Part 32 (1/2)
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, rus.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.ds 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 s.h.i.+elding 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 advertis.e.m.e.nt--
”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 scholars.h.i.+p. 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.”