ON THE WING.
Edith lay in the large easy-chair for a long time without stirring.
She did not even think. It was enough that she had been delivered from
the danger of discovery, and that she was free to take wing and fly
away at the streak of earliest dawn.
She did not know how long she sat with her face covered with her
hands. She had resolved not to move for a long time, and for a long
time she remained motionless. There was no fear of her sleeping.
Although her mind was not actively employed about anything it was
sharply awake. The first thing to challenge her attention was a sound.
No boding or terrible sound, but the faint, weak shrill chirp of a
bird. She scarcely realized what it was at first, for she was
unfamiliar with the country and unused to the early notes of field and
wood.
She took her hands from before her face and looked at the window. The
light was still very grey and blue. But it was light, and, moreover,
light that would grow stronger every minute, every second. When the
day is breaking for joy or deliverance, the light fills the veins with
an ethereal intoxication. Thoughts which during darkness can be met
only with pallid terror can, when the shadow of night has passed away,
be faced with vital courage and endurance.
She rose with care, but there was firmness and decision in her
movements. She was fully dressed for walking. The rain had stopped and
the sky above the trees spread clear and stainless, a vast plain of
open blue.
Oscar Leigh had lowered the window. She caught the sash and raised it
very gently but with no trepidation. If the door had that moment
opened, she would have simply sprung through the window, without a
word. The want of sleep dulls the apprehensions of fear as well as the
other faculties of the mind. It sobers the judgment and reduces the
susceptibility to extravagance of emotion.
When she had got the sash up to its full height, she stepped
resolutely out on the gravelled carriage-sweep. She felt almost at
ease. She paused a moment, looked back into the room, and under the
shadow of her hand saw that the note she had placed on the table was
gone. She turned away from the window and began walking along the
gravelled drive towards the gate.
In the face of freedom and the growing light of day the events of last
night were beginning to lose all aspect of mystery or terror and to
assume a commonplace aspect. The wild talk of the hunchback with his
mother grew to have little or no significance worthy of attention, and
the soliloquy at the window was, upon review, becoming absurd.
Indisputably she was right in leaving that house. It would be entirely
unpleasant to live in a house where a man whom she did not like,
forced attentions on her. She would go back to London and tell her
story at home, and get another place. That was all. No one but her
grandmother and herself need know of this first unpleasant experience
of trying to earn her bread.
Here was the gate. Locked! Of course. Mrs. Brown had told her the gate
was locked by her every night when she came from the house at eleven
o'clock. Edith had forgotten this. She had not bargained for finding
her way barred a short distance from the house. A couple of hours ago
this would have seemed an insuperable obstacle. Now she was free, and
quite destitute of terror, of fear, of even grave uneasiness. She felt
she could be almost angry, indignant, with this gate and those who had
shut and fastened it against her egress.
She turned her face from the gate and looked back at Eltham House. All
there appeared quiet and asleep. She looked at the little lodge on her
right. Here all seemed quiet and asleep too. The door was shut, the
curtains of the windows, one on each side of the door, were close
drawn. She could hear no sound but the chatter of the small birds in
the hedges, the cawing of distant rooks, and afar off the vexatious
crowing of a cock.
The solitude of morning in the country around her was widely different
from the solitude of the night just gone by. The solitude of midnight
seemed designed for the return of banished spirits; the solitude of
the dawn a desert from which man had fled for ever. A sense of
desolation came upon her. She wanted to be free, to be at the other
side of that gate, but when she found herself on the open road what
should she do? For hours to come the people of Millway would not be
stirring. She was fleeing from that house into a desolate and
uninhabited plain, for though there might be people within call, they
were not within sight. Anyway, she could not stay here at the gate.
She was now the most conspicuous object on which the upper windows of
the house looked, and if he were to come to a front window he could
not fail to see her. If anyone happened to pass along that road she
would be a conspicuous and most remarkable figure inside that gate at
this hour.
She walked to the door of the lodge and softly placed her hand on the
latch. It yielded to her touch. She pressed against the door; it moved
inward. Disclosed to view was a tiny square hall, in which were two
doors. Close to the door which she had opened a large iron holdfast
projected from the wall, and upon the holdfast hung a large, clumsy
key. The key of the gate? Perhaps so.
In a moment she had taken the key off the hook, gone back to the gate,
and inserted the key in the lock. In a minute she was outside the gate
on the open road. She closed the gate noiselessly behind her, and
hastened away, she knew not whither.
Before she had gone a hundred yards she discovered she had turned to
the right instead of to the left. She intended walking towards the
town, and it lay on her left as she came through the gateway. She
hastened back and found the gate quickly. She kept on at this pace
until she was about as far on this side of the gate as she had been on
the other. Then she slackened her speed, moving demurely along the
road.
After all, from what was she fleeing? Why was she hastening away? What
prevented her staying in the house until ten o'clock, and then going
to the railway station, in the ordinary way?
She could not remain in the house to be found there when it was
believed she had left it for good. But why had she rushed out of it
the previous night in a panic? Surely there had been nothing to alarm
her. No doubt Mr. Leigh had tried to kiss her upon her arrival, and
she could not stay after that affront. It was intolerable that any man
should attempt to kiss _her_. He had tried to excuse himself by saying
he had only offered her a patriarchal welcome. The idea of a man who
was only thirty-five years claiming the privileges of age was absurd.
But, upon reflection, he might not have meant patriarchal to imply
length of life, but method of life. He might have intended to convey
that he, as male head of the house, assumed the privileges which
obtained in patriarchal times, in remote times, when the head of the
house posed as the father of all dwelling within its gates. But even
if that were so, there was an affront in any such presumption, and she
could not consent to remain under that roof longer than necessary. His
gallantries of bows, and civil speech, and offers of service,
following his atrocious attempt, were enough to warrant her in leaving
if there had been no other provocation.
But there had been no occasion for mysterious or surreptitious flight.
Plainly no desire existed of detaining her against her will. She had
been permitted to retire to her room on pleading fatigue, the window
was then fully open, the gate had not been fastened, and even when the
gate was locked for the night the key was left lying accessible to
anyone within the grounds. True, he believed her to be now in London.
He did not know she had lost the train. Seemingly, he had taken not
the least trouble to detain her in the house or to ascertain what her
movements were when she quitted it.
Viewed by the sober light of day it appeared she had been making a
silly romance out of some half-jocular attentions paid to her by a
vulgar man, almost old enough to be her father! His soliloquy at the
window about making her his wife had been only a little more absurd
than his share in the dialogue between him and his mother. Presently,
in a few days, the whole affair would appear nothing more than an
unpleasant dream. In all likelihood she should never see Mrs. Leigh or
her son again. The chances were a million to one against her
encountering either during the remainder of her life. She would
dismiss the whole affair from her mind and think of other matters.
Not a soul to be seen or heard yet. What a ridiculous thing it was to
say that people of the country were earlier risers than people of the
town! Fancy walking a mile at any time in the morning through London
without meeting a soul!
About half-a-mile from Millway a seat had been placed by the side of
the road. It was formed of three square bars of wood supported upon
three square pillars of stone. Edith sat down and rested. She did not
move until she heard the sound of approaching wheels and horses. She
rose and walked briskly in the direction from which she heard the
sounds. She walked quickly, with her head down, as though knowing well
whither she was going, and being in haste. Two sleepy men in a cart
looked with drowsy eyes at her as they passed, but said nothing. These
were the first people she had met since she left Eltham House. They
did not speak to her, ask her any questions, seem to take the
slightest interest in her. This was reassuring. When the cart was out
of sight, she returned to the seat and rested again. She would not go
back towards the house lest she might be seen by Mr. Leigh or Mrs.
Brown; she would not go among the sleeping houses lest she might
attract attention, invite inquiries. No one else came near for
half-an-hour. Then a scattered group of labourers, tramping doggedly
onward from the town, disturbed her solitude. She got up and passed
these quickly, as before. One of the men said "Good morning," civilly.
Before they disappeared from view a second cart sounded on the road.
The country was at length awake. It would not be desirable for her to
sit on that bench in the view of people at that early hour. She
resolved to keep moving now until the railway station opened.
After leaving that bench finally, she walked into the town as if on
business of urgency, but of no alarm. It would not do to seem careless
of her route or speed; it would not do to seem eagerly in haste; it
would not do to seem as though she was strange to the place. She had
no fear but that shy fear of attracting attention instinctively
developed in those who flee, no matter from what they flee.
She wandered through many streets and roads that day, but took no note
of them. She adopted a plan to avoid losing her bearings. There were
six roads leading out of Millway. She took them one after the other
from her left hand, went forward upon each a thousand steps, counting
each step in her mind, and then came back to the point from which she
had started, also counting each step as she returned. This prevented
her wandering far, or losing her way. Counting the steps kept her mind
fully occupied, and prevented her noticing the fatigue, or becoming
unhappily conscious of her unusual position.
Upon comparing the numbers of outward and backward steps, she found
that the stretch of road which measured a thousand from town, measured
never more than nine hundred and fifty back. As soon as she turned
towards Millway, although she knew the station would not be open when
she arrived there, she unconsciously increased the length of each
pace.
Only once in her monotonous and fatiguing task did anything unpleasant
come in her path, and then the unpleasant object was a plain
white-washed wall. Yet it gave her a sick thrill of terror.
Fortunately it was in her last radiation from Millway.
She was quite unfamiliar with the town. She had never seen it until
the day before, and then only as the fly drove from the station to
Eltham House. This morning she had determined her course from left to
right, taking the wide and open streets, down which she could see far.
She passed by several ways which did not look main arteries of
traffic. When it was half an hour of train time, she left behind two
narrow and unpromising-looking streets, and coming upon the broadest
and most open one she had yet encountered, committed herself to it
without hesitation, merely making the reflection, "This is my last
turn. It will be time to go to the station when I reach this corner
again."
After that she took no heed of the street in which she was, but kept
on. Fatigue, and the knowledge that her walk was approaching an end,
made her duller and more indifferent than before. She did not look
around her. She counted her steps in a purely mechanical manner. They,
as it were, went on counting themselves without effort on her part. It
is doubtful if she then could have stopped the enumeration. Her plan
up to this had been to count up to a hundred and then begin again,
closing up a finger for each five score told.
The road was not straight. She did not notice that at the end of the
first hundred, the street had narrowed, and the flagging ceased.
Before the end of the second hundred was chronicled, the pathway
disappeared, the houses grew mean and dilapidated. Before she counted
two hundred and fifty, she was traversing an alley, filthy under foot,
with battered, squalid houses and hovels on either side. This was the
most foul and disreputable part of Millway. It was inhabited by the
unfortunate, the dissolute, and the disreputable. No one of good
repute and appearance had been down there for years and years.
She saw nothing of what lay around her, did not notice the filthy,
rutty ground on which she trod; did not observe the windless, noisome
air through which she moved.
All at once she drew up with a quick start, and uttered a suppressed
cry of alarm. She was in front of a blank white-washed wall. She
glanced around in terror, looking for an avenue of escape. There was
none except the way by which she had come. She found herself at the
end of a frowsy, villainous-looking _cul-de-sac_.
She shuddered and stood still, not knowing for the moment what to do.
There was no going forward; to go back, was to confess she had lost
her way. Even the white radiance of the morning could not make that
close, f[oe]tid, ruinous street look innocent. It had vice and crime
written too deeply on its evil face. Fortunately, no one was stirring
in the street, but each house and hovel had windows, and windows of
fearful aspect, and behind these windows she imagined hideous winking
eyes, and fleering faces. What, if some one, some hulking, slouching
figure, should shamble out of one of those sinister doorways, and
plant itself in the middle of the lane, blocking up her path, and
forbidding her flight!
She caught her breath, and stooped her head, and ran swiftly,
fiercely, madly, as though pursued by a pack of ravenous wolves. She
fancied she heard the clatter of swift, relentless feet, the clamour
of ruthless voices behind her ears. She imagined she felt the touch of
claw-like hands upon her shoulder. She imagined she could see out of
the corners of her eyes the foul fingers of her pursuers on her
shoulder, on her sleeve! She thought she heard, felt, their breathings
at her ears! She ran as for life from awful death.
All at once the figure of a man barred her way, blocked her path. With
a cry of despair she stood still. The man seemed to be awaiting her
approach. He moved a step towards her and said: "Beg pardon, miss. You
need not run. There's plenty of time. The train does not start till
six-fifteen, and it's only a quarter to six."
This was the friendly railway-porter of the night before. He had just
stepped out of his lodging. She had failed to notice that she had left
the reeking slum behind her, and was once more in the main street of
the town.
She made a powerful effort and collected herself.
"Plenty of time, miss," said the man respectfully, "if you are going
up to London by the six-fifteen." He waved his hand in the direction
of the station.
"Thank you. I am much obliged to you. I--I did not wish to be late."
Her breath was so short from running she spoke irregularly and with
difficulty.
"I am going to open the station, miss. Would you like to sit in the
waiting room?"
"Thank you. I would."
He drew aside and she passed him. He followed at a deferential
distance.
In five minutes they stood on the platform. He opened the door of the
waiting room. Then he paused and thought a moment. He turned to her
and said, pointing to a line of carriages drawn up at the platform:
"That's the train for London. You haven't to change until you get
there. Are you going to Victoria or Ludgate?"
"Victoria."
"That," pointing, "part of the train is for Victoria--the forward
part, miss." He looked at her again, and noticed that her boots showed
signs of a long walk. "Perhaps you would like to go straight into a
carriage?"
"I should prefer that."
"I can see to your luggage and get your ticket for you, miss, so that
you need not stir once you get in."
"I have no luggage here. It will be sent after me. Not first-class,
thank you. I shall travel third, if you please." She coloured a little
more deeply. Her usually pale face was faintly flushed from her late
haste and excitement. "Here is the money for the ticket. You have been
very kind to me--I am extremely sorry I--I--I can't make you a little
present--but----"
"Don't mention it, miss. It's my duty, miss, to do what I can to
oblige passengers. Take the far corner with your back to the engine.
I'll lock you in. We haven't many passengers by this train, and I may
be able to keep the carriage altogether for you, at starting, anyway.
The ticket office won't be open for a few minutes. With your back to
the engine, miss. I'll bring you the ticket in time. You are locked in
now, miss, and you need not stir until you get to Victoria."
She thanked him again and he left her. Now the full effect of her long
walk, the reaction from the excitement of the night and want of sleep,
fell upon her with leaden weight of drowsiness. She was safe, at rest
now, on her way home. This was a blessed change from the strain of
mind in the darkness, and the weary, weary walking and counting in the
light. She went on counting still, exactly at the rate of her paces on
the road.
Her head rested in the corner of the narrow compartment. Her brain
still went stolidly on counting whether she would or not. She closed
her eyes. A delicious numbness began to steal over her. She had a
faint consciousness that a few people were out on the platform. She
heard as from afar off the sound of voices and feet.
"Your ticket, miss."
Something was placed in her hand, she started and caught it in her
gloved fingers, closely.
"I'll lock the door again, miss. You are all right now till you get to
Victoria."
"Thank you, very much."
This dialogue sounded faintly in her ears, she had no clear perception
that she had taken part in it. In another minute she was fast asleep
with her head resting in the corner of the carriage and a soft smile
upon her lips.
After her eyelids closed and she became unconscious in sleep, the
following dialogue took place on the platform, outside the window of
her carriage:
"You are not to go in there, sir, that compartment is engaged."
"Third class compartment engaged! Rubbish! Open the door, I say, at
once!"
"No, sir, I cannot. I do not mean that the compartment is engaged by
paying for it."
"Open it this instant."
"The lady has been very ill of some catching complaint and must travel
alone. See, she is asleep."
"No matter. _I_ too am very ill of a catching complaint. Open the
door. You wont! Oh, it doesn't make any difference, I'll open it
myself. I always carry a key. Porter, you have lost a shilling. But
there, I won't be vindictive, here's a shilling for being good to the
lady. She is a friend of mine. You are doing well this morning,
porter. She paid you first for reserving the compartment, then I pay
you instead of reporting you for being impertinent and corrupt."
"She gave me nothing. The lady had only her bare fare to Victoria, and
if you know her she will tell you that I got her ticket and she had no
money left."
"You're new to this place. I never saw you here before. Go away. Only
you are so young a fool I'd get you into trouble."
All this was said in low voices so as to be inaudible to the girl,
even if she had been awake, but she was not awake, she was in profound
sleep.
The new passenger was seated in the compartment, and, as the porter
turned away, he closed and locked the door softly. In less than a
minute the train steamed out of the station. The girl slept on with a
smile of relief and deliverance around her fresh young mouth.
The second traveller sat facing the engine on the side opposite Edith,
and directly in front of her, by the open window. He was a short
deformed man and carried a heavy crooked walking-stick. For a few
minutes after the train began to move he remained without moving. The
girl slept heavily, swaying slightly from side to side with the motion
of the train, her two gloved hands lay placidly on her lap. Between
the thumb and fore-finger of her right hand was the ticket bought for
her by the friendly porter, and representing all the money she had had
beyond a few half pence.
When the train had been five minutes on its way and had gained its
full speed, the man leaned forward towards the sleeping girl, and with
infinite gentleness and care drew the ticket out of her hand, keeping
his eyes on her eyelids the whole time. Without taking his eyes off
her face, he raised his right hand, thrust it, holding the ticket
between his thumb and finger, out of the carriage window, and dropped
the ticket into the rushing air. Then he sat back in his corner
opposite Edith, and sighed and smiled.