Hour after hour went by that day, and although Bracken came back three times from Kennington, he brought nothing new. The local men had not been able to find a single trace of Marion after the moment she left, the house in Garthorne Street. They had made inquiries at all the lodging-houses and hotels in the district, and had discovered absolutely nothing. They, of course, were hopeful; policemen and private detectives always are. But despite all this hope, and the knowledge that unlimited money was at their disposal, they could not get the slightest additional trace of the fugitive.
In order to beguile the time, rather than from any hope Marion had returned, Cheyne went more than once to Tenby Terrace. There he found poor Miss Traynor had at last succumbed, and gone to bed; but no trace or tidings of the missing girl. If "to be wroth with those we love works like madness in the brain," there is some self-sustaining power in the anger itself; but to love tenderly, and seek the loved object in vain, is more wearing and depressing than mere anger.
He went to Mr. Macklin; but the energetic lawyer was able to do nothing beyond find out that No. 8, Garthorne Street might be bought for eight hundred pounds, upon which Cheyne told him to buy; and when the purchase had been effected, to make a deed of gift in favour of Mrs. Harriet Dumaresq, and hand the documents to the widow without comment or explanation. The purchase and the gift were to be made in the name of Ashington. Cheyne wished to benefit in a substantial way the woman who had been gentle to his love, and careful of her when she was away from him.
The long summer day began to wane, and yet there were no definite tidings--nothing beyond the news Bracken had gathered of the widow in the morning. The detective was quite sure she was in the neighbourhood of Kennington; but beyond this he was sure of nothing.
Cheyne could hardly believe it possible she had not been found. It was, indeed, only by an effort he could believe she had been lost. When his mind was not busy with the subject of her disappearance, he always felt as though she were in Knightsbridge, and he was going over presently to see her, and chat with and chide her humorously for some fault of his own inventing. Then a great sadness fell upon, him, and he thought of all her sweet secret ways and gentle sprightliness. All her sweet ways were secret, and only to be found out by accident. Often and often she had been saucy to him, but never, as far as he knew, to her aunt. But her sauciness fascinated him more than anything else, and now a thousand instances of it crowded in upon him, and filled him with anguish at his loss. He had always been a man of few wants and desires; but, as often happens with such men, those wants were paramount with him, and the loss of anything he loved or had set his heart upon seemed to make his life bankrupt. He could have lived without wine or fine clothes, and never felt the want of either; but clean linen and tobacco were necessaries to him, as bread and beef are to other men. Although in the old days he had spoken of dukes and marquises, he had never longed to be one; he had never thought of being one; and now that things had taken such a different aspect, he set his titles and his riches down at a very low rate, and would rather have given up the marquisate of Southwold, or even the dukedom itself, than abandon the use of tobacco.
Now what had he lost? The only being on earth he loved. What were all his lands and castles and titles if he might not share them with her, if he might not live in the glory of her happiness? To feel that she was happy because he was with her, and that her happiness was diverted from his own individuality only by the contemplation or possession of something procured for her by him, was the end and aim of all his own expectations of happiness as far as the relations between man and woman are concerned. He had his independent masculine ambitions and hopes. He did not believe he should die if Marion were never found. He did not think he should throw his money and his coronet into the Thames, and lead the life of a recluse ever afterwards. But he knew that never again could he wrap anyone in such a beautiful mystical chivalry. Never again in all his life should he be able to taste the sweet perfume of romantic passion. He had the feelings of a poet, and she was his best-beloved poem. He had the ardour of a lover, and she was his most dear mistress. He worshipped beauty, and she was the most beautiful spirit in his earthly paradise.
And now she was gone, gone away from him? No one whom he knew could tell him where she was, and he could not find her. Good Heavens! what an unhappy ending to all the happy hours he had spent with her, all the happy hours he had spent thinking of her when away from her! He had in the still times of his leisure thought of nothing else. "She was his festival to see;" and he had brightened some of his darkest hours with thoughts of her. He had never to her betrayed his love emotionally. He looked on emotion with suspicion. But his passions, like his frame, were strong. His rage, his pity, his love, would have carried him any distance. But for mere emotion, that quality of human nature which appraises everything by the accident of the present moment, he had a supreme contempt.
He became restless. He could not remain in one place. The same faculty of his nature which drove him down in a fury to Silverview now drove him between the two extremes of rage and despair. His passions, when roused, were grotesque. In his ordinary moods few men had a more level or equable temper; but once excited, he knew no self-control, attempted no moderation. At one time he thought of going to Bracken, seizing him by the shoulders, and knocking his brains out against a wall; at another time he thought of putting an advertisement in the papers, setting forth the whole facts of the case and offering a stupendous reward for any information about her.
At last daylight failed, and the long summer day was over. Macklin, who remained at his office, declared that he had been belied by events; and Bracken confessed that, since morning, no progress had been made, and that practically no progress could be made during the night. Cheyne asked Bracken what was to be done; and Bracken said little or nothing could be done till morning. What was there for him to do? Nothing. He might go to bed, but there was no chance of his sleeping. This night was worse than last, for nothing had been done towards the recovery of the girl last night, and he had felt the fullest confidence in the men he had put on her track. Now a whole day had been passed in active search, and nothing had been discovered.
What if she had met with an accident, and was now lying in a hospital? But no; Bracken surely had inquired at all the hospitals in London. Then there was the worst chance, the most awful chance. Perhaps she had met with an accident, and was now beyond the united skill of all the hospitals in London! The Thames, the treacherous, lithe, sleek, murderous Thames, could it have anything to do with the fact that she had not written, the fact that no trace of her had been found of later date than yesterday evening? That woman over there in Kennington had told them the missing girl had seemed in great distress. Could it be that, driven desperate by her desolate condition, she had----
The thought was unendurable. It drove him mad. He would not, he could not, sit any longer inactive under it. What was the good of rank and civilisation, and wealth and police, if a young girl might disappear, and the cleverest men in London could find no trace of her? Why, in the American forests a hunter could follow up his poor, helpless, simple child.
When he came upon the idea of her being a helpless simple child, he groaned and stamped and struck his thigh with his clenched fist; then got up, and swore an oath he would go and find her himself. He was in the hotel at the time, and it was then ten o'clock. Having asked Macklin to act for him in his absence, he left the hotel and crossed the river on foot.
Going over Westminster Bridge he paused, and looked down at the dark swift waters beneath. Could it be that black heedless tyrant below there had strangled his love? Could it be the swirling tide below was now waving to and fro that beautiful brown hair?--that brown hair on which he had loved to lay his hand, that he might feel sanctified. Had loved--had loved! Gracious heavens, had it come to that? Was his love already a thing of the past? Had the love, which was yesterday a living passion with worshipper and idol, in one brief moment left finally for want of an object? Was his life widowed of the one passion which had ennobled it? And here was he, strong, rich, titled, possessed of almost unlimited power to prosecute such an inquiry, as helpless against this mystery as he was against the accursed water rushing beneath his feet!
He left the bridge, and moved on. It was now quite dark--that is, as dark as night is in mid-summer. It was fresh, and not too warm for walking with comfort. The streets were crowded with people, and nearly all the shops were still open.
Cheyne strode on at a rapid pace, his great form cleaving its way through the crowd as a descending stone divides water. He went on without looking to either side until he passed Newington Butts. Here he slackened; here he ceased to be indifferent to the people, and looked sharply every moment from side to side, examining every face with anxious care. If he had been in his ordinary mental condition, he would have known quite well that nothing was more unlikely than that Marion would be walking out at such an hour. But he was not in his ordinary mental condition; and when, after awhile, that thought occurred to him, he put it away impatiently, and said to himself:
"Better fail myself to find her here than listen to the history of others' failures over there." And he turned round and looked indignantly back upon the way he had come. Then he resumed his walk and his eager questioning glance at the unfamiliar passers-by.
On and on he kept until he got to the top of Kennington Road; then he turned, and, having crossed the road, walked back again to Newington Butts. Then, facing round again, he went hither and thither, down by-streets, he knew not, he cared not where.
Gradually the streets became deserted and more deserted. Lights shone a short time in upper windows, and were then put out. The cabs, which had set down people coming home from the theatres, had long since rattled away; The great silent dome of night, fretted with millions of stars, seemed to have absorbed from earth all the unruly noises of day, and only now and then the sound of a solitary footfall broke upon the ear, like a penitential ghost from the dead day. The stormy heart of day was eased of its trouble by that "sweet oblivious antidote"--night. There lingered in remote distances marvellous tones of music. The harsh inconsistencies of day had lain down to sleep, like weary wayward children. The peace of the desert had descended on the great city. Upon all the land had fallen night, that great Sabbath of Nature, when men cease from doing evil to their neighbours and blaspheming God, when the earth rises up out of the great ocean of sunlight, which is for the uses of the earth only, towards the great light of illimitable heaven, which is for the peace of the soul.
All round people were asleep. So great was the silence that the ticking of the clocks could be distinguished through the front doors. It was almost possible to fancy the breathing of the people above could be heard.
As the night wore on, and the chill dawn paled and pushed back the flaming stars, Cheyne's mood changed from one of indignant determination to melancholy. He seemed no longer possessed of vitality enough to be angry. The long walk and the depressing influence of the hour overcame him, and he felt inclined to weep.
Slowly the day broadened. A solitary crow broke the overwhelming silence of the morning with a single cry, that reverberated through the streets and went rolling away among the distant echoes. That one sound seemed more like the last note of an expiring world than the reveille for the world's work.
Cheyne looked up, stopped, and kept his eyes fixed on the one thing visible in the zenith, that solitary bird.
Then, while he was still watching the crow, down through the streets rang a very different sound:
"Fire!"
Cheyne looked up and down. He had taken little or no notice of the street. Now for the first time he observed that it was a quiet by-street of inferior order. There was but one other person visible, and that a man of the working class, who yelled at the top of his voice:
"Fire!"
Cheyne saw this man a few hundred yards in advance of him, standing in front of a three-storey house. Again the man yelled "Fire!" and then ran up and knocked loudly at the door of one of the houses. Cheyne walked on rapidly in the direction of the house, and saw no symptom of fire. When Cheyne came up the man was still knocking at the door. There was an area, and into this Cheyne now looked. He could see nothing unusual, but he heard a crackling angry noise.
"Fire!" shouted the man again, as he thundered at the door. Then he turned round and saw Cheyne. "Do you know where the station is?" he asked.
"No," answered Cheyne; "I am a stranger here."
"Very good, then," he said; "you rouse them, and I'll fetch the engine."
At that moment a crash was heard, and on looking into the area Cheyne perceived the glass of the kitchen window had been broken, and that through the hole issued a long lazy-moving cloud of smoke.
Cheyne now seized the knocker and knocked, and shouted "Fire!" with all his might. The working-man ran up the street at the top of his speed. Above, the crow sailed serenely on. Around, the people lay sleeping quietly. In this house, the existence of which was now threatened, the inmates had not yet awakened.
From the first cry of "Fire!" to this time not more than five minutes had passed. Now the flames began to beat against the kitchen window, and glass fell out again. Cheyne knocked and shouted. At last the window of a room on the second-floor was opened; a man appeared at it, and asked what was the matter.
"Fire!" answered Cheyne. "Your house is on fire; get all the people out at once. A messenger is gone for the engine. Look sharp!" The man withdrew in terror to rouse the household. Cheyne could do nothing more. So he stood at the area railings watching the progress of the disaster.
It had got firm hold. Owing to the smoke he could not see plainly, but he now and then caught sight of a tenacle of flame as it shot forth and seized some new object. The crackling sound had increased to a muffled roar, through which occasionally came a sharp hiss. Some of the neighbours had been roused by this time and were at the windows talking excitedly.
Cheyne heard a crash, and for a moment there was more smoke and less flame and noise. Then a dulness seemed to come on the glass of the first-floor room. It was smoke. The plastering of the kitchen ceiling had fallen, and the smoke was making its way up through the laths and boards.
There was no time to be lost, for the flames must soon reach the hall and staircase.
Again Cheyne went to the door and knocked. At last the door opened, and a man and his wife and two servants came out half-clad into the street. They were terrified and only partly awake. Each carried something or other.
"Anyone else in the house?" asked Cheyne.
"No," answered the man, "we are all here. My wife, two servants and myself. But shall we not be able to save any of our things? They are not insured."
"You, I am greatly afraid, will not, and ought to think yourself lucky in getting off with your lives." As Cheyne spoke, the fire burst through the door at the head of the kitchen stairs, and rushed up the hall towards the entrance. Cheyne caught hold of the handle and banged the door.
"What did you do that for?" asked the man angrily.
"To give you the only chance you have of saving your furniture."
"What do you mean?" said the man, in bewilderment. "How are we to get at it now?"
"The air, my dear sir, the air. You cannot go into that hall now to get at anything. Nothing can be done until the firemen come; and if you left the front door open, you would only be blowing the flame upstairs."
"The mistress of the house had by this time been taken in by a neighbour opposite, but the servants declined a sanctuary, preferring the excitement and the spectacle in the street. Cheyne approached one of the servants and said:
"Are you quite sure no one else is in that house, for I greatly fear there is little hope of saving a stick of it."
"Oh yes, sir," said the girl. "Quite sure. We have a lodger.
"And where is he?"
"Gone out of town for a few days. She's been with us a good while, and went away on her holidays this very day. It's a lady, sir; Mrs. Carpenter."
"And you're quite sure she has left the house?"
"Yes, sir, quite sure; I helped to bring her things downstairs for her this night, and saw her get into a cab and drive off to the railway-station. She went away from here about ten o'clock, and drove straight to the station. I heard her tell the cabman to take her to Waterloo."
"Oh, then, it's all right?" said Cheyne.
"All right!" exclaimed the servant indignantly; "and it was only the day before yesterday that missis got in a new wardrobe that cost every penny, and the odd shillings too, of twelve guineas! I can smell the varnish of it burning now. It's a shame the fireman aren't here. Oh, yes," went on the loquacious maid, "Mrs. Carpenter is safe enough, and I'm glad of it; for there isin't, sir, in all London, a nicer or a kinder lady. She's been with us now ever so long; she's been with us before I came into this place. I was in a situation in Dulwich before I came here. I ought to know she is safe, for I was the only person in the house, sir, when she left. The master and missis went to the theatre in London, and cook was out--it was her evening out. But I stayed in until Mrs. Carpenter was gone, and then I went over, sir, to see my mother, who does washing in Canterbury Lane, off the Brixton Road. Missis said I might go when Mrs. Carpenter was gone; for I am general servant, and there was not a thing to do, and missis gave cook the latchkey, and I had leave till eleven o'clock; and at eleven to the minute I was back, and cook let me in, and the master and missis were not home until nigh to twelve o'clock, as they had to come from London in a cab. Mrs. Carpenter locked her door before she went away, as she said there were things about, and she'd rather tidy them herself than put me to the trouble. She is a real lady, and lives on her own money, which her own husband left to her out of the coal business. And now all the poor lady's things are going to be burned up. That is her room there, at the top. She had the drawing-room too--that, see, beginning to light up now. Mercy on us, there's the beautiful plate-glass gone all to bits, and the furniture only two years old, and master's got no insurance on it! Oh, it's a cruel pity! But, as I was saying, I saw Mrs. Carpenter into the cab, and she gave me half-a-sovereign--I may as well do her justice and own to it, now that her things are going to be burnt up. And she locked the door of her bed-room, and took away the key, and when I came back from my mother's in Canterbury Lane, I put my hand on the handle of the door, and it was locked sure enough, so she's safe, and I'm glad of it; for she's a good kind lady, and I sha'n't meet her like again, I know."
The servant had by this time a large group for audience. Cheyne was standing among that group, and he had heard, in an unconscious kind of way, all she had said.
It was full daylight. All round that now awakened street the same profound quiet reigned as before, but scarcely a house from one side to the other was without a representative in the crowd. Almost every front door was open, and people half-clad were at the windows of the opposite houses, looking on in affrighted amazement.
Meanwhile the flames had gained ground rapidly. They were now pouring out of the basement and ground-floor windows, and already the smoke wreathed and curled against the windows of the drawing-room on the first-floor. The top or third-floor was yet uninvaded. On the front door the paint cracked and blistered, and as it became hotter and hotter, chinks opened in it, and through those chinks the fumes streamed in an idle and leisurely manner. The flames and heat issuing from the basement window had scorched the paint of the area-railings, and the wreaths of flame and smoke had already marked the walls with bars of soot.
The people next door on either side were already busy moving the furniture, for there was no saying what dimensions the fire might ultimately assume. Plenty of neighbours were able and willing to help, and already, not more than twenty minutes after the first alarm, two growing piles of furniture stood on the opposite footpath. All was done silently and with a business-like absence of bustle, as if the people had been brought up to the work. The men were in their shirts, trousers and slippers, and spoke little. They took their orders from the owners of the houses, and carried out the things as carefully as if they had been their own. Sashes had been removed from windows, and ropes had been procured somewhere, and by means of these ropes the heavier articles of furniture were being lowered into the street.
Cheyne stood merely looking on. At another time, under ordinary circumstances, he would have been in the thick of the fight. But there were men enough and to spare for the work, and he felt too depressed and wretched to take much interest in saving a few pounds' worth of tables and chairs. He stood by, idly looking on.
The police and the turncock had by this time arrived, and a column of water five feet high was boiling up in the street a little distance from the burning house. It was evident that the house on fire was doomed. Nothing could save it. Even if the engines came now they would not avail. Already the flames were visible in the drawing-room.
Another clatter of glass sounded through the whirring and flapping of the flames, and the glass of the drawing-room windows fell, clashing and shrieking from window-sill to window-sill until it shot down the area, shattered into a thousand echoing pieces.
At this moment the fire-escape arrived, and almost at the same instant a steam fire-engine came clattering up the street. As the fire escape was not needed, it was placed at the end of the street. The engine drew up in position, and in a few minutes was ready for work.
The fire-escape was ordered up and reared against the burning house. A man mounted the escape with a hose, and began playing through one of the drawing-room windows. Through the ground-floor window the flames were rushing out in great volumes, and frequently the position of the man on the ladder became extremely critical.
Now the fire darted out, and bending upwards and sideways, seemed to try to reach him. Now it contented itself with darting a fang at the ladder, as though exasperated at not being able to meet him, it had resolved not to be baulked of some prey outside the scope of its present activity.
The gradual growth of day progressed meanwhile, and the broad dawn was white and full. In the fierce glare of day the flames grew paler and paler, until they almost disappeared. Now the position of the fire was marked by a column of dense black smoke, for there was not a breath of wind to blow it away. The sun had risen above the horizon, and its white light stood up against the black shaft of smoke. No bird was now in the air over the doomed house. The great city still slept; all but those of it who had sorrows.
The flames were at their fiercest. The man still stood on the ladder and directed the water through the windows. The flames darted out still more angrily, and came nearer to him, but he did not flinch.
The crowd was small, and the police did not insist on the people keeping at any great distance. Cheyne leaned against a railing, and looked on quietly at the scene. It was better to look at such a scene, which prevented one thinking, than to wander through the streets brooding over his loss.
The burning house faced the east; and now that the flames were on a level with the window-sill of the third-floor the sunlight struck the windows full, and they blazed with light. The people murmured, thinking the upper floor was burning.
For a moment all eyes were directed upwards; and while dispute ran high as to whether the glare came from within or without there was a crash below, and a shout of dismay, and all eyes were lowered.
The ladder on which the fireman had been standing had snapped in two, and he and a portion of the ladder had fallen into the area.
For a moment there was silence.
Cheyne stood up and shook himself. He might be of help to this poor fellow, who had been so cruelly treated by Fate in the discharge of his perilous duty.
All at once a yell of horror burst from the crowd, and someone shrieked:
"Look up!"
A hundred arms pointed frantically aloft.
Cheyne raised his eyes, and saw, at the window of the third-floor of the burning house, lighted up by the sweet cool light of early summer morning, Marion Durrant!
When Marion Durrant went down the steps of No. 8, Garthorne Street, that evening, she was in despair. She did not know where to turn or what to do. She had tried three times to get lodgings, and had failed. She would not go to an hotel; and even if she did, she now felt certain they would not take her in. She had money in her pocket; but she had no luggage, no reference; and both reference and luggage seemed almost more necessary than money. If she had had no money, but had been able to give a reference, she had no doubt the lady whom she had just left would have let her stay the night anyway. Now what should she do? It was cruel to think that she, who had done no wrong, and had money in her pocket, and was willing to pay for it, could not get a lodging that night in great London. She had often heard it said that, with money, one could do anything; and yet here was she with money, and she could not get the commonest of all human necessaries, a roof to cover her.
There was only one thing impossible, and that was that she should go back to Knightsbridge. But she did not know what to do. The notion of walking about the streets all night was appalling; still it was preferable to going back. Anything was better than going back. She would rather sit down by the side of the way and die than anything else. But she was she felt, young and strong and full of life; and as to interfering with her existence, the thought was as little to be entertained as that of returning to Knightsbridge; going back was her ideal of absolute impossibility.
She wandered on now she did not know, she did not care, where. She was tired by this time, and would have liked to sit down. She could not sit down by the side of the street. She did not know of any place to which she could go. She had only one idea, and that was to keep moving; for she had heard that the police insisted on suspicious people moving on, and she supposed she must be a suspicious-looking person, for no one would take her in. So she kept on.
She had no notion of what would become of her. She had not thought, she did not think, of what would happen when she could go on no further. All she knew was, that back to Knightsbridge she would not go. She was thirsty, and would have given half-a-crown for a glass of water, but she did not know where or how to get it. She felt hunted and dismayed.
So much was she shocked and discouraged by the last interview that she failed to observe she had taken the wrong turning, and was going towards the Thames. She adopted no regular course, followed no regular track. Now she crossed a street aimlessly. Then she as aimlessly crossed back again. The wheels became less, and the feet more, frequent. The streets were thronged, and in a misty, half-unconscious way she realised for the first time the enormous magnitude of London. We are told one half the world does not know how the other half lives. One half of London has never seen the district in which the other half dwells.
It was a matter of perfect indifference to her which way she went, so long as it was not to Knightsbridge. Of course going towards Knightsbridge meant nothing; for when one takes a step due north, one is going towards the North Pole. The moment she came anywhere near Knightsbridge she should know it--then it would be time to change her direction; but until then she had only to keep moving on according to police regulations.
But how much longer could she continue to walk about? She had been brought up in London, and was not accustomed to more walking than falls to the lot of an average London-reared girl. She had now been four hours wandering about, and had endured three serious disappointments about getting somewhere to rest for the night. She was indifferent to her fate. She assumed that at one time or another something would happen to decide it; but what that something might be, or what was likely to happen, she could not guess. She did not try to imagine.
It was now growing dusk; but by this time she was too worn out and too miserable to be any longer horrified at the notion of being alone in the dusk or dark of London streets. She had only two desires, and these were to get a drink of water and find some place where she might sit down and rest ten minutes.
It seemed to her that if she might have just ten minutes' rest, and a drink of water, she should be able to face any danger, encounter any fatigue. But where should she turn? Whither should she go?
Despair had given way to indifference, and she now did not care what became of her. By instinct she avoided the crowded thoroughfares and wandered through a network of quiet by-streets.
Minute succeeded minute, and silence gradually fell upon the streets through which she passed, until the only footfall which kept company with her own was that of the policeman. She was footsore and hungry and weak, but still she kept on. Part of the time, it seemed to her, she must have been asleep as she walked, for she was always conscious of passing into a condition of increased wakefulness when anyone passed her.
At length the darkness faded, and it was daylight once again. Still she stumbled on until at last she came to the gates of Kennington Park and found them open. The park was almost deserted. Without intention she took one of the quiet side-walks apart from the main one, along which a few workmen were hastening with their tool-baskets over their shoulders.
Here she found a sheltered seat, and, sitting into the corner of it, fell fast asleep.
It was three hours before she awoke. She was aroused by the voices of children journeying on their way to school. She heard some of them talk of a fountain, and then all ran away. She followed them, and having waited until they had scampered off and no one else was near, she reached up and filled the little cup and drank, and felt greatly refreshed by her sleep and the delicious cool water she had been so long thirsting for.
Then she sat down again and rested till noon. She was too feeble and worn out to think of any plan for the future. She forgot she had money in her pocket and that she could buy food. After the horrors of the evening and night she could think of nothing but that it was cheerful day again with the security of light and people around her.
At noon she rose and tried to walk a little, but felt so tired and footsore that she went no farther than the next chair, and then sat down. But day waned and evening came on, and the time for shutting the park arrived. What was to become of her now? She had not the courage to go to that fountain since, as the people began to appear soon after the children passed by. And now she was thirsty and tired and hungry, and did not know whither to turn. Her mind was enfeebled like her body, and beyond the firm resolution not to go back to Knightsbridge and a consciousness of an obligation to keep moving, she had no clear perception of anything.
She had for some time been walking down a large and populous road, and now she suddenly came upon a railway viaduct. In an idle effortless way she looked up, and found she was near Waterloo Station. Often, when she had gone little journeys with her aunt, before Miss Traynor had been altogether laid up, she had been to Waterloo Station, and had often rested in the waiting-room, It occurred to her she might do so now. She turned into the station, found a waiting-room, and sat down.
She selected a corner, and had not sat many minutes when all the objects in view grew softer and less angular to her eyes, and when her sense of desolation diminished, until the faculties of her nature were centred on the one supreme physical sensation of the deliciousness of rest. She settled her shoulders more comfortably into the corner, and before she was conscious of drowsiness was asleep.
Mrs. Carpenter, a widow in comfortable circumstances, living in lodgings at Wilkinson Street, Kennington, had that day made up her mind to go south to some relatives for awhile. Although she had got the letter of invitation days ago, she had not answered it until that day, and then she telegraphed that she would be with them late that night, by the last train, or the train before the last.
Mrs. Carpenter was, in a few ways, a little eccentric. In all London there was not a woman with a warmer or more humane heart, but in some things she was not as other people. She had a habit of making up her mind suddenly, and unmaking it quite as quickly. She conceived violent likes and dislikes, without being able to account for them. She trusted altogether to instinct, and pooh-poohed reason. She had her troubles and trials in the world, but she was now, as far as money went, above any chance of evil fortune, and what she loved most was to help others who were deserving and were not so fortunate.
She was not what is popularly called a charitable woman. She did not give half-crowns to tramps or large sums to hospitals and other charitable institutions. But she found out men who could get no work because of the want of tools, or women whose children were hungry because of their mother's illness, or some other case of blameless distress, and then she stretched forth no niggard hand, but one open and free, and full of aid and kindly counsel. She did not sermonise away the value of her gifts or loans, or make them an opportunity for dwelling upon any particular form of faith. If she found people hungry and deserving, she gave them bread, without making it the price of a pious mortgage.
On this particular night, when she left her lodgings in Wilkinson Street, she drove to Waterloo Station. She had some minutes to spare, and went into the waiting-room. Here the only object that met her eye was the unusual one of a well and quietly dressed girl of good appearance fast asleep in one of the corners of the public waiting-room. She drew near and looked at the sleeper. Even in sleep there was an expression of pain and weariness upon the girl's face. But, being worn out, she slept soundly.
"She'll lose her train as sure as fate is fate," said the sympathetic widow, drawing still nearer, and putting her hand softly on Marion's arm. "I beg your pardon, my dear," she said, shaking her softly.
Marion did not wake at once.
"My dear, my dear, you will lose your train. Where are you going? Wake up!"
"Ah," said Marion, opening her eyes and looking into the kindly face above her, "I--I am not going by train anywhere."
"Then you must have been a long time asleep. Do you know it's ten o'clock?"
"Yes, I know it is ten o'clock. I have been only a few minutes here. I was very tired, and when I sat down I fell asleep."
"But, child, this is no place for a young girl to fall asleep. Are you waiting here for anyone?"
"No."
"Then allow me to advise you to go home. This is not at all a proper place for a young girl to fall asleep in. What would people, uncharitable people, say if they saw you?"
"I do not know what people would say. But I cannot go home, and I have not been able to get a lodging," said Marion piteously. She liked the kindly voice and face of the widow, and she resolved to confide in her.
"And where are you to sleep to-night, my dear?" asked the widow, in mingled horror and amazement.
"I do not know. I wish you could help me; and I am very thirsty, I can hardly speak."
Mrs. Carpenter stretched out her hand and took Marion's, and said:
"Come with me. I will get you something to drink, and put you right for the night. I shall miss the train I intended taking; but never mind that, there is another later."
She took the girl into the refreshment-room and got her a cup of tea. Marion could eat nothing, but she drank the tea with a great sense of relief. While she was drinking the tea, she told the widow as much of her story as she would tell anyone--how, for reasons unconnected with the fault of anyone, she had been compelled to leave home unexpectedly and suddenly, and how she had wandered about, looking in vain for lodgings.
"And," said Mrs. Carpenter, "what is your name?"
Marion felt it hard to refuse to tell one who had been so kind to her, and yet she had made up her mind to tell no one.
"If you would not think it very ungrateful of me, I would rather not tell you," she said in a voice of pain.
"Oh, my dear, I am not in the least curious, not in the least. I had no object in asking you what it was. I only wanted to know what I am to call you."
"My christian name is Marion, and they call me May," said the girl, with a spasm at her throat when she said the word "they." What were they thinking of now? What were they thinking of? Long ago both her notes had been delivered. When they knew she had gone away, what would they say? And in all this, "they" meant only two people, Charlie and her aunt.
"Well, May, come along now, and I'll do better for you than any of those very particular people. Cab--four-wheeler!"
They got in, and she gave the direction to drive to Wilkinson Street. Here she opened the door with a latch-key and went in, making Marion follow her. She told the cabman to wait.
"Now, are you sure, my dear child, that you would not like something to eat?"
"Oh, quite, thank you. I want only to sleep. You are too kind to me, and I am too tired and too miserable to thank you in any way. Indeed, I shall never be able to thank you, for I was in despair."
"Poor child! poor child! It must have been cruelly hard. Mind yourself now in the dark. I'll get a candle in my own room; I don't know where to put my hand on one here. This is my door. I've got the key in my pocket; ay, here it is. Now, my dear, come in. Oh, yes, here is the candle. That is better; now you can see around you. There is no one in the house but ourselves. The master and mistress are gone to the theatre, and the servants are out. You will find the whole of the people very nice. I have been lodging here some time, and I must say I never met nicer people--not a bit like the ordinary lodging-house folk."
"But when they come in and find me here, what will they say? What am I to say?" asked Marion faintly.
"They will say nothing to you, and you will be fast asleep when they come. I have a very simple plan of getting over that difficulty: I'll write a note. They know my door is locked. You shall take the key and lock the door on the inside. Tomorrow morning you push my note out under the door. They will not be much surprised to see it there, and they will be only astonished, not alarmed, when they hear that you are in this room; whereas, if you showed yourself to-night, or if you opened the door to-morrow morning, without their knowing about you, they might be terrified, or treat you as a thief."
She sat down at the dressing-table and wrote the note, and then, after giving a few more words of instruction, said "Good-night," and added:
"I shall not be back for a couple of weeks anyway, and during that time you are quite welcome to stay here. By that time you will have succeeded in getting a place for yourself, as you can use the landlady here as a reference, or me, for that matter, if you prefer it."
She closed the door after her, and was gone.
Marion turned the key and sat down to think.
The events of the past hour had added a fresh and surprising subject for thought to the situation. What deliverance could have been more thorough, more opportune, or more unexpected? Now that she was safe within walls, securely housed and sheltered, she recognised the gravity of her position an hour ago. What would have become of her but for this kind and thoughtful woman? She did not know. She could not answer the question; but the fact she was unable to answer was more terrible than any answer she could conceive. To wander another night through those weary streets! She could not have done it. She should have fallen down and died; or if she did not die, no doubt the police would take her to the station or somewhere else.
This was the first time she had been from under the protection of her father or mother or aunt, and she felt as if the ground beneath her was no longer solid and trustworthy, but full of holes and other dangers.
And then the thought of her poor old invalid kind aunt rushed in upon her, and she sobbed. What would the poor old woman do now that she was gone? Marion knew very well her aunt had no thought of anything in this world but herself, Marion. She knew that never fell greater desolation on a mother than would fall on her heart when the fact of her flight broke upon her for the first time. She could not conceive what the poor old woman would do. Perhaps she might die. That would be a merciful end of this wearying tragedy. If she, too, might only die here in secret, where no one knew, where even her name had never been heard, would never be known! What a delivery death would be! Sudden and painless death she would prefer, but she would not shirk pain, if it proved the gateway to release. She was not conscious of any great wickedness; and she believed she should find nothing in the hereafter so bad as what she now endured.
Then she knelt down and said a short prayer, begging of God to take her that night as she lay in sleep.
She was as loyal-hearted a maiden as man need hope to win. And as she lay down to sleep that night she wished and prayed that she might die, for her sweetheart's ease. After God, she held him first, above all considerations of self or others. She was profoundly sorry for her poor helpless aunt. If the question had arisen as to whether she or her aunt should die, she would have freely offered herself as the victim; if her offer was rejected, she would have felt resigned. But on the question of whether he or she should be sacrificed, she would not have allowed the right of any human interference. She was, by the nature of her womanhood and the quality of her love, the natural victim in any such sacrifice. She would have gone gladly to the stake for him, as she had despairingly gone into exile away from him.
Then she fell asleep.