That night Innocent made an end of all her hesitation. Resolutely she
put away every thought that could deter her from the step she was now
resolved to take. Poor old Priscilla little imagined the underlying
cause of the lingering tenderness with which the girl kissed her
"good-night," looking back with more than her usual sweetness as she
went along the corridor to her own little room. Once there, she locked
and bolted the door fast, and then set to work gathering a few little
things together and putting them in a large but light-weight satchel,
such as she had often used to carry some of the choicest apples from
the orchard when they were being gathered in. Her first care was for
her manuscript,--the long-treasured scribble, kept so secretly and so
often considered with hope and fear, and wonder and doubting--then she
took one or two of the more cherished volumes which had formerly been
the property of the "Sieur Amadis" and packed them with it. Choosing
only the most necessary garments from her little store, she soon filled
her extemporary travelling-bag, and then sat down to write a letter to
Robin. It was brief and explicit.
"DEAR ROBIN,"--it ran--"I have left this beloved home. It is impossible
for me to stay. Dad left me some money in bank-notes in that sealed
letter--so I want for nothing. Do not be anxious or unhappy--but marry
soon and forget me. I know you will always be good to Priscilla--tell
her I am not ungrateful to her for all her care of me. I love her
dearly. But I am placed in the world unfortunately, and I must do
something that will help me out of the shame of being a burden on
others and an object of pity or contempt. If you will keep the old
books Dad gave me, and still call them mine, you will be doing me a
great kindness. And will you take care of Cupid?--he is quite a clever
bird and knows his friends. He will come to you or Priscilla as easily
as 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 you
miserable if I stayed here and married you. God bless you! "INNOCENT."
She put this in an envelope and addressed it,--then making sure that
everything was ready, she took a few sovereigns from the little pile of
housekeeping money which Priscilla always brought to her to count over
every week and compare with the household expenses.
"I can return these when I change one of Dad's bank-notes," she said to
herself--"but I must have something smaller to pay my way with just now
than a hundred pounds."
Indeed the notes Hugo Jocelyn had left for her might have given her
some little trouble and embarrassment, but she did not pause to
consider difficulties. When a human creature resolves to dare and to
do, no impediment, real or imaginary, is allowed to stand long in the
way. An impulse pushes the soul forward, be it ever so reluctantly--the
impulse is sometimes from heaven and sometimes from hell--but as long
as 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 in
tidying the beloved room where she had spent so many happy hours, and
setting everything in order,--talking in whispers between whiles to the
ghostly presence of the "Sieur Amadis" as to a friend who knew her
difficult plight and guessed her intentions.
"You see," she said, softly, "there is no way out of it. It is not as
if 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 that
I have a mother, I feel that she is nothing to me. I can hardly believe
she is my mother. She is a lady of fashion with a secret--and _I_ am
the secret! I ought to be put away and buried and forgotten!--that
would be safest for her, and perhaps best for me! But I should like to
live long enough to make her wish she had been true to my father and
had 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 fynde
Peace"--and at the motto "Mon coeur me soutien."
"Poor 'Sieur Amadis!'" she murmured--"He sought forgetfulness!--shall I
ever do the same? How strange it will be not to WISH to
remember!--surely one must be very old, or sad, to find gladness in
forgetting!"
A faint little thrill of dread ran through her slight frame--thoughts
began to oppress her and shake her courage--she resolutely put them
away and bent herself to the practical side of action. Re-attiring
herself in the plain black dress and hat which Priscilla had got for
her mourning garb, she waited patiently for the first peep of
daylight--a daylight which was little more than darkness--and then,
taking her satchel, she crept softly out of her room, never once
looking back. There was nothing to stay her progress, for the great
mastiff Hero, since Hugo Jocelyn's death, had taken to such dismal
howling that it had been found necessary to keep him away from the
house in, a far-off shed where his melancholy plaints could not be
heard. Treading with light, soundless footsteps down the stairs, she
reached 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, and
inhaling the fragrance of awakening unseen flowers. She knew of a gap
in the hedge by means of which she could leave the garden without
opening the big farm-gate which moved on rather creaking hinges--and
she took this way over a couple of rough stepping-stones. Once out on
the old by-road she paused. Briar Farm looked like a house in a
dream--there was not enough daylight yet to show its gables distinctly,
and it was more like the shadowy suggestion of a building than any
actual substance. Yet there was something solemn and impressive in its
scarcely defined outline--to the girl's sensitive imagination it was
like the darkened and disappearing vision of her youth and
happiness,--a curtain falling, as it were, between the past and the
future like a drop-scene in a play.
"Good-bye, Briar Farm!" she whispered, kissing her hand to the quaintly
peaked roof just dimly perceptible--"Good-bye, dear, beloved home! I
shall 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 steadily
away. Up the old by-road, through the darkness of the overhanging
trees, here and there crossed by pale wandering gleams of fitful light
from the nearing dawn, she moved swiftly, treading with noiseless
footsteps as though she thought the unseen spirits of wood and field
might hear and interrupt her progress--and in a few minutes she found
herself upon the broad highway branching right and left and leading in
either direction to the wider world. Briar Farm had disappeared behind
the trees,--it was as though no such place existed, so deeply was it
hidden.
She stopped, considering. She was not sure which was the way to the
nearest railway-station some eight miles distant. She was prepared to
walk it, but feared to take the wrong road, for she instinctively felt
that if she had to endure any unexpected delay, some one from Briar
Farm would be sent to trace her and find out where she went. While she
thus hesitated, she heard the heavy rumbling of slow cart-wheels, and
waited to see what sort of vehicle might be approaching. It was a large
waggon drawn by two ponderous horses and driven by a man who, dimly
perceived by the light of the lantern fastened in front of him,
appeared to be asleep. Innocent hailed him--and after one or two
efforts 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 well
accustomed. 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 were
dragging away at their shafts in stolid determination to move
on--"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' main
slow, 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, but
it'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 a
chuckle--"an' what ye're doin' all alone i' the wake o' the marnin' is
more 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 mothers
wot's worse than none. Git on wi' ye!"--this in a stentorian voice to
the horses, accompanied by a sounding crack of the whip. "Git on!"
The big strong creatures tugged at the shafts and obeyed, their hoofs
making a noisy clatter in the silence of the dawn. The daylight was
beginning to declare itself more openly, and away to the east, just
above a line of dark trees, the sky showed pale suggestions of amber
and of rose. Innocent sat very silent; she was almost afraid of the
coming light lest by chance the man beside her should ever have seen
her before and recognise her. His sleep having been broken, he was
disposed to be garrulous.
"Ever bin by train afore?" he asked.
"No."
"No! Eh, that's mighty cur'ous. A'most everyone goes somewhere by train
nowadays--there's such a sight o' cheap 'scursions. I know a man wot
got up i' the middle o' night, 'e did, an' more fool 'e!--an' off 'e
goes by train down to seaside for the day--'e'd never seen the sea
before an' it giv' 'im such a scare as 'e ain't got over it yet. 'E
said there was such a sight o' wobblin' water that 'e thort it 'ud
wobble 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 clear
tone--"but I've read about it--and I think I know what it is like. It
is always changing,--it is full of beautiful colours, blue and green,
and grey and violet--and it has great waves edged with white foam!--oh
yes!--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 head
to look more closely at his girl-companion.
"Ye talks mighty strange!" he said--"a'most as if ye'd been eddicated
up 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 the
papers 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 the
widening light she began to see the stolid, stupid, but good-natured
face of the man--"I don't understand them. I've read about the sea in
books,--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 my
word for't, my gel, they won't want any folks there wi' sort o' gammon
like that in their 'eds--they're all on the make there, an' they don't
care for nothin' 'cept money an' 'ow to grab it. I ain't bin there, but
I've heerd a good deal."
"You may have heard wrong," said Innocent, gathering more courage as
she realised that the light was now quite clear enough for him to see
her features distinctly and that it was evident he did not know
her--"London is such a large place that there must be all sorts in
it--good as well as bad--they can't all be greedy for money. There must
be people who think beautiful things, and do beautiful work--"
"Oh, there's plenty o' work done there"--and the waggoner flicked his
long whip against the sturdy flanks of his labouring horses--"I ain't
denyin' that. An' YOU'll 'ave to work, my gel!--you bet! you'll 'ave to
wash down steps an' sweep kitchens a good while afore you gits into the
way 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 the
trees 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' the
name o' Jocelyn. Ay, if ye could a' got service wi' Farmer Jocelyn ye'd
a' bin in luck's way! But 'e's dead an' gone last week--more's the
pity!--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' 'onest
as the sunshine--good work an' good pay--a deal better than a place in
Lunnon. An' country air, my gel!--country air!--nuthin' like it!"
A sudden blaze of gold lit up the trees--the sun was rising--full day
was disclosed, and the last filmy curtains of the night were withdrawn,
showing a heavenly blue sky flecked lightly with wandering trails of
white cloud like swansdown. He pointed eastward with his long whip.
"Look at that!" he said--"Fine, isn't it! No roofs and chimneys--just
the woods and fields! Nuthin' like it anywhere!"
Innocent drew a long breath--the air was indeed sweet and keen--new
life seemed given to the world with its exhilarating freshness. But she
made no reply to the enthusiastic comments of her companion. Thoughts
were in her brain too deep for speech. Not here, not here, in this
quiet pastoral scene could she learn the way to wrest the golden
circlet of fame from the hands of the silent gods!--it must be in the
turmoil and rush of endeavour--the swift pursuit of the flying Apollo!
And--as the slow waggon jogged along--she felt herself drawn, as it
were, by a magnet--on--on--on!--on towards a veiled mystery which
waited for her--a mystery which she alone could solve.
Presently they came within sight of several rows of ugly wooden sheds
with galvanised iron roofs and short black chimneys.
"A'most there now," said the waggoner--"'Ere's a bit o' Lunnon
a'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 railway
approaches ever are. Perhaps they appear more than usually hideous when
built amid a fair green country, where for miles and miles one sees
nothing but flowering hedgerows and soft pastures shaded by the
graceful foliage of sheltering trees. Then the shining, slippery iron
of the railway running like a knife through the verdant bosom of the
land almost hurts the eyes, and the accessories of station-sheds,
coal-trucks, and the like, affront the taste like an ill-done
foreground in an otherwise pleasing picture. A slight sense of
depression and foreboding came like a cloud over the mind of poor
little lonely Innocent, as she alighted at the station at last, and
with uplifted wistful eyes tendered a sovereign to the waggoner.
"Please take as much of it as you think right," she said--"It was very
kind of you to let me ride with you."
The man stared, whistled, and thought. Feeling in the depth of a
capacious pocket he drew out a handful of silver and counted it over
carefully.
"'Ere y'are!" he said, handing it all over with the exception of one
half-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 too
little--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! Hope
you'll find an easy place!"
She smiled and thanked him,--then entered the station and, finding the
ticket-office just open, paid a third-class fare to London. A sudden
thrill 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, anxious
voice.
The clerk smiled, and yawned expansively. He was a young man who
considered himself a "gentleman," and among his own particular set
passed for being a wit.
"Really!" he drawled--"Quite a new experience for you! A little country
mouse, 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 a
blunder in manners. This girl was a lady--not a mere country wench to
joke with. He felt rather uncomfortable--and presently leaving his
office, went out on the platform where she was walking up and down, and
slightly lifted his cap.
"I beg your pardon!" he said, his face reddening a little--"If you are
travelling alone you would like to get into a carriage with other
people, 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, and
deafening 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 in
a compartment with three other persons--one benevolent-looking old
gentleman with white hair who was seated opposite to her, and a man and
woman, evidently husband and wife. Another shriek and roar, and the
train started--as it began to race along, Innocent closed her eyes with
a sickening sensation of faintness and terror--then, opening them, saw
hedges, fields, trees and ponds all flying past her like scud in the
wind, and sat watching in stupefied wonderment--one little hand
grasping the satchel that held all her worldly possessions--the other
hanging limply at her side. Now and then she looked at her
companions--the husband and wife sat opposite each other and spoke
occasionally in monosyllables--the old gentleman on the seat facing
herself 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 most
part he appeared absorbed in the printed page. On, on, on, the train
rushed at a pace which to her seemed maddening and full of danger--she
felt sick and giddy--would it never stop, she thought?--and a deep
sense of relief came over her when, with a scream from the
engine-whistle loud enough to tear the drum of a sensitive ear, the
whole shaking, rattling concern came to an abrupt standstill at a
station. 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 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.