“When a friend asks, there is no to-morrow.”
George Herbert.
|When Evereld parted with the kindly American girl and Dick Lewisham a
sense of great loneliness for a time overwhelmed her. She looked in a
dazed way at the various delicacies displayed in the prettily arranged
shop, wondering whether she would ever feel hungry again. Having at last
selected some dainty little meat patties, and two crescent-shaped rolls,
she walked on to the next halting-place of the electric tram, and, after
a very brief waiting, found herself, to her great relief, comfortably
installed in a corner seat _en route_ for Vevey. She had judged it more
prudent to take the tram, knowing that she would more easily be traced
had she gone direct from Territet station to Geneva by the railroad or
by steamer. When once they were safely out of Montreux, and the risk of
meeting any of the visitors in the Rigi Vaudois was practically over,
she breathed more freely, even finding time to enjoy the lovely glimpses
of the lake and the mountains as they sped through Clarens and the
pretty surroundings of Vevey.
Arrived at length in that quaint old town, she was set down at the
railway station, where she prudently took her ticket only as far as
Lausanne, travelling second class because she knew that she was less
liable to find herself alone, and had heard the continental saying that
only fools and Englishmen travel first class. It was during the twenty
minutes’ waiting time at Lausanne that her perplexities began.
A kindly looking English lady, seeing that she seemed to be alone, sat
down beside her and began to talk about the weather and the scenery.
Finally she hazarded a direct question.
“Have you a long journey before you?”
“Not very long,” said Evereld, colouring, as she glanced inquiringly
into her companion’s face, as though to make sure what sort of person
she was. In one sense the look reassured her, for the most suspicious
mortal could not have credited this mild-faced lady with evil design,
but, on the other hand, she was evidently one of those inquisitive
mortals who delight in asking questions, in season and out of season.
“I am going myself to Geneva, if that is your direction we might perhaps
travel together,” said the lady pleasantly.
“Thank you,” said Evereld, reflecting that after all she could baffle
the questions by reading when once they had started.
“It is not so easy for a girl to travel alone abroad as it is in
England,” said her companion, looking curiously at Evereld’s girlish
face. “I almost wonder your parents allow it.”
“I have no parents,” said Evereld.
“Indeed, and have you been staying with friends?”
“Yes,” said Evereld. “And I am on my way now to some other friends.”
Murmuring an excuse she sprang up and went to the window to see whether
the train was nearly ready.
“This is dreadful,” she reflected. “If we talk much longer she will drag
the whole story out of me. I will buy some papers and try to make her
read.”
“You are sure your luggage is all right?” exclaimed the good lady the
moment she returned.
“Quite sure, thank you,” said Evereld, clasping her hand bag closer and
trembling lest she should be asked some quite unanswerable question.
At length an official began vigorously to ring the great bell in the
doorway and to shout the intelligence that passengers for Geneva and
various other places must take their seats.
“Can I help you?” said Evereld, politely offering to take a basket from
the large heap of possessions with which her neighbour was surrounded.
She was startled to feel something jump inside it in an uncanny way.
“Thank you if you would. To tell the truth it is my little dog in there,
but he is such a good traveller, I don’t think you will mind him.”
“Shall I say that I detest dogs and so escape to another carriage?”
reflected Evereld smiling to herself. But on the whole in spite of the
tiresome questions she rather liked this good English lady and found
a certain comfort in her presence when once they were installed in the
train. Her spirits rose as they travelled further and further from the
Mactavishs, she even grew hungry, made short work of the provisions
she had bought, parried her friend’s questions skilfully by counter
questions about the pet dog and finally took refuge in “Pride and
Prejudice” and in the delicious humour of Jane Austen’s characters
forgot all her dangers and difficulties till the train steamed into
Geneva station.
“I suppose your friends will meet you?” asked the talkative lady as she
fastened the dog up in his basket.
“No,” said Evereld, “but I shall manage very well now, thank you,” and
with rather hurried farewells she sprang from the carriage not offering
to carry the basket any further but promising to send a porter.
Fortunately her companion was in such a bustle with the effort of
collecting her various belongings that she did not notice the English
girl’s somewhat abrupt departure, and Evereld with a joyful sense of
escape made her way to the outside of the station and getting into one
of the little public carriages drove off to make her purchases in the
town.
Having bought an ulster and a warm shawl which made a very respectable
show when put into her cloak straps she went back to the station, dined
in a leisurely way and passed the rest of her two hours’ waiting time as
patiently as she could. By six o’clock she was safely in the train once
more, with the happy knowledge that she had no more changes that night,
and would arrive at Lyons in rather more than four hours. Her heart
danced for joy as she reflected that by the next afternoon she might
have safely reached Bride O’Ryan and Aimée Magnay, her greatest friends,
in Mrs. Magnay’s old home in Auvergne. That was the safe refuge towards
which she was steering her course, that was the thought which had darted
into her mind on the previous evening when she had decided that flight
was the only thing under the circumstances.
Later on however when darkness had stolen like a pall over the
landscape, when weary with want of sleep and worn out with excitement
and anxiety, the glad sense of escape died away, she grew unutterably
sad-hearted and forlorn.
At the other end of the carriage two men wrangled together over the
vexed question of having the window open or shut. A fat French lady went
to sleep and snored monotonously, just opposite her a young couple
on their honeymoon laughed and chatted in low tones with much outward
demonstration, while beyond a young mother sat with her baby in her
arms, an air of placid content on her face.
Never before had Evereld felt such a unit, never before had she realised
how really alone she was in the world. She shuddered to think what would
have become of her if Ralph had never crossed her path. And then as the
engine throbbed on through the darkness all those terrors of imagining
from which her healthy uneventful life had so far been exempt, laid
strong hold upon her, and made the night hideous.
She saw Ralph lying ill and forlorn in a fever hospital. She saw him
lying with pale lips and hands folded in the awful calm of death. She
saw herself alone and brokenhearted, struggling to make something of her
maimed life and failing in the attempt. She saw Sir Matthew tracking her
out and carrying her back to the house in Queen Anne’s Gate. Worst of
all she saw herself standing in church and passively allowing herself to
be married to Bruce Wylie.
She had just reached this climax in her miserable thoughts when as the
train stopped at the wayside station the door of the carriage was opened
and in came a very aged priest whose rusty black raiment had an old and
somewhat countrified look. His thin, worn face might have been stern in
youth, but the passing years had mellowed it, and like Southey’s holly
tree what had once been sharp and aggressive had grown tender as it more
nearly approached heaven. His keen eyes seemed to take in the occupants
of the carriage in one glance and he at once divined that the sad
little English girl in the corner was for some reason feeling altogether
desolate. He took the vacant place beside her and began to unwrap a
package which he carried. It proved to be a cage containing a bullfinch,
and Evereld watched with interest the scared fluttering of the bird and
the gentle reassuring face of the old man as he tried to pacify it.
“It is its first journey,” he said glancing at her. “The unaccustomed
has terrors for us all. It will soon understand that it is quite safe.
Eh, Fifi? Should I let any harm happen to thee, thou foolish one?”
“Can it sing any tune?” said Evereld. “We had one in London that sang a
bit of the National Anthem.”
“And Fifi is just as patriotic,” said the old priest laughing, “he will
pipe two lines of _Partant pour la Syrie_, I am taking him to cheer up
one of my parishioners who is lying ill at Lyons. He will think Fifi
from the Presbytère almost as good as one of his own friends from the
village. And when the lad is better why he will bring back this winged
missionary to me. My old housekeeper would not hear of parting with Fifi
altogether, he is the life of the house she says.”
The bird growing now more accustomed to its strange surroundings piped
cheerfully the familiar air of the refrain
“Amour a la plus belle
Honneur au plus vaillant.”
“Ah! he sings better than ours ever did,” said Evereld thinking of the
bird Ralph had brought from Whinhaven.
“And he is more tractable than a choir boy,” said the old priest
laughing. “Does he sing too loud and tire one’s head--it is but to cover
his cage and he is as quiet as any mouse.”
After that they drifted into talk about life in rural France, and by the
time they reached Lyons Evereld felt that the old man had become quite a
friend.
The other passengers scrambled out of the carriage each intent on his
own affairs, but the priest helped her courteously with her roll of
cloaks.
“Would you mind telling me what is the best and most quiet hotel to go
to?” she asked. “I cannot get on any further till nine o’clock to-morrow
morning. I am on my way to stay with friends near Clermont-Ferrand.”
“You are over young my child,” he said, “to travel unprotected. But
I know it is not in England as with us, the young _demoiselles_ have
greater liberty. The best plan will be for you to go to an Hotel close
by. As it happens I know the manager and his wife and if you will permit
me I will walk with you to the door, and ask them to take good care of
you. I think you are like Fifi, not over well-accustomed to travelling.”
“Thank you very much,” said Evereld gratefully. “Now I shall feel safe
indeed.”
The old priest piloted her across the crowded platform and having given
her luggage to the hotel porter himself took her to the Manager’s little
office where Madame, a comely and pleasant looking woman, sat at her
desk busily casting up accounts. Her face lighted up at sight of the old
man.
“A thousand welcomes Father Nicolas, it is long since you paid us a
visit.”
“You are well,” said the old priest, “I need not ask that, for it is
easily to be seen, and busy as usual. Is your husband in?”
“He will be desolated, but he has gone to his Club.”
“Ah, well, I will call and see him to-morrow. In the meantime will you
kindly do your utmost to make this young English lady feel at home and
comfortable. She is unable to travel further till the 8.59 to-morrow
morning. I leave you in good hands,” he said, taking kindly leave of
Evereld, “Madame has a great reputation for taking good care of her
guests.”
“It will be my greatest pleasure,” said the manager’s wife.
“Mademoiselle looks tired and will doubtless like to go to her room.”
Evereld assented and toiled upstairs after the brisk capable looking
manageress who chatted pleasantly as they went.
“He has the best of hearts, old Father Nicolas,” she said. “I have known
him since I was a child. There is not a living thing I verily believe
that he does not love. It was a sight to see him standing on a winter’s
morning in the garden of the Presbytère and feeding the birds before he
went to Mass.”
“Where does he live?” asked Evereld.
“At Arvron, a little village where there are many poor. His people adore
him. This will be your room, mademoiselle, and shall I send you up a
little hot soup to take the last thing, or will you rather come down to
the _salle à manger?_”
“I should like it here please,” said Evereld. “And you won’t let me
over-sleep myself and miss the train to-morrow. I am so tired, I think I
should sleep the clock round if no one called me.”
“I will call you myself,” said the manageress. “It is a busy life here
and I am always an early riser. _Bon soir, mademoiselle_. I hope you
will be quite rested by the morning.”
“How much easier it has all been than I expected,” thought Evereld,
as she made her preparations for the night. “To think that this time
yesterday I was at Glion and in such a panic lest anything should
prevent my getting away! I wonder whether I had better telegraph to Mrs.
Magnay, and tell her I am on my way to ask her protection? I don’t think
I will. It might lead to my being traced later on, and besides I have no
idea whether there is a telegraph office within reasonable reach of the
Chateau. How I wonder what it will be like.”
Her reflections were interrupted by the arrival of a pretty young
chambermaid who brought her a basin of the most delicious soup; and long
before midnight she was sound asleep and dreaming of Bride and Aimée.
She woke up in excellent spirits, chatted with Madame as she breakfasted
on the coffee and rolls, which the pretty chambermaid brought to her
bedroom, and set off on the next stage of her journey full of hope for
the future and relief that all had passed off so well. At that very
minute Sir Matthew Mactavish was ruefully regarding her empty room at
Glion and wondering how he could possibly trace her out. But Evereld was
too busy to trouble herself much over the thought of his well-deserved
discomfiture. Every one seemed intent on being kind to her here. The
Manageress was almost motherly in her solicitude, the chambermaid waited
on her as though service were a pleasure, and the hotel porter neglected
the other passengers in the omnibus until he had seen her safely
established in the _salle d’attente_ with her possessions. Here to her
surprise she found old Father Nicolas reading his breviary.
“It was too early yet to see the sick lad I told you of,” he explained,
“so I thought I would start you on your way, if you will permit me the
pleasure.”
“I shall never forget all your kindness,” she said gratefully. “I was
feeling so dreadfully alone till you got into the train last night.”
“Well it is no bad thing to learn what loneliness means,” said the old
man thoughtfully. “Nothing so well teaches you to go through life on
the look out for the lonely, that you may serve them. Ha! They come to
announce your train. I will inquire if you have a change of carriages at
Montbrison.” He hurried away, returning in a minute or two to help her
with her packages.
“Yes, I am sorry to say they will turn you out at Montbrison, but you
will have only ten minutes waiting and no difficulty at all in that
quiet place. I see M. Dubochet and his two daughters--very pleasant
people--will you go in the same carriage?”
And so with a few pleasant words of introduction to Mademoiselle
Dubochet, Father Nicolas bade Evereld God-speed, and as the train moved
off she looked out wistfully after her kindly old friend, wondering
whether she should ever again come across him.
The clock was striking five when after an uneventful journey Evereld
found herself outside the station at Clermont-Ferrand, giving orders
to a somewhat rough-looking Auvergnat to drive her to the Château de
Mabillon. The man seemed inclined to hold out for a certain sum for
the journey and as Evereld had no notion of the distance, she
was determined to make no rash promises. It would never do to be
extravagant now, for there was no saying how long her last allowance
would have to supply her wants.
“M. Magnay will settle with you when we reach the château,” she
said with a little touch of dignity in her manner. The man instantly
subsided, feeling that he had no stranger to deal with, but a friend of
the family. And Claude Magnay’s name was quite sufficient to assure him
that he would receive his rightful fare, but not the extortionate sum he
had demanded of the new comer.
The little incident had however depressed Evereld. She had spoken
confidently to the man but now a qualm of doubt came over her. She was
about to cast herself on the mercy of Aimée’s parents, and after all she
knew little about them: on their occasional visits to Southbourne, she
had gone with Aimée and Bride to spend Saturday afternoon with them, and
she had been three or four times to their London house, but she realised
now that she was going to ask a very great favour of them, and that
possibly they might not care to shelter her from her lawful guardian.
These thoughts lasted all the time they were driving through the narrow
and dingy streets of Clermont-Ferrand, and she fancied that the lava
built houses seemed to frown upon her and to assure her that she was
an unwelcome visitor. Before long however they had left the town behind
them and were driving through the most beautiful country, and in
that sunny smiling landscape it was impossible to give way to anxious
thoughts. The glowing colours of the autumn leaves, the picturesque
vineyards, the river with its gleaming water reflecting the blue sky,
and the strange irregular mountains which rose on every hand filled her
with delight.
The sun had set when at length they reached a narrower and more secluded
valley; Evereld fancied they must be getting near to Mabillon and
inquired of her driver.
“It is two kilometres to the chateau,” said the Auvergnat. Then after a
few minutes he again turned round from the box seat. “Madame Magnay and
her daughter are down at the mill yonder,” he said.
“Oh, stop then, and let me speak to them,” said Evereld eagerly; and
springing from the carriage she hastened towards Aimée who quickly
perceived her and ran forward with a cry of joyful astonishment.
“This is a delightful surprise. Are you travelling back through France?
Mother, you remember Evereld?”
Mrs. Magnay gave her a charming greeting, containing all the warmth and
animation which English greetings so often lack.
“I remember Evereld very well, and am more delighted than I can say to
welcome her to my dear old home.”
“You are very good,” said Evereld shyly, “I have come to you because
I was in great trouble, and I thought--I felt sure--you would help
and advise me. It is impossible for me to stay longer with Sir Matthew
Mactavish.”
Her eyes were full of tears, and Mrs. Magnay taking her hand began to
lead her towards the carriage.
“You are quite tired out, poor child,” she said caressingly. “We are
very sorry for your trouble, but very glad that it brought you to
Mabillon. This evening you shall tell us all about it. Do you see that
pretty girl waving her hand to us from the cottage door? That is my dear
old Javotte’s granddaughter. Aimée has told you how she starved herself
in the siege of Paris that we might have food enough. Dear old woman!”
“And here is one of the best views of Mont D’Or,” said Aimée, “only the
light is fading so fast you can’t properly see it.”
Chatting thus, they soon reached the old château, a great part of which
had now been carefully restored, and Mrs. Magnay seeing how pale and
worn her guest looked, determined to take her straight upstairs.
“Run Aimée,” she said, “and tell your father to settle with the driver,
and then bring a cup of tea for Evereld. I shall take her to Bride’s
room, she will be more snug in there I think.”
So Evereld was taken straight to her friend, and then while Mrs. Magnay
herself kindled the wood fire, and daintily piled up fir-cones to catch
the blaze, Bride made her rest in the snuggest of easy chairs, and she
had very soon told them the whole story.
“I know nothing of English law,” said Mrs. Magnay. “Are you sure you can
put yourself under the protection of the Lord Chancellor?”
“I think so,” said Evereld. “Don’t you remember, Bride, how we used
to tease you about your answer in that examination we had, when you
wrote--‘The Lord Chancellor must be a very busy man for Blackstone says
he is the natural guardian of all orphans, idiots and lunatics.’”
“To be sure I do,” said Bride laughing. “Well if Blackstone says so, you
must surely be right.”
“I will go and talk over matters with my husband, and see what he
advises, and in the meantime, Bride, I strongly advise you to put
Evereld to bed. She looks to me quite tired out. Rest and forget your
troubles, dear. No one can molest you at Mabillon, and you say that Sir
Matthew can have no clue to your whereabouts.”
“No, he will naturally think I have gone to Mrs. Hereford, or to my old
governess at Dresden,” said Evereld. “To-morrow I must write to Mrs.
Hereford and ask her to let Ralph know that I am safe. I am so afraid he
may hear that I have disappeared and be anxious about me.”
“Write to him,” said Bride, “and let Doreen forward your letter.”
In the meantime Mrs. Magnay told the whole story to her husband, and
it was decided that he should put the case straight into the hands of
a London solicitor. Evereld, being consulted as to the one she would
prefer, unhesitatingly named Ralph’s old friend Mr. Marriott of
Basinghall Street, and as Claude Magnay knew that she could not have
mentioned a more trustworthy and efficient man he wrote to him and made
her on the following morning also write with a full description of all
that had passed, of her suspicions with regard to her fortune and of her
wish for a thorough investigation of her affairs.