"Soon, soon, mother. I shall be finished soon. I cannot tell exactly when, but not very far off. I see the end of my labours, the reward of all my study, the fruit of all my life," said the voice of the hunchbacked dwarf.
There was a pause in the speech. "Hah," breathed Leigh, in loud inspiration. Then there was a snuffing sound, and another loud inspiration. "Hah! that is refreshing--most refreshing. Will you have some, mother? Do. You won't? Very well. What was I saying?"
The strong, subtle vapour of eau-de-cologne penetrated through the slits and joints of the folding-doors, and floated past Edith towards the open windows.
"About the clock," said Mrs. Leigh. "You were going to tell me what new wonders you have added to it, and when the crowning wonder of all was to be fixed."
"What?" cried the voice of the dwarf, loudly, harshly, angrily. "What do you know of the crowning wonder? Tell me, woman, at once!" His tone was violent, imperious, threatening.
"Oscar! Oscar! What is the matter? What do you mean by calling me 'woman'? Oscar, my son, are you ill? What is the matter? Why do you look at me in that way? You are crushing my hand. What is the matter, Oscar, my own boy?" The woman's accents were full of alarm.
"Agh! Agh! Pardon me. Agh! Pardon me, my dear mother. Agh!" he coughed violently, hoarsely. "The spirit of the eau-de-cologne must have gone down my throat and caught my breath. I am quite right now. Pray excuse me, mother. What was I saying?"
"Something about the clock, dear. But, Oscar, do not mind telling me about it now. You seem not well. Perhaps you had better rest yourself. You can explain about the clock to-morrow."
"Oh, ay, the clock. Of course. I am quite well, mother. You need not be uneasy about me. What was I going to tell you about the clock?"
"You were going to tell me--I do not know really what. I asked you when it would be completed. That is my chief anxiety, for then you will be always here--always here, near me, my dear son."
"Certainly; when I sell my unrivalled clock, I'll give up living in London and come down here to you, mother, and become a private gentleman."
"But why can't you come down and stop here always, my Oscar? Surely your clock could be brought to Millway, and back to London again when 'tis finished?" The voice of the woman was caressing, pleading. "I have not very long to live, Oscar. Might not I have you near me that little time?" The tone was tremulous and pathetic.
"Dear, dear mother," he said softly, tenderly. "I cannot--I cannot move the clock. You forget how large it is. I have told you over and over again it would half fill this room. Besides, I have other business in London I cannot leave just now. I will come as soon as ever I can. You may take my word for that. Let us say no more on that subject at present. I was going to explain to you about my marvellous clock. Let me see. What have I already told you?"
"Oh, it was too wonderful to remember. Tell me over again."
"Very well. To begin with, it will, of course, measure time first of all. That is the principal and easiest thing to contrive. It will show the year, the month, the day of the month, the day of the week, the hour of the day, the minute of the hour, the second of the minute, the tenth of the second. All these will be shown on one dial."
"That much alone puzzles and astonishes me. It will be the most useful clock in the world."
"So far that is all easy, and would not make it even a very remarkable clock, mother. It will take account of leap year, and be constructed to run till the year ten thousand of the Christian era."
"When once wound up?"
"Oh no, you simple mother. It will have to be wound up every week."
"But will not the machinery wear out?"
"Yes, the metal and the stones will wear out and rust out before eight thousand years. But the principle will have eight thousand years of vitality in it. Steel and brass and rubies yield to friction and time, but a principle lives for ever if it is a true principle----"
"And a good principle," interrupted the voice of the old woman, piously.
"Good or bad, if it is true it will last," said the voice of the hunchback, harshly. Then he went on in more gentle and even tones. "On another face it will tell the time of high water in fifty great maritime cities. There will be four thousand Figures of Time, figures of all the great men of the past, each bearing a symbol of his greatest work, or thought, or achievement, and each appearing on the anniversary of his death, thus there will be from eight to twenty figures visible each day, and that day will be the anniversary of the one on which each of the men died years ago."
"Four thousand figures! Why, it will cost a fortune!"
"Four thousand historic figures each presented on the anniversary of death! I am at work on the figures of those who died on the 22nd of August just now. They are very interesting to me, and one of them is the most interesting of all, the most interesting of all the four thousand figures."
"And who died on the 22nd of August, Oscar? Whose is the figure that interests you most of all, my son?"
"Richard Plantagenet of Gloucester," fiercely.
"Eh?" in a tone of intense pain.
"Richard Plantagenet of Gloucester, commonly called Richard the Third of England, and nicknamed the Hunchbacked Tyrant," maliciously.
"Oscar!" in a tone of protest and misery.
"Yes. Hump and all, I am now making the figure of the most famous hunchback in history. I take a delight in modelling the figure of my Hunchback Tyrant. In body and soul I can sympathise with--him." He spoke furiously, and there was a sound in the room as if he rose.
"Oh, you break my heart, my boy, my boy, my son! Don't, for God's sake, don't. You cut me to the soul! You frighten me when you look in that way." She spoke in terror and anguish.
There were hasty, halting, footsteps pacing up and down the dining-room. The folding-doors behind Edith's head trembled, the windows of the dining-room rattled. The girl wondered he did not think of her. He knew her room lay beyond the dining-room, and he must be aware nothing divided her room from the front one but the thin panels of the folding-doors. It was plain to her now he did not care whether she heard or not.
"Break your heart, mother!" he went on in a tone of excitement but less acerbity. "Why should what I say break your heart? What hurt can words do? Look at me! Me! If I were to say my heart was broken, no one would wonder. I am not reproaching you. Heaven knows, if I turned upon you, I should have no friend left in all the world. Not one soul who would care for me--care whether I lived or died, whether I prospered or was hanged by the common hangman on a gibbet!"
"Oh, Oscar, what is it? What has done it? What has soured you so? You never talked in this way until now. What has changed you?" The voice of the woman was broken. She was weeping through her words.
"A girl's face. A girl's face has changed me. I, who had a heart of adamant, a heart of the core of adamant befitting the crooked carcase in which it is penned and warped and blackened by villainous obstructions. But there! I have been vapouring, mother. Let my words pass. I am a fool and worse to break out in such a way before you, my good, gentle mother." His voice became less excited, his steps more slow and light. "It is passed. I am myself again. I know your advice is good. I mean to follow it. I will marry a wife. I will marry a pretty, shapely wife. You shall have grand children at your knee, mother, before long, before you go. Well-favoured and gay and flawless, and straight-backed, and right-limbed little children who will overtop me, exceed me in height before they begin their teens, but will never, never, never mother, grow to near the degree of love I have for you." His voice and steps ceased, as though he paused at her side.
"Do not kneel," she whispered huskily. "Do not kneel, my son. I was frightened a moment ago, and now I feel suffocated with joy. There! That is right. Sit in your own chair again."
For a while Edith heard sobs--the sobs of a man.
The woman had ceased to weep.
When the sobbing stopped, the woman said: "Who is she? Do I know her? Do I know even her name?"
"All that is my secret, mother. I will not say any more of her but that I am accustomed to succeed, and I will succeed here. I will keep the secret of her name in my heart to goad me on. I am accustomed to succeed. Rest assured I will succeed in this. We will say no more of it. Let it be a forbidden subject between us until I speak of it again; until, perhaps, I bring her to you."
"As you will, Oscar. Keep your secret. I can trust and wait."
"It is best. I feel better already. That storm has cleared the air. I was excited. I have reason to be excited to-day. At this moment--it is now just twelve o'clock--at this moment I am either succeeding or failing in one of my most important aims."
"Just now, Oscar. Do you mean here?"
"No, not here. In London. You do not believe in magic, mother?"
"Surely not. What do you mean? You do not believe in anything so foolish?"
"Or in clairvoyance or spectres, mother?"
"No, my child. Nor you, I hope. That is, I do not believe in all the tales I hear from simple folk."
"And yet not everything--not half everything--is understood even now."
"Will you not tell me of this either?"
"Not to-night, mother. Not to-night. Another time, perhaps, I may. You know I had a week ago no intention of coming here to-day. I did not come to welcome Miss Grace. I had another reason for coming. I am trying an experiment to-night. At this moment I am putting the result of many anxious hours to the touch. If my experiment turns out well I shall come into a strange power. But there, I will say no more about it, for I must not explain, and it is not fair to tell you, all at once, that I have two secrets from you. And now, mother, it is very late for you. We must go to bed. That patent couch still enables you to do without aid in dressing?"
"Yes. I am still able to do without help. I think some of the springs want oiling. You will look at them to-morrow?"
"Yes. But it must be early. I am going back to town at noon."
"So soon? I did not think you would leave till later, Oscar. I don't want to pry into your secrets, but you spoke of gaining some strange powers. Do you think it wise to play with--with--with?"
"With what, mother?"
"With strange powers."
"That depends on what the strange powers are."
"But tell me there is no danger."
"To me? No, I think not."
"Oscar, I am uneasy."
"We have sat and talked too long. You are worn out. I will wheel you to your room. I am sleepy myself."
Edith Grace heard the sound of Mrs. Leigh's invalid chair moving towards the dining room door, then the door open and the chair pass down the hall and into Mrs. Leigh's bedroom. Words passed between the mother and son, but she did not catch their import. She heard the door of Mrs. Leigh's room opposite her own close and then the dragging, lame footsteps of the hunchback on the tiles of the back hall.
The girl listened intently. She did not move. She was sitting bolt upright in her chair with her face turned towards the door of the room.
Leigh's irregular, shuffling footsteps became more distinct. He was crossing the hall from his mother's room to the stairs, which began at the left-hand side of the back hall, close to the door of the room where Edith sat.
"He is going upstairs to his own room. When he is gone the house will be still and I shall be at ease. Daylight will soon come and then I can slip away again and wait till the first train for London--for home! He must be mad. Even if he had not pressed his hateful attentions on me I would not stay in this house for all the world," thought Edith Grace.
The slow, shuffling footsteps did not ascend the stairs. They paused. They paused, she could not tell exactly where. All her faculties were concentrated in hearing, and she heard nothing, absolutely nothing, but the rain. Could it be he had reached the stairs and was ascending inaudibly? Could it be he had already ascended? She thought it was but a moment ago since he closed his mother's door. He might have gone up unheard. It might be longer since the door shut than she thought. She could not judge time exactly in the dark, and when she was so powerfully excited. Should she get up out of that chair, open the door as quietly as possible, and peer into the hall? What good would that do? If he were there he would see her; if he were not there all was well. Besides, it would be quite impossible to unlock the door and open it without making a noise, without the snap of the lock, the grating of the latch, the creaking of the hinge. It was better to remain quiet.
Suddenly she heard a sound that made her heart stand still, her breath cease to come. She grew rigid with terror.
She heard a something soft sliding over the outside of that door. A hand! It touched and rattled the handle. The handle turned, and with a low, dull sound the door opened! She could not see the door. The light which had illumed the fan sash in the porch had evidently been extinguished, for there was no gleam through the open door. That part of the room was so intensely dark, even the masses in it were invisible. But she knew by the dull, puffing sound the door had been opened, and by the surge of the heavy, damp, warm air.
She could not move or cry out if she would. She was completely paralysed, frozen. She was aware of possessing only two senses, hearing and seeing. She was not conscious of her own identity beyond what was presented to her sensations through her ears or her eyes. She did not even ask herself how he had come there, how he had opened from the hall the door she had left locked upon the inside.
He entered the room with slow, deliberate, limping steps. She could hear the footfall of his left foot and the slight, brushing touch of his right foot as he drew it after the left.
On slowly he came until he touched the bed. She could dimly make out the white of his face and shirt-front against the gleam from the window as he advanced. It was plain he could not see as well as she, for he walked up against the bed. His eyes had not become accustomed to the darkness.
He turned to his left, towards where she sat, and came on, feeling his way by the bed. She heard him feeling his way. As soon as he reached the foot-post he turned right, round where she sat in the deepest gloom of the room and then walked to the window.
When he reached the window he stood full in front of it and muttered: "Rain, rain still." He thrust his arms out of the window and drawing them back in a moment, rubbed his face with his hands. "That is refreshing," he muttered. "Hah! They say rainwater is the best lotion for preserving the beauty of the skin. Hah! They do. They say Ninon de L'Enclos kept her beauty up to past seventy by rain-water. Hah! They do. They say she did. Hah! I wonder how long would it preservemybeauty. Ha-ha-ha! More than a century, I suppose. I wonder would rain-water preserve the beauty of my hump. I believe my hump is one of the most beautiful ever man wore. But it doesn't seem to count for much among a man's attractions. People don't appear to care much for humps, whether they are really beauties of this kind or not. Hah! They don't. People don't. Hah! They are not educated up to humps. Hah!"
At each exclamation "Hah!" he made a powerful expiration of breath. Before each exclamation he rubbed his forehead with one hand drawn in wet from the rain falling outside the window.
"She, for instance," he went on, "doesn't care much for humps. She prefers straight-backed men with straight strong legs. And yet straight-backed men with straight strong legs are common enough in all conscience. Most of the beggars even are straight-backed and strong-legged. I am not. Hah! How cool and refreshing this rain-water is. I am a novelty and yet people don't care for such a novelty as I am. No; they prefer men cut to pattern.Shewould rather have a straight-backed beggar than me, and yet I am more interesting, more uncommon. I am more remarkable to look at, and then I have genius. Yes; I have a form of body far out of the common, and a form of mind far out of the common, too. I have a hump and genius. Hah! But no one cares for a hump or genius.Shedoesn't, for instance. Hah! But I mean that she shall like me. I mean to make love to her. I mean to woo her, and to win her. Hah! She doesn't know me now as well as she will know me later. I have never been in love before. I can't say I like the feeling. I used to be very valiant and self-sufficing, and at my ease in my mind. Hah! I looked on women as the mere dross of humanity--not worthy to associate with cripples. Hah! Of course, I except my mother, who is the best and dearest soul God ever sent to earth. But now I am in love, and this girl, this young girl, seems precious to me. Hah! Certainly I shall win her. I have not yet learned to fail, and I don't mean to learn how to fail now. Hah! How cool and refreshing the rain is. What is it I came into this room for? Stay. Let me think. Oh, yes! my mother asked me to put the window down before I went upstairs. Hah! Yes. I will. There!"
He let the window down without any regard to the noise. It smote harshly upon the sill. Edith did not move, did not make a sound. She was glad at the moment, though she did not realize that she was glad, because he had let down the window. The diminished light would reduce the chance of his seeing her even now that his eyes had grown used to the darkness. She did not realize that she was glad until afterwards. All her consciousness was still concentrated on hearing and seeing.
Leigh turned away from the window, and began slowly retracing his steps to the door, muttering as he went along the side of the bed opposite the window:
"Yes, she has run away. Run away from this house a few hours after entering it. Run away, frightened, terrified by my ugliness."
He had reached the foot of the bed by this time, and, crossing between where she sat, turned in the darkness at the foot-board. Only his head rose above the high foot-board. His hand moved in dim relief against the background of the white head part of the bed discernible over the foot-board.
As he spoke these words her first thought beyond a desire to hear and see entered her mind. It gave her instant and enormous relief, although as before she was not at the moment attentive to the relief. The feeling, however, took in her mind the form of words. "He knows I left the house. He does not know I have come back."
He paused directly in front of her, and seemed to rest against the foot-board. He muttered in a voice more deep and faint than the one in which he had hitherto spoken:
"She ran away, this Edith Grace, she ran away from my ugliness. Ha-ha-ha! We shall see, Edith Grace. We shall see. I did not tell my mother the name of the girl I mean to marry. She shall know it soon enough, and not all the wiles or force of man shall keep me from my purpose, keep Edith Grace from me!"
He thrust his arms out to their full length in front of him and drew them back swiftly towards him. The air from the motion of his long thin hands touched her cheek.
She drew her head back a hand's breadth. Otherwise she did not stir. She sat motionless. She had no power over the actions of her body. She could not cry out or move further.
Oscar Leigh turned, crept slowly along the foot and right side of the bed, fumbled for the door handle, and, having found it, went out of the room, closing and latching the door quietly after him.
Then she heard him toilfully, ponderously, going up stairs. Presently a door above was closed and complete silence fell upon the house.
The spell lifted from the girl, and covering her face with her hands she sank back in the chair with a tremulous, heavy sigh of relief.
Edith lay in the large easy-chair for a long time without stirring. She did not even think. It was enough that she had been delivered from the danger of discovery, and that she was free to take wing and fly away at the streak of earliest dawn.
She did not know how long she sat with her face covered with her hands. She had resolved not to move for a long time, and for a long time she remained motionless. There was no fear of her sleeping. Although her mind was not actively employed about anything it was sharply awake. The first thing to challenge her attention was a sound. No boding or terrible sound, but the faint, weak shrill chirp of a bird. She scarcely realized what it was at first, for she was unfamiliar with the country and unused to the early notes of field and wood.
She took her hands from before her face and looked at the window. The light was still very grey and blue. But it was light, and, moreover, light that would grow stronger every minute, every second. When the day is breaking for joy or deliverance, the light fills the veins with an ethereal intoxication. Thoughts which during darkness can be met only with pallid terror can, when the shadow of night has passed away, be faced with vital courage and endurance.
She rose with care, but there was firmness and decision in her movements. She was fully dressed for walking. The rain had stopped and the sky above the trees spread clear and stainless, a vast plain of open blue.
Oscar Leigh had lowered the window. She caught the sash and raised it very gently but with no trepidation. If the door had that moment opened, she would have simply sprung through the window, without a word. The want of sleep dulls the apprehensions of fear as well as the other faculties of the mind. It sobers the judgment and reduces the susceptibility to extravagance of emotion.
When she had got the sash up to its full height, she stepped resolutely out on the gravelled carriage-sweep. She felt almost at ease. She paused a moment, looked back into the room, and under the shadow of her hand saw that the note she had placed on the table was gone. She turned away from the window and began walking along the gravelled drive towards the gate.
In the face of freedom and the growing light of day the events of last night were beginning to lose all aspect of mystery or terror and to assume a commonplace aspect. The wild talk of the hunchback with his mother grew to have little or no significance worthy of attention, and the soliloquy at the window was, upon review, becoming absurd. Indisputably she was right in leaving that house. It would be entirely unpleasant to live in a house where a man whom she did not like, forced attentions on her. She would go back to London and tell her story at home, and get another place. That was all. No one but her grandmother and herself need know of this first unpleasant experience of trying to earn her bread.
Here was the gate. Locked! Of course. Mrs. Brown had told her the gate was locked by her every night when she came from the house at eleven o'clock. Edith had forgotten this. She had not bargained for finding her way barred a short distance from the house. A couple of hours ago this would have seemed an insuperable obstacle. Now she was free, and quite destitute of terror, of fear, of even grave uneasiness. She felt she could be almost angry, indignant, with this gate and those who had shut and fastened it against her egress.
She turned her face from the gate and looked back at Eltham House. All there appeared quiet and asleep. She looked at the little lodge on her right. Here all seemed quiet and asleep too. The door was shut, the curtains of the windows, one on each side of the door, were close drawn. She could hear no sound but the chatter of the small birds in the hedges, the cawing of distant rooks, and afar off the vexatious crowing of a cock.
The solitude of morning in the country around her was widely different from the solitude of the night just gone by. The solitude of midnight seemed designed for the return of banished spirits; the solitude of the dawn a desert from which man had fled for ever. A sense of desolation came upon her. She wanted to be free, to be at the other side of that gate, but when she found herself on the open road what should she do? For hours to come the people of Millway would not be stirring. She was fleeing from that house into a desolate and uninhabited plain, for though there might be people within call, they were not within sight. Anyway, she could not stay here at the gate. She was now the most conspicuous object on which the upper windows of the house looked, and if he were to come to a front window he could not fail to see her. If anyone happened to pass along that road she would be a conspicuous and most remarkable figure inside that gate at this hour.
She walked to the door of the lodge and softly placed her hand on the latch. It yielded to her touch. She pressed against the door; it moved inward. Disclosed to view was a tiny square hall, in which were two doors. Close to the door which she had opened a large iron holdfast projected from the wall, and upon the holdfast hung a large, clumsy key. The key of the gate? Perhaps so.
In a moment she had taken the key off the hook, gone back to the gate, and inserted the key in the lock. In a minute she was outside the gate on the open road. She closed the gate noiselessly behind her, and hastened away, she knew not whither.
Before she had gone a hundred yards she discovered she had turned to the right instead of to the left. She intended walking towards the town, and it lay on her left as she came through the gateway. She hastened back and found the gate quickly. She kept on at this pace until she was about as far on this side of the gate as she had been on the other. Then she slackened her speed, moving demurely along the road.
After all, from what was she fleeing? Why was she hastening away? What prevented her staying in the house until ten o'clock, and then going to the railway station, in the ordinary way?
She could not remain in the house to be found there when it was believed she had left it for good. But why had she rushed out of it the previous night in a panic? Surely there had been nothing to alarm her. No doubt Mr. Leigh had tried to kiss her upon her arrival, and she could not stay after that affront. It was intolerable that any man should attempt to kissher. He had tried to excuse himself by saying he had only offered her a patriarchal welcome. The idea of a man who was only thirty-five years claiming the privileges of age was absurd. But, upon reflection, he might not have meant patriarchal to imply length of life, but method of life. He might have intended to convey that he, as male head of the house, assumed the privileges which obtained in patriarchal times, in remote times, when the head of the house posed as the father of all dwelling within its gates. But even if that were so, there was an affront in any such presumption, and she could not consent to remain under that roof longer than necessary. His gallantries of bows, and civil speech, and offers of service, following his atrocious attempt, were enough to warrant her in leaving if there had been no other provocation.
But there had been no occasion for mysterious or surreptitious flight. Plainly no desire existed of detaining her against her will. She had been permitted to retire to her room on pleading fatigue, the window was then fully open, the gate had not been fastened, and even when the gate was locked for the night the key was left lying accessible to anyone within the grounds. True, he believed her to be now in London. He did not know she had lost the train. Seemingly, he had taken not the least trouble to detain her in the house or to ascertain what her movements were when she quitted it.
Viewed by the sober light of day it appeared she had been making a silly romance out of some half-jocular attentions paid to her by a vulgar man, almost old enough to be her father! His soliloquy at the window about making her his wife had been only a little more absurd than his share in the dialogue between him and his mother. Presently, in a few days, the whole affair would appear nothing more than an unpleasant dream. In all likelihood she should never see Mrs. Leigh or her son again. The chances were a million to one against her encountering either during the remainder of her life. She would dismiss the whole affair from her mind and think of other matters.
Not a soul to be seen or heard yet. What a ridiculous thing it was to say that people of the country were earlier risers than people of the town! Fancy walking a mile at any time in the morning through London without meeting a soul!
About half-a-mile from Millway a seat had been placed by the side of the road. It was formed of three square bars of wood supported upon three square pillars of stone. Edith sat down and rested. She did not move until she heard the sound of approaching wheels and horses. She rose and walked briskly in the direction from which she heard the sounds. She walked quickly, with her head down, as though knowing well whither she was going, and being in haste. Two sleepy men in a cart looked with drowsy eyes at her as they passed, but said nothing. These were the first people she had met since she left Eltham House. They did not speak to her, ask her any questions, seem to take the slightest interest in her. This was reassuring. When the cart was out of sight, she returned to the seat and rested again. She would not go back towards the house lest she might be seen by Mr. Leigh or Mrs. Brown; she would not go among the sleeping houses lest she might attract attention, invite inquiries. No one else came near for half-an-hour. Then a scattered group of labourers, tramping doggedly onward from the town, disturbed her solitude. She got up and passed these quickly, as before. One of the men said "Good morning," civilly. Before they disappeared from view a second cart sounded on the road. The country was at length awake. It would not be desirable for her to sit on that bench in the view of people at that early hour. She resolved to keep moving now until the railway station opened.
After leaving that bench finally, she walked into the town as if on business of urgency, but of no alarm. It would not do to seem careless of her route or speed; it would not do to seem eagerly in haste; it would not do to seem as though she was strange to the place. She had no fear but that shy fear of attracting attention instinctively developed in those who flee, no matter from what they flee.
She wandered through many streets and roads that day, but took no note of them. She adopted a plan to avoid losing her bearings. There were six roads leading out of Millway. She took them one after the other from her left hand, went forward upon each a thousand steps, counting each step in her mind, and then came back to the point from which she had started, also counting each step as she returned. This prevented her wandering far, or losing her way. Counting the steps kept her mind fully occupied, and prevented her noticing the fatigue, or becoming unhappily conscious of her unusual position.
Upon comparing the numbers of outward and backward steps, she found that the stretch of road which measured a thousand from town, measured never more than nine hundred and fifty back. As soon as she turned towards Millway, although she knew the station would not be open when she arrived there, she unconsciously increased the length of each pace.
Only once in her monotonous and fatiguing task did anything unpleasant come in her path, and then the unpleasant object was a plain white-washed wall. Yet it gave her a sick thrill of terror. Fortunately it was in her last radiation from Millway.
She was quite unfamiliar with the town. She had never seen it until the day before, and then only as the fly drove from the station to Eltham House. This morning she had determined her course from left to right, taking the wide and open streets, down which she could see far. She passed by several ways which did not look main arteries of traffic. When it was half an hour of train time, she left behind two narrow and unpromising-looking streets, and coming upon the broadest and most open one she had yet encountered, committed herself to it without hesitation, merely making the reflection, "This is my last turn. It will be time to go to the station when I reach this corner again."
After that she took no heed of the street in which she was, but kept on. Fatigue, and the knowledge that her walk was approaching an end, made her duller and more indifferent than before. She did not look around her. She counted her steps in a purely mechanical manner. They, as it were, went on counting themselves without effort on her part. It is doubtful if she then could have stopped the enumeration. Her plan up to this had been to count up to a hundred and then begin again, closing up a finger for each five score told.
The road was not straight. She did not notice that at the end of the first hundred, the street had narrowed, and the flagging ceased. Before the end of the second hundred was chronicled, the pathway disappeared, the houses grew mean and dilapidated. Before she counted two hundred and fifty, she was traversing an alley, filthy under foot, with battered, squalid houses and hovels on either side. This was the most foul and disreputable part of Millway. It was inhabited by the unfortunate, the dissolute, and the disreputable. No one of good repute and appearance had been down there for years and years.
She saw nothing of what lay around her, did not notice the filthy, rutty ground on which she trod; did not observe the windless, noisome air through which she moved.
All at once she drew up with a quick start, and uttered a suppressed cry of alarm. She was in front of a blank white-washed wall. She glanced around in terror, looking for an avenue of escape. There was none except the way by which she had come. She found herself at the end of a frowsy, villainous-lookingcul-de-sac.
She shuddered and stood still, not knowing for the moment what to do. There was no going forward; to go back, was to confess she had lost her way. Even the white radiance of the morning could not make that close, fœtid, ruinous street look innocent. It had vice and crime written too deeply on its evil face. Fortunately, no one was stirring in the street, but each house and hovel had windows, and windows of fearful aspect, and behind these windows she imagined hideous winking eyes, and fleering faces. What, if some one, some hulking, slouching figure, should shamble out of one of those sinister doorways, and plant itself in the middle of the lane, blocking up her path, and forbidding her flight!
She caught her breath, and stooped her head, and ran swiftly, fiercely, madly, as though pursued by a pack of ravenous wolves. She fancied she heard the clatter of swift, relentless feet, the clamour of ruthless voices behind her ears. She imagined she felt the touch of claw-like hands upon her shoulder. She imagined she could see out of the corners of her eyes the foul fingers of her pursuers on her shoulder, on her sleeve! She thought she heard, felt, their breathings at her ears! She ran as for life from awful death.
All at once the figure of a man barred her way, blocked her path. With a cry of despair she stood still. The man seemed to be awaiting her approach. He moved a step towards her and said: "Beg pardon, miss. You need not run. There's plenty of time. The train does not start till six-fifteen, and it's only a quarter to six."
This was the friendly railway-porter of the night before. He had just stepped out of his lodging. She had failed to notice that she had left the reeking slum behind her, and was once more in the main street of the town.
She made a powerful effort and collected herself.
"Plenty of time, miss," said the man respectfully, "if you are going up to London by the six-fifteen." He waved his hand in the direction of the station.
"Thank you. I am much obliged to you. I--I did not wish to be late." Her breath was so short from running she spoke irregularly and with difficulty.
"I am going to open the station, miss. Would you like to sit in the waiting room?"
"Thank you. I would."
He drew aside and she passed him. He followed at a deferential distance.
In five minutes they stood on the platform. He opened the door of the waiting room. Then he paused and thought a moment. He turned to her and said, pointing to a line of carriages drawn up at the platform: "That's the train for London. You haven't to change until you get there. Are you going to Victoria or Ludgate?"
"Victoria."
"That," pointing, "part of the train is for Victoria--the forward part, miss." He looked at her again, and noticed that her boots showed signs of a long walk. "Perhaps you would like to go straight into a carriage?"
"I should prefer that."
"I can see to your luggage and get your ticket for you, miss, so that you need not stir once you get in."
"I have no luggage here. It will be sent after me. Not first-class, thank you. I shall travel third, if you please." She coloured a little more deeply. Her usually pale face was faintly flushed from her late haste and excitement. "Here is the money for the ticket. You have been very kind to me--I am extremely sorry I--I--I can't make you a little present--but----"
"Don't mention it, miss. It's my duty, miss, to do what I can to oblige passengers. Take the far corner with your back to the engine. I'll lock you in. We haven't many passengers by this train, and I may be able to keep the carriage altogether for you, at starting, anyway. The ticket office won't be open for a few minutes. With your back to the engine, miss. I'll bring you the ticket in time. You are locked in now, miss, and you need not stir until you get to Victoria."
She thanked him again and he left her. Now the full effect of her long walk, the reaction from the excitement of the night and want of sleep, fell upon her with leaden weight of drowsiness. She was safe, at rest now, on her way home. This was a blessed change from the strain of mind in the darkness, and the weary, weary walking and counting in the light. She went on counting still, exactly at the rate of her paces on the road.
Her head rested in the corner of the narrow compartment. Her brain still went stolidly on counting whether she would or not. She closed her eyes. A delicious numbness began to steal over her. She had a faint consciousness that a few people were out on the platform. She heard as from afar off the sound of voices and feet.
"Your ticket, miss."
Something was placed in her hand, she started and caught it in her gloved fingers, closely.
"I'll lock the door again, miss. You are all right now till you get to Victoria."
"Thank you, very much."
This dialogue sounded faintly in her ears, she had no clear perception that she had taken part in it. In another minute she was fast asleep with her head resting in the corner of the carriage and a soft smile upon her lips.
After her eyelids closed and she became unconscious in sleep, the following dialogue took place on the platform, outside the window of her carriage:
"You are not to go in there, sir, that compartment is engaged."
"Third class compartment engaged! Rubbish! Open the door, I say, at once!"
"No, sir, I cannot. I do not mean that the compartment is engaged by paying for it."
"Open it this instant."
"The lady has been very ill of some catching complaint and must travel alone. See, she is asleep."
"No matter.Itoo am very ill of a catching complaint. Open the door. You wont! Oh, it doesn't make any difference, I'll open it myself. I always carry a key. Porter, you have lost a shilling. But there, I won't be vindictive, here's a shilling for being good to the lady. She is a friend of mine. You are doing well this morning, porter. She paid you first for reserving the compartment, then I pay you instead of reporting you for being impertinent and corrupt."
"She gave me nothing. The lady had only her bare fare to Victoria, and if you know her she will tell you that I got her ticket and she had no money left."
"You're new to this place. I never saw you here before. Go away. Only you are so young a fool I'd get you into trouble."
All this was said in low voices so as to be inaudible to the girl, even if she had been awake, but she was not awake, she was in profound sleep.
The new passenger was seated in the compartment, and, as the porter turned away, he closed and locked the door softly. In less than a minute the train steamed out of the station. The girl slept on with a smile of relief and deliverance around her fresh young mouth.
The second traveller sat facing the engine on the side opposite Edith, and directly in front of her, by the open window. He was a short deformed man and carried a heavy crooked walking-stick. For a few minutes after the train began to move he remained without moving. The girl slept heavily, swaying slightly from side to side with the motion of the train, her two gloved hands lay placidly on her lap. Between the thumb and fore-finger of her right hand was the ticket bought for her by the friendly porter, and representing all the money she had had beyond a few half pence.
When the train had been five minutes on its way and had gained its full speed, the man leaned forward towards the sleeping girl, and with infinite gentleness and care drew the ticket out of her hand, keeping his eyes on her eyelids the whole time. Without taking his eyes off her face, he raised his right hand, thrust it, holding the ticket between his thumb and finger, out of the carriage window, and dropped the ticket into the rushing air. Then he sat back in his corner opposite Edith, and sighed and smiled.