined cloak out of the wardrobe, and laid her hat and gloves
ready on the bed.
"I say, Cousin May," said Harold, all at once, "you'll come back again,
sha'n't you?"
She looked down at the child's upturned face, with a start. It had not
occurred to her before, but the thought now struck her that it was very
likely she should never return to that house.
"I will see _you_ again, darlings, if I live," she said, bending down to
kiss and embrace the children.
Wilfred, always inclined to be tearful, showed symptoms of setting up a
sympathetic wail. But Harold said, with a dogged little setting of the
lips--
"Well, if you don't come back, I know what I shall do. I've got all
those pennies left in the box, and I shall buy a stick and a bundle, and
run away, and go along the high road ever so far, till I find you."
"I shall come too," cried Wilfred. "Papa gave _me_ sixpence!"
All three looked, indeed, almost equally childish and innocent: Harold
and Wilfred, with their project of running away, derived from a nursery
story-book, and May clutching the "yellow sixpence" as a talisman that
was to carry her afar from all trouble and persecution!
She did not, of course, mean to leave Aunt Pauline in any anxiety as to
what had become of her; but she wanted to get a good start. After some
deliberation, she wrote a short note to her aunt, and entrusted it to
Harold. His instructions were to keep it until luncheon-time, and then
give it to his mother. But, in case he heard them asking for May in the
house, and wondering where she was, he might deliver it sooner. In any
case, he must not give it to Cecile or Smithson, but place it in his
mother's own hand. This latter was a service which Harold felt to be a
severe one; but he undertook it, with a feeling akin to that of a knight
doing battle with giants and dragons, on behalf of his liege lady. Not
that his mother would be harsh or cruel; that was quite out of the
question. She would not even scold him much, probably; but she would
look at him with that complaining air of disapproval, as if he were an
unmerited affliction, and call him and his brother "those dreadful
little boys," and send him away to the nursery, all which things the
child felt keenly in his heart, although he was entirely unable to
analyze them in his brain.
May also wrote to Owen, telling him of her departure, and confessing
that she had not written to Mr. Bragg.
"What is the use of my remaining in London, when we cannot meet?" she
wrote. "We are as far apart, really, as when you were in Spain. I am
worn out, dear Owen, and feel that I need Granny's help. Do not be angry
with me for taking this step without consulting you. You will know I am
safe and well-cared for with Granny, who is your friend, instead of
having to fight against the arguments of those who are hostile to you."
Then, in a postscript, she added, "Mrs. Simpson came here yesterday. She
said she had seen you. You did not send me any message by her. Perhaps
you did not know she meant to see me?" This note she put in her pocket
to be posted at the station.
It was now past twelve o'clock; for early hours were not kept in the
Dormer-Smith household. May's nervous impatience to be gone was no
longer to be resisted. She took the children into the little back room
where she had been accustomed to give them their lessons, and on her own
responsibility gave them a book full of coloured pictures which Cecile
never entrusted to their mischievous little fingers without her personal
supervision. And this unusual indulgence delighted them and absorbed
their attention. Then she stole back to her own chamber, and looked out
of the window. The rain was still falling at intervals in driving
showers. All the better! There was the less chance of any one whom she
knew in that neighbourhood being abroad to recognize her.
She had told Smithson immediately after breakfast that she was going to
her own room, and did not wish to be disturbed until luncheon-time. She
now put on her hat and gloves, wrapped herself in the warm cloak, and
carrying a tiny umbrella, which looked very unequal to offering much
resistance to the wind and rain that were now sweeping along the street,
she crept downstairs and let herself out at the hall door.
She had to walk some distance before reaching a cabstand, and by the
time she did so her feet were wet. She had no boots fitted to keep out
mud and damp. Aunt Pauline considered thick boots superfluous in London.
In the country, of course, it was quite "the right thing" to tramp about
in all weathers, and proper _chaussures_ must be provided for the
purpose. Although, had it been a dogma laid down by "the best people"
that one ought to march barefoot through the mire, Aunt Pauline would
have desired May to conform to that as well as to all other sacred
ordinances of the social creed.
May was driven to the railway station in due course by a cabman who, on
being asked what she had to pay, contented himself with only twice his
fare. She found she was much too early for the express train. But there
was a slow train going within half an hour. It would not reach
Oldchester until after the express, although starting before it; but May
decided to travel by it. She was frightened at the idea of remaining in
the big terminus, where she might be seen and recognized by some passing
acquaintance at any moment. And the idea of being actually on the road
to granny, safely shut up in a railway carriage out of reach, was
tempting. She took her ticket, the purchase of which reduced her
funds to the last shilling, and was put into a carriage by
herself--first-class passengers by that train not being numerous.
The girl's head was throbbing, and the damp chill to her feet made her
shiver. She leaned back in a corner of the carriage, and closed her
eyes. The train trundled along, its progress arrested by frequent
stoppages. The dim daylight faded. At wayside stations the reflections
from the lamps shone with a melancholy gleam in inky pools of
rain-water. May began to suffer from want of food. She was not hungry;
but she felt the need, although not the desire, for some sustenance. At
one place where they stopped a quarter of an hour, she thought of
getting some tea; but there was a crowd of men in front of a counter
where beer and spirits were being sold, but where she saw no tea; and
the steam from damp great coats, mingled with tobacco-smoke and close
air, made her feel sick. She tottered back to the carriage, carrying
with her a huge fossilized bun, which she tried, not very successfully,
to nibble at intervals; and at length she fell into an uneasy doze.
She was awakened by the opening of the carriage-door, and a voice
saying, "You'll be all right here, sir." A dark lantern flashed in her
eyes. A hat-box and dressing-bag were put into the carriage by an
obsequious porter. A gentleman entered and took his seat in the corner
farthest away from her. The door was slammed to, and they moved on
again.
May put up her hand to her forehead in a dazed manner. She felt
confused, and could not, for the moment, understand where she was. Her
head ached and throbbed painfully. Then she recollected it all, and
wondered what o'clock it was, and whether they were drawing near
Oldchester.
"Can you tell me what station that was?" she asked in a faint voice, of
her fellow-traveller.
The gentleman turned his head sharply, and peered at her where she sat
in the darkness of her corner-seat. He could not distinguish her face;
for, before his entrance, she had drawn the movable shade half across
the lamp in the roof of the carriage. Thinking he had not heard, or had
not understood her, she repeated the question--
"What is the name of that last station, if you please?"
Upon which the gentleman, instead of making any such reply as might have
been expected, exclaimed, "Lord bless my soul!" and leaving his place at
the other extremity of the carriage, he came and seated himself opposite
to her. "It _is_ Miss Cheffington!" he said, in a tone of the utmost
wonder. And then May recognized Mr. Bragg.
"My dear young lady, how come you to be travelling alone--by this train?
Is anything the matter?"
His tone was so sincere and earnest, his face and manner so gentle and
fatherly, that May at once felt she could trust him fully and
fearlessly.
"I am so glad it's you, Mr. Bragg, and not a stranger!" she said,
putting her hand out to take his.
"Thank you," said Mr. Bragg simply. "I'm glad it _is_ me, if I can be of
any use to you." Then he asked again, "Is anything the matter?"
"N--no; nothing very serious. I have run away from Aunt Pauline----"
"Run away!"
"And I'm going to Granny. You won't feel it your duty to give me up as a
fugitive from justice, will you?" she said, trying to smile, with very
tremulous lips.
"Mrs. Dormer-Smith has never been treating you bad or cruel?" said Mr.
Bragg wonderingly. "No, no; she _couldn't_."
"No, truly, she could not be consciously cruel to me, or to any one; but
she has ideas which--she tried to persuade me----We don't understand one
another, that's the truth."
Mr. Bragg all at once remembered a certain private note despatched to
his hotel in town by Mrs. Dormer-Smith, wherein she had assured him that
May was an inexperienced child, who didn't know her own mind, and begged
him not to take her too absolutely at her word. He had never replied to
that note, having, indeed, nothing to say which it would be agreeable to
his correspondent to hear. But he recalled other instances in which
ladies of the highest gentility had hunted him (or, rather, not
_him_--he had no illusions of vanity on that point--but his large
fortune) with a ruthless unscrupulosity which had amazed him, and a
gallant perseverance in the teeth of discouragement which almost
extorted admiration. And the question stole into his mind, "Could Mrs.
Dormer-Smith have been persecuting May on _his_ account?" The idea was
inexpressibly painful to him. But, anyway, he was relieved and thankful
to find that the girl did not shrink from him, but was sweet and
gracious as ever.
"Well, to be sure," he said in his slow, pondering way, "'tis a strange
chance that we should meet just now, isn't it? For I've just come from
your family place, you know."
"From where?"
"From the home of your ancestors, as Mr. Theodore Bransby calls it. You
asked me the name of that station I got in at. Well, it's Combe St.
Mildred's, the station for Combe Park you know."
"Is it? Then we cannot be far from Oldchester."
"Not very far in miles; but this is an uncommon slow train--stops
everywhere. Stops just now at Wendhurst Junction; the express runs
through. I'm afraid you're very tired, Miss Cheffington." He could not
see her at all distinctly, but her voice betrayed great weariness, he
thought.
"Not very--yes, rather. It does not matter now; we shall soon be there."
"Yes," went on Mr. Bragg, "I've been attending the funeral."
"Oh yes. Poor Lucius! I had forgotten that it was for to-day," said May,
with a self-reproachful feeling. "He was very kind to me, although, at
first, he seemed so dry and eccentric. I think he liked me. I know I
liked him."
"Yes; no doubt but what he liked you. _That_ can't be disputed. And it
does him honour, in my opinion. I suppose I ought to congratulate you,
Miss Cheffington--although congratulating may seem out of place with a
crape band round your hat. And yet I don't know!"
"Congratulate me! Do you mean because my father is the heir? I think
there is more sorrow in Lord Castlecombe's heart than there can be
satisfaction in any one else's?" answered May. She was surprised at this
manifestation of coarseness of feeling in Mr. Bragg. It was the first
she had ever observed in him.
"Your father? Lord bless me, no! Nothing to do with your father. I was
alluding to your cousin's last will and testament. I was present when it
was read, by Lord Castlecombe's desire, although having no particular
claim that I know of. Still, when we came back from the old churchyard,
his lordship invited me into the library, and the will was read out then
by Wagget, the lawyer, poor Martin Bransby's successor."
"But what has all that to do with me?" asked May, sitting upright, and
holding on by the elbows of the seat. As she did so, everything seemed
to waver and swim before her eyes. The cushions on which she sat seemed
to be sinking down through the earth. The long fast, her broken sleep on
the previous night, the tears she had shed, and all the emotions of this
journey, which to her was an adventure fraught with all kinds of
anxieties, were telling upon her. But she made a desperate effort to
listen--not to be ill, not to give trouble. The train was to stop
shortly. She would hold up her courage until then. Had not the gloom
caused by the lamp-shade baffled Mr. Bragg's observation, he would have
been startled by her countenance.
As it was, he merely answered, "Well, because your cousin has left
you all the little property he inherited from his mother. It isn't a
great fortune--a matter of four hundred and fifty, or five hundred
pound a year, as well as I can make out. But it's all in sound
investments--mostly Government securities--and it's settled on you every
penny of it."
But May, struggling against a sick sensation of faintness, was scarcely
able to grasp the meaning of what was said to her. Her eyes grew dim;
she half-rose up from her seat, made a vague movement with her hands,
such as one makes in falling and clutching at whatever is nearest, and
then sank down in a heap on the floor of the carriage, like a wounded
bird. She was in a dead swoon, and her young face looked piteously white
and wan under the crude glare of the gas, as the train moved slowly,
with much resounding clangour, into the big station at Wendhurst
Junction.