A Rash Step
Honor's sleep was undoubtedly of a very pretended description. She lay
still in bed, pressing her hand to her burning head, to try to calm the
throbbing in her temples and allow herself to think collectedly. She
must decide upon what course she meant to take, for matters could not
go on thus any longer. Before nine o'clock to-morrow morning she must
again face Miss Maitland, and take her choice between betraying Dermot
and her expulsion from St. Chad's. In either case, the danger to her
brother seemed great. If Miss Cavendish wrote to Major Fitzgerald,
asking him to remove his daughter from the College, he would naturally
come over to Chessington and make full enquiries as to the reason. She
would not be able to face her father's questions, and Dermot's secret
would come out, after all. How might this most fatal consummation be
avoided?
"If I were only at home, instead of here, then Father wouldn't be able
to go and call at Orley Grange," she said to herself.
It was a new idea. She wondered she had not thought of it before. She
would solve the problem by running away! She would thus meet her father
at Kilmore Castle, instead of in Miss Maitland's presence at St.
Chad's; and could avoid many awkward questions, simply saying she had
been accused of taking a sovereign, and leaving out Dermot's part in
the story altogether.
The prospect was immensely attractive. She felt scarcely capable of
once more confronting the cold scorn of her companions. Home seemed a
haven of refuge, an ark in the midst of a deluge of trouble, the one
place in the wide world where she could fly for help. Perhaps her
mother might be better, and well enough to see her, and she could then
pour out her perplexities into sympathetic ears. But how to get to
Ireland? It was impossible to travel without money, and she had less
than a shilling left in her purse. She knew, however, that a line of
steamboats ran from Westhaven to Cork; if she could walk to the former
place she thought she could persuade the captain of one of the vessels
to take her to Cork by promising that her father's solicitor, who lived
there, would pay for her when she arrived. Mr. Donovan had often been
on business at Kilmore Castle; she knew the address of his office, and
was sure that he would advance her sufficient to pay for both the
steamer journey and her railway ticket to Ballycroghan.
The first thing, therefore, to be done was to leave the College as
early and as secretly as she could. She did not dare to go to sleep,
but lay tossing uneasily until the first hint of dawn. Sunrise was at
about four o'clock, so soon after half-past three it was just light
enough to enable her to get up and dress. Miss Maitland had sent a
glass of milk and a plate of sandwiches and biscuits for her supper the
night before, but she had left them untouched on her dressing-table.
Now, however, she had the forethought to drink the milk and put the
biscuits and sandwiches in her pocket. The face which confronted her
when she looked in the glass hardly seemed her own, it was so
unwontedly pale, and had such dark rings round the eyes. She moved very
quietly, for she was anxious not to waken her room-mate.
"Janie mustn't know what I intend, or she'll get into trouble for not
stopping me," she thought. "It's a comfort that she, at any rate,
doesn't believe I've done this horrible thing, and that she'll stand up
for me when I'm gone."
She listened for a minute, till the sound of her friend's even and
regular breathing reassured her; then, drawing aside the curtain, she
crept into the next cubicle. Janie was lying fast asleep, her head
cradled on her arm. With her fair hair falling round her cheeks, she
looked almost pretty. Honor bent down and kissed the end of one of the
flaxen locks, but too gently to disturb its owner; then, with a
scarcely breathed good-bye, she left the room. She had laid her plans
carefully, and did not mean to be discovered and brought back to
school; so, instead of going downstairs, and thus passing both Vivian
Holmes's and Miss Maitland's doors, she went to the other end of the
passage, where the landing window stood wide open, and, managing to
climb down by the thick ivy, reached the ground without mishap. She
crept through the garden under the laurel bushes, and, avoiding the
cricket field, scaled the wall close to the potting shed, helped very
much by a large heap of logs that had been left there ready to be
chopped. Once successfully over, she set off running in the direction
of the moors, and never stopped until she was quite out of sight of
even the chimneys of St. Chad's. Then, hot and utterly breathless, she
sat down on the grass to rest.
It was still very early, for the sun had only just risen. The air was
fresh and pleasant. Behind her lay green, round-topped hills, and in
front stretched the sea, smooth as glass, with a few small, white sails
gleaming in the distance. Innumerable rabbits kept scuttling past. One
small one came so near that she almost caught it with her hands, but it
dived away into its burrow in a moment. She brought out her sandwiches
and biscuits, and began to eat them. She was hungry already, and
thought wistfully of breakfast. The bread had gone rather dry and the
biscuits a little stale, but she enjoyed them, sitting on the hillside,
especially when she remembered all she had escaped from at St. Chad's.
She felt that, once back in dear old Ireland, her difficulties would be
nearly at an end, and she registered a solemn vow never to cross the
Channel again, except under the strictest compulsion. The last fragment
of biscuit having vanished, she got up and shook down the crumbs for
the birds; then, turning towards the hills, she struck a footpath which
she thought must surely lead in the right direction. Westhaven, though
twenty-five miles away by the winding coast road, or the railway, was
only twelve miles distant if she went, as the crow flies, over the
moors. The authorities at the College, she imagined, would never dream
of looking for her there. When they discovered her absence they would
probably suppose she had gone to Dunscar, and would enquire at the
station, and search the main road; but, of course, nobody would have
seen her, and there would be no clue to her whereabouts.
She was so pleased to have such a good start that she felt almost in
high spirits, and strode along at a fair pace, keenly enjoying the
unwonted sense of freedom. It was very lonely on the moors, and not
even a cottage was to be seen. The path was hardly more than a sheep
track, sometimes nearly effaced with grass, and she had to trace it as
best she could. After some hours she began to grow tired and
desperately hungry again. She wondered how she was to manage anything
in the way of lunch; then, hailing with delight the sight of a small
farm nestling in a hollow between two hills, she turned her steps at
once in that direction. She had a sixpence and two pennies in her
pocket, and thought that she might perhaps be able to buy some food.
The farm, on nearer acquaintance, proved a rather dirty and
dilapidated-looking place. Honor picked her way carefully through the
litter in the yard, and was about to knock at the door, when a collie
dog flew from the barn behind, barking furiously, showing his teeth,
and threatening to catch hold of her skirt. Much to her relief, he was
called off by a slatternly, hard-featured woman, who, hearing the
noise, came out of the house with a pail in her hand, and stood looking
at her visitor in much amazement.
"I want to know," said Honor, "if you can let me have a glass of milk
and some bread and butter, and how much you would charge for it."
"We don't sell milk here," replied the woman, shaking her head. "I've
just put it all down in the butter-pot, so I'm afraid I can't oblige
you."
"Oh!" said Honor blankly. Then, "I should be so glad of a little bread
and butter, if you can let me have it."
"Are you out on a picnic?" asked the woman. "Where are the rest of
you?"
"No, I'm by myself," answered Honor. "I'm walking across the moors to
Westhaven."
"To Westhaven? You're on the wrong road, then. That path will lead you
out at Windover, if you follow it."
Poor Honor was almost dumbfounded at such unexpected bad news.
"Have I gone very far wrong?" she faltered. "I must get on to Westhaven
as fast as I can. Perhaps you can tell me the right way?"
"Aye, I can put you on the path, if you want," replied the woman; "but
you'll have a good long bit to go."
"Is there any village where I could buy something to eat? I've had
nothing since breakfast," said Honor, returning again to her first and
most pressing need.
"No, there ain't," said the woman; then, apparently softening a little,
"Look here, I don't mind making you a cup of tea, if you care to pay
for it. The kettle's boiling. You can step in if you like."
Glad to get a meal in any circumstances, Honor entered the squalid
kitchen, and tried not to notice the general untidiness of her
surroundings, while the woman hastily cleared the table and set out a
teacup and saucer, a huge loaf, butter, and a pot of tea. The dog had
made friends, and crept up to Honor, snuggling his nose into her hand;
and a tabby cat, interested in the preparations, came purring eagerly
to join the feast. Honor did not know whether to call it late
breakfast, dinner, or tea, but she told Janie afterwards she thought
she must have eaten enough to combine the three, though she only paid
sixpence for it all. She finished at last, and got up to go; then,
remembering the long walk still in store for her, she gave the farmer's
wife her remaining twopence for some extra slices of bread and butter
to take with her.
"It's a tidy step for a young lady like you, and a-going quite alone
too," said the woman, eyeing Honor keenly as she led her round the side
of the cottage, to point out the right path. "You've come from over by
Dunscar, I take it?"
"Oh, I'm a good walker!" replied Honor, who did not wish to encourage
enquiries. "I shall soon get along. Thank you for coming so far with
me."
"You're welcome," said the woman. "I hope you'll keep the path, and
reach there safe; but if you'll take my advice, you'll turn round the
other way and go straight back to school. You'd just get there by
tea-time."
Honor started at this parting remark, and hurried on as fast as she
could. How did the woman guess she had run away from the College? Of
course!--she had forgotten her hat. Everyone in the neighbourhood of
Chessington knew the unmistakable "sailors", with their coloured
ribbons and badges. She might have remembered they would easily be
recognized, and blamed her own stupidity and lack of forethought. She
hoped no message would be sent to Miss Cavendish, and looked round
carefully to see if she were being followed. Yes, she could certainly
see the woman now, calling a boy from a field, and pointing eagerly in
her direction. They would perhaps try to take her back against her
will, and she would be marched ignominiously, like a prisoner, to St.
Chad's.
"That they shall never do!" she thought, and choosing a moment when the
pair were passing round the front of the house, she turned from the
path and scrambled up the bed of a small stream on to the hills again.
She decided that so long as she knew the right points of the compass,
it would be quite easy to find her way, as she could walk in a line
with the path, only higher up on the moor, where she would be neither
seen nor followed. She flung her hat away, determined that it should
not betray her again; and, on the whole, she liked to have her head
bare, the wind felt so fresh and pleasant blowing through her hair. For
a while she went on briskly, then, coming across a spring, which rose
clear and bubbling through the grass and sedges, she took off her shoes
and stockings, and sat dabbling her feet in the water, watching a pair
of dragon flies, and plaiting rings from the rushes that grew around.
She stayed there so long that when she happened to look at her watch
she was startled to find it was nearly half-past four.
"I must push on," she said to herself. "I've a long way to be going
yet. I wonder what time the steamer starts for Cork, and if I shall
find it waiting in the harbour?"
She was quite sure that she had come in exactly the same direction as
the path, but somehow she did not seem to be getting any nearer to
civilization. On and on she wandered, hour after hour, seeing nothing
before her but the same bare, grass-covered hills, till she began to
grow alarmed, and to suspect that after all she had completely missed
her way. The sun was setting, and as the great, red ball of fire sank
behind the horizon, her spirits fell in proportion. What was she to do,
alone and lost on the hills? Even if she could reach Westhaven in
daylight, she would not like to be obliged to go to the quay in the
dark; and suppose there were no night boat, like the mail steamer in
which she had crossed from Dublin to Holyhead, where could she go until
morning? She had not foreseen any of these difficulties when she set
out, it had all appeared so easy and simple; but she saw now what a
risky adventure she had undertaken. She was almost in despair, when
luckily she came across a track sufficiently trodden to indicate that
it probably led to some human habitation. It was growing very dusk
indeed now, but she could just see to trace the path, and she hurried
hopefully on, till at length the lights of a farm-house window shone
out through the gathering gloom.
At first Honor thought of knocking boldly at the door and asking for
food and shelter; but then, she reflected that the people of the house
would think it most strange for a nicely dressed girl to present
herself so late in the evening with such a request, and would be sure
to ask awkward questions, and might possibly send a messenger to the
College to tell of her arrival, detaining her there in the morning
until Miss Cavendish or Miss Maitland arrived to fetch her. Even supper
and a bed, welcome though they might prove, would be too dearly bought
at such a price; and she determined, instead, to spend the night in a
barn, the door of which stood conveniently open. It was half-filled
with newly made, sweet-smelling hay, on to which she crept in the
darkness; and flinging herself down, she drew some of it under her head
for a pillow. A strange bed indeed, and very different from the one in
her cubicle at St. Chad's! But at least she was free to go when she
pleased; she meant to be up at daybreak, before anyone on the farm was
astir, and to-morrow she would surely reach Westhaven and the steamer,
and be able to start for that goal of all her wanderings--home.
It is easy enough before you go to sleep to resolve that you will rouse
yourself at a certain time, but not quite so simple to carry it out,
especially when you happen to be dead tired; and Honor's case was no
exception to the rule. Instead of waking at dawn, she slept peacefully
till nearly eight o'clock, and might even have slept on longer still if
the farmer and his son had not chanced to stroll into the barn on their
way to the stable. The boy was walking to the far end to hang a rope on
a nail, when he suddenly ran back, with his eyes nearly dropping from
his head with surprise.
"Dad!" he cried. "Dad! Come and look here! There's a girl sleeping on
the hay!"
Honor, newly aroused, was just raising herself up on her elbow; she had
not quite collected her senses, nor realized where she was. Startled by
the voices, she jumped up, with the instinctive impulse to run away;
then, seeing that two strangers stood between her and the open door,
she sat down again on the hay and burst out crying.
[Illustration: "STARTLED BY THE VOICES, SHE JUMPED UP"]
"There! There!" said the farmer. "Don't you take on so, missy; we ain't
a-goin' to hurt you. Tom, you'd best run in and fetch Mother hither!"
"Mother", a stout, elderly woman, arrived panting on the scene in a few
moments. No lady in the land could possibly have proved kinder in such
an emergency. She kissed and soothed poor Honor, took her indoors and
gave her hot water to bathe her face and wash her hands, and finally
settled her down in a corner of the delightfully clean farm-kitchen,
with a dainty little breakfast before her.
Honor felt sorely tempted to unburden herself of her story to this true
friend in need, but the dread that she would be sent back to St. Chad's
kept her silent, and she only said that she had been lost on the moor,
and was anxious to get to Westhaven, and to go home as speedily as
possible, all of which was, of course, absolutely true. Mrs. Ledbury,
no doubt, had her suspicions; but, seeing that questions disturbed her
guest, with true delicacy she refrained from pressing her, and
suggested instead that, as her husband was driving into Westhaven
market that morning, he could give her a lift, and save her a walk of
nearly seven miles.
Honor jumped at the opportunity; she felt stiff and worn out after her
yesterday's experiences, and much disinclined for further rambles; so
it was with a sigh of genuine relief that she found herself seated in
the high gig by the side of the old farmer.
"Good-bye, dearie!" said Mrs. Ledbury, tucking a shawl over Honor's
knees, and pressing a slice of bread and honey into her hand, from fear
that she might grow hungry on the road. "You run straight home when you
get to Westhaven! They'll be in a fair way about you, they will that!
It gives me a turn yet to think of you sleeping in the barn all night
long, with rats and mice scrambling round you, and me not to know you
was there!"
Mr. Ledbury was evidently not of a communicative disposition; he drove
along without vouchsafing any remarks, and Honor was so lost in her
thoughts that she did not feel disposed to talk to him. Her great
anxiety now was to catch the steamer to Cork; she wished she had some
idea of the time of its starting, and only hoped that it did not set
off early in the morning, for to miss it would seem almost more than
she could bear. The gig jolted slowly on over the uneven road, till at
length the moor gave way to suburban villas and gardens, quickly
followed by streets and shops; and they finally drew up in the busy
market-place of Westhaven.
Mr. Ledbury helped Honor to dismount, and having thanked him and said
good-bye, she turned round the nearest corner; then, once safely out of
his sight, she set off as fast as she could for the harbour. Partly,
perhaps, because she enquired chiefly from children, whose directions
were not very clear, and partly because it is generally difficult to
find one's way in a fresh place, it was a long time before she saw the
welcome gleam of the water and the masts of the shipping; and then,
after all, she found she had come to the wrong quay, and it was only by
dint of continual asking that at last she arrived at the particular
landing-stage of the Irish steamers.
"Want the boat to Cork, miss?" said the weather-beaten seaman to whom
she addressed her question. "Why, she's bin gone out an hour and a half
ago. She was off at eleven prompt. When will there be another, did ye
say? Not till eight to-night, and she's only a cargo."
Honor's hopes, which had managed to sustain her spirits so far, dropped
to zero at this bad news. There she was, penniless, in a strange town;
and how could she get through all the long, weary hours until the
evening? Gulping down a lump in her throat, she asked the sailor if the
cargo vessel were already in the harbour, and if it were possible that
she might go on board now, and wait there till it should be time to set
sail.
"We're expecting of her in every minute," said the man, looking at
Honor curiously. "You can speak to the captain when she comes. Maybe
he'd let you, maybe he wouldn't; I shouldn't like to give an
opinion"--which, to say the least, was not consoling.
Honor walked on a little farther down the landing-stage, trying to wink
back her tears. She was in a desperate strait, and almost began to wish
she had never left St. Chad's. Suppose the captain would not take her
without the money for her passage? Possibly he might not know Mr.
Donovan's name, and would think she was an impostor; what would she do
then? She turned quite cold at the idea, and had to sit down on a
bulkhead to recover herself, for she felt as though her legs were
shaking under her.
She did not remember how long she sat there. A noise and bustle behind
presently attracted her attention, and turning round, she saw that a
steamer was arriving, and that the sailors were busy catching the thick
cables and fastening the vessel to the wharf. The gangway was thrown
across, and a few passengers stepped on shore. They had evidently
travelled steerage--two or three women, with babies and bundles, and a
party of Irish labourers come over for the harvest, with their
belongings tied in red pocket-handkerchiefs; but after them strode a
tall figure, with a grey moustache, at the sight of whom Honor sprang
up from her seat with a perfect scream of delight, and raced along the
quay like a whirlwind, to fling herself joyfully into the gentleman's
arms.
"Father! Father!" she sobbed. "Oh, is it really and truly you?"