Part 25 (2/2)

”What do you mean by those words?”

”Don't you know, child, don't you know?”

”I know nothing, except that my father is the best man in all the world.”

Lady Mary looked at me, at first with scorn, then a strange, new, softened, pitying expression flashed over her face.

”You poor little girl!” she said. ”Have you never suspected, have you never guessed, why he married Lady Helen Dalrymple, and why he took her name, and why----”

”Don't tell me any more,” I said, ”please don't, I would rather not know. Good-bye--you have been kind, you have meant to be very kind, but you are hinting at something quite awful--all the same, I will find out--yes, I will find out! My father do a mean thing! Indeed, you little know him. Good-bye, Lady Mary.”

”Stay, child; the carriage must take you home.”

”No, I will walk,” I said.

My heart was burning within me. I really thought that I should break down, but although I heard Lady Mary ring her bell, and pa.s.sed an astonished servant coming up the stairs in answer to her summons, I managed to get into the street before she could interfere. I was glad of this. I must walk, I must get away from myself, I must find out once for all what terrible thing was the matter--what secret there was in my father's life.

I walked and walked, and was so absorbed in myself and my own reflections, that I was quite oblivious of the fact that people glanced at me from time to time. I had not the manner of a London girl, and did not wear the dress of the sort of girl who walks about London unattended. At last I came to a big park--I think now it must have been Regent's Park, but I am by no means sure. The trees looked cool and inviting, the gra.s.s was green, there were broad paths and, of course, there were flowers everywhere. It occurred to me then, as I entered the park and sat down on a low seat not far from the water, that I could not possibly do better in existing circ.u.mstances than go back to Aunt Penelope. If I could only see Aunt Penelope once more I should know what to do, and I should force her to tell me my father's story.

”It is positively wrong to keep it from me,” I thought; ”I cannot act in the dark, I cannot endure this suspense; whatever has happened, he is right, he is good, he is splendid and n.o.ble. Nothing would induce me to believe anything against him.”

I took my purse out of my pocket, and opening it, spread its contents on the palm of my hand. I had three pounds in my purse, plenty of money, therefore, to go back to the dear little village where I had been brought up.

CHAPTER XV

I think G.o.d gave me great courage that day, for I really acted like a girl who was accustomed to going about by herself, who knew her way about London, and who was saving with regard to money matters. I had come out of one of the richest houses in London; I had left a house where I was attended all day and practically half the night, where my slightest wish was considered, where the most beautiful clothes were given to me, and the most lovely things--that is, to all appearance--happened to me. I went out of that awful house, which I hated, which I loathed, just because it was so rich, so stifling with luxury, and felt that each minute I was becoming a woman, and that soon, very soon, I should be quite grown up.

I got to Paddington Station and took the first train to Cherton. Cherton is not far from a great centre, and, as a rule, you have to change trains and get into a ”local” before you can arrive at the little old-world place. I travelled third, of course, and had quite an interesting journey. My compartment was full and I enjoyed looking at my companions. They were the sort of people who do travel third--I mean they were the sort of people who have a right to travel third. A great many ladies now go third-cla.s.s when they ought to go second or first, but these people had a right to their third-cla.s.s compartment, and thoroughly they seemed to enjoy themselves. They brought parcels innumerable; some of them brought birds in cages. There was a small, sharp-looking boy who had a pet weasel in his pocket. The weasel thrust out his head now and then and looked at us with his cunning bright eyes, and then darted back once more into his place of shelter. The boy looked intensely happy with his weasel; in fact, the creature seemed to comprise all his world. I managed to enter into conversation with the boy, and he told me that he was going to Cherton to be apprenticed to an old uncle of his; he was to learn the boot and shoe business and was to make a good thing of it, so that he might be rich enough to help his father and mother by and by. He had nice, honest, brown eyes, and when I asked him his name he said that he was called Jack Martin, but that most of his friends called him Jack Tar. They all thought he would fail--all except Sam--but Sam prognosticated his success. I asked the boy who ”Sam” was, and he answered in his simple, direct way:

”Why, he's my best pal, lydy.”

I liked the little fellow when he answered in that fas.h.i.+on, and told him in a low voice that I was also going to Cherton, that I had spent many years in that little, out-of-the-world village, and that I was going to seek my aunt. He was much interested, and we became so chummy that he offered me the loan of ”Frisky,” as he called the weasel, for a short time, if I'd be very kind to it. I thanked him much for the honour he meant to confer on me, but explained that I was not in the habit of carrying weasels about with me, and perhaps would not understand ”Frisky's” manners.

”He's a rare 'un for giving you a nip,” said the boy in reply, ”but Lor'

bless yer, that don't matter. There's nothing wicious about he.”

The other people in the carriage were also interested in the boy, and even more so in ”Frisky,” who by and by extended his peregrinations from one person to another, nibbling up a few crumbs of cake, and putting away with disdain morsels of orange peel, and altogether behaving like a well-behaved weasel of independent mind. The boy said he hoped ”Frisky”

would be allowed to sleep in his bed at his uncle's place, and the women sympathised, the men also expressing their hearty wishes on the subject.

”And why not?” said one very burly-looking farmer. ”I'd a whole nest of 'em once, and purtier little dears I never handled.”

The third-cla.s.s carriage was, indeed, packed full; the endless luggage, the boxes little and big, boxes that went on the rack and boxes that would not go on the rack, but stuck out all over the narrow pa.s.sage and got into everyone's way. There were shawls, and a pretty bird in a cage, and a white rabbit in another cage, and bundles innumerable. But everyone talked and laughed and became chatty and agreeable. The boy was the first to tell his story. It was a very simple one. He was poor; his father and mother had just saved up money enough to apprentice him to Uncle Ben Rogers. He was going to him; he was off his parents now, and would never trouble them again, G.o.d helping him.

By and by the people in the carriage turned their attention full on me.

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