When Dora Harrington released herself from old Crawford's arms, he led
her to a chair, and said: "I have no longer the shadow of a doubt that
you are the daughter of my Dora. It was, indeed, a lucky chance which
made me in my despair last night turn my steps towards the river. And
now," he added, "the next thing is to get some nice comfortable place
for you. This old rookery would never suit. Let us go and try if we
cannot find a suitable, homely place, somewhere outside the City."
"I told you, sir," said the girl timidly, "that when yesterday I found
out all my money was lost in the bank, I had not a shilling to send a
message to him."
"To Lavirotte?"
"Yes, sir."
The old man took out a leather bag and handed it to her, saying: "This
will be enough for the present. When it is all gone let me know."
"But, sir," said the girl, holding the bag in her hand without opening
it, "I do not want all this. A shilling will be sufficient for the
present, if you will only let me go to the nearest telegraph office."
"Nonsense, child," he said. "You cannot be without money in London.
There is more where that came from. If you wish to go immediately to
the telegraph office, you may as well start now. I will meet you in an
hour at Ludgate Circus."
The young girl descended the ladders through the gloom of the tower,
and opening the deep sunken door, emerged into the broad morning
sunlight. She went to the telegraph office and wrote out the following
message:
"Cannot say how sorry you are not well. Could not telegraph yesterday.
Would go over, but have no money."
When she had written out this message, she untied the string of the
bag and poured the contents into her hand. She had expected to find a
few shillings. She started with surprise.
"Gold! All gold!" She counted. "Twelve pounds!" Then for a moment she
stood in thought, tore up the telegram she had written, and walked
quickly back to the tower.
Here a difficulty presented itself. How was she to summon the old man
from the top or from the pit? If he was above, the feeble sound of her
hand beating against that door would never be heard, even at night.
But now in the day, owing to the roar of traffic around, she could not
make herself heard if he was in the pit beneath.
What was she to do? This was the only door. Under the circumstances
she did not care to ask the aid of any passer-by, lest it might anger
the old man. Notwithstanding her conviction that the effort would be
fruitless, she did knock at the massive door with her hand.
There came no response. For a quarter of an hour she stood and knocked
unavailingly. Then she turned to go, and hastened to Ludgate Circus.
She had taken no heed of time, and when she got to the Circus she was
horrified to find herself twenty minutes behind the time appointed.
She glanced hastily round, but could not see the old man. Then she
carefully examined with her eye each of the four sections that make up
the Circus. She found no one she knew. The hurrying crowd and throng
of vehicles 'confused her senses and her mind. The old man had not
indicated to her the section in which he would meet her, and to her
eyes, unaccustomed as they were to the ceaseless turmoil of traffic in
the City, it seemed almost impossible to find anyone in that place.
She waited half-an-hour vainly. Then she began to despair. Whither
should she turn? That tower in Porter Street now seemed as
inaccessible to her as the centre of the Great Pyramid. This
dereliction of to-day was harder to bear than that of yesterday;
for since her desperate resolve the previous night she had found a
friend--nay, more, a close relative--who was also the friend of the
man she loved, and who was willing and able to help her. Had she not
with her the proof of this willingness and this ability?
Then, as she betook herself once more in the direction of St. Prisca's
Tower, she remembered he had said the money he gave her that morning
would do for the present. She was therefore, of course, at liberty to
employ the money as she chose. It was hers to use, for a grandfather
had of course a perfect right to give his grand-daughter money, and
the granddaughter had a perfect right to accept it.
Once more she found herself in the doorway of the tower. She stood a
while looking up and down the busy way, when all at once, to her great
joy, she saw the old man approaching.
"My dear child, where have you been? I have been greatly frightened
about you."
She then explained to him what had occurred--how she had not noticed
the time slipping by, and how, when she found herself in Ludgate
Circus, she was twenty minutes too late.
"Well, there's no harm done so far," said Crawford. "You sent your
telegram, and now we shall go and look for a lodging."
"No," she said, "I did not send it. I wrote it out and then tore it
up. Did you know, sir, that all the money in this bag is gold?"
"Yes," he said, "I keep my change loose always. Did you expect to find
notes?"
"Oh no, sir; but I thought as you were good enough to give this money
you might perhaps allow me to do with it what I would most like. That
is the reason I tore up my telegram."
"Certainly," he said. "You may do with it exactly what you please."
"Well then," said the girl, "will you consent to my going to Ireland
this evening?"
The old man started for a moment. "I suppose you mean," he said, "to
Glengowra, to see Lavirotte."
She coloured, and said: "Yes. If you do not object. He is ill, you
know."
"It is a long way for a young girl to go alone; too long I fear."
"I am used to travelling," pleaded the girl, "I do not mind travelling
in the least. I have travelled a great deal alone."
"Give me a little time to think," said the old man. "I cannot decide
at the moment. This is no place to stand any longer. Let us sit down
somewhere. Come with me."
Crawford led the way to a quiet room, where he ordered some light
refreshment, and where they could speak without effort or restraint.
They talked the matter over a little. At last he made up his mind. "I
have resolved," he said, "that you should not go alone so long a
journey."
The girl looked disappointed; her eyes filled with tears. "Oh!" she
cried, "I wish you would give me leave."
"Nevertheless," said the old man, not heeding the interruption, "you
shall go to Ireland this evening. I will go with you."
They were alone. She took his dark, wrinkled hand in hers and kissed
it, and cried, "Thank you, grandfather," and burst into tears.
It was the first time the old man had been called grandfather, and the
name seemed to re-awaken in his breast echoes of his old tenderness.
He placed his other hand on her head, and drew her head down on his
shoulder, saying softly: "Weep, if it is good for your heart, my
child. These are healing tears. You are, as far as I know, the one
human being saved to me out of the shipwreck of my life. I will go
with you to-night. He will recover speedily, you may be sure, and I
will afterwards do all I can for you and him."
Then the detail of their journey was arranged. She was to get what
things she required in lieu of those left with her landlady. He had
some preparations to make too. That evening they both set out for
Dublin on their way to Glengowra.