The old gentleman laid down his "Morning Post" and surveyed her encouragingly.
"Yes? What is it?"
"Will it be long before we get to London?"
"About three hours."
"Three hours!"
She gave a deep and weary sigh. Three hours! Hardly till then had she realised how far she was from Briar Farm--or how entirely she had cut herself off from all the familiar surroundings of her childhood"s home, her girlhood"s life. She leaned back in her seat, and one or two tears escaped from under her drooping eyelids and trickled slowly down her cheeks. The train started off again, rushing at what she thought an awful speed,--she imagined herself as being torn away from the peaceful past and hurled into a stormy future. Yet it was her own doing--whatever chanced to her now she would have no one but herself to blame. The events of the past few days had crushed and beaten her so with blows,--the old adage "Misfortunes never come singly" had been fulfilled for her with cruel and unlooked-for plenitude. There is a turning-point in every human life--or rather several turning-points--and at each one are gathered certain threads of destiny which may either be involved in a tangle or woven distinctly as a clue--but which in any case lead to change in the formerly accepted order of things. We may thank the G.o.ds that this is so--otherwise in the jog-trot of a carefully treasured conservatism and sameness of daily existence we should become the easy prey of adventurers, who, discovering our desire for the changelessness of a convenient and comfortable routine, would mulct us of all individuality. Our very servants would become our masters, and would take advantage of our easy-going ways to domineer over us, as in the case of "lone ladies"
who are often half afraid to claim obedience from the domestics they keep and pay. Ignorant of the ways of the world and full of such dreams as the world considers madness, Innocent had acted on a powerful inward impetus which pushed her spirit towards liberty and independence--but of any difficulties or dangers she might have to encounter she never thought. She had the blind confidence of a child that runs along heedless of falling, being instinctively sure that some hand will be stretched out to save it should it run into positive danger.
Mastering the weakness of tears, she furtively dried her eyes and endeavoured not to think at all--not to dwell on the memory of her "Dad" whom she had loved so tenderly, and all the sweet surroundings of Briar Farm which already seemed so far away. Robin would be sorry she had gone--indeed he would be very miserable for a time--she was certain of that!--and Priscilla! yes, Priscilla had loved her as her own child,--here her thoughts began running riot again, and she moved impatiently. Just then the old gentleman with the "Morning Post" folded it neatly and, bending forward, offered it to her.
"Would you like to see the paper?" he asked, politely.
The warm colour flushed her cheeks--she accepted it shyly.
"Thank you very much!" she murmured--and, gratefully shielding her tearful eyes behind the convenient news-sheet, she began glancing up and down the front page with all its numerous announcements, from the "Agony" column down to the latest new concert-singers and sailings of steamers.
Suddenly her attention was caught by the following advertis.e.m.e.nt--
"A Lady of good connection and position will be glad to take another lady as Paying Guest in her charming house in Kensington. Would suit anyone studying art or for a scholarship. Liberal table and refined surroundings. Please communicate with "Lavinia" at--" Here followed an address.
Over and over again Innocent read this with a sort of fascination.
Finally, taking from her pocket a little note-book and pencil, she copied it carefully.
"I might go there," she thought--"If she is a poor lady wanting money, she might be glad to have me as a "paying guest," Anyhow, it will do no harm to try. I must find some place to rest in, if only for a night."
Here she became aware that the old gentleman who had lent her the paper was eyeing her curiously yet kindly. She met his glance with a mixture of frankness and timidity which gave her expression a wonderful charm.
He ventured to speak as he might have spoken to a little child.
"Are you going to London for the first time?" he asked.
"Yes, sir."
He smiled. He had a pleasant smile, distinctly humorous and good-natured.
"It"s a great adventure!" he said--"Especially for a little girl, all alone."
She coloured.
"I"m not a little girl," she answered, with quaint dignity--"I"m eighteen."
"Really!"--and the old gentleman looked more humorous than ever--"Oh well!--of course you are quite old. But, you see, I am seventy, so to me you seem a little girl. I suppose your friends will meet you in London?"
She hesitated--then answered, simply--
"No. I have no friends. I am going to earn my living."
The old gentleman whistled. It was a short, low whistle at first, but it developed into a bar of "Sally in our Alley," Then he looked round--the other people in the compartment, the husband and wife, were asleep.
"Poor child!" he then said, very gently--"I"m afraid that will be hard work for you. You don"t look very strong."
"Oh, but I am!" she replied, eagerly--"I can do anything in housework or dairy-farming--I"ve been brought up to be useful--"
"That"s more than a great many girls can say!" he remarked, smiling--"Well, well! I hope you may succeed! I also was brought up to be useful--but I"m not sure that I have ever been of any use!"
She looked at him with quick interest.
"Are you a clever man?" she asked.
The simplicity of the question amused him, and he laughed.
"A few people have sometimes called me so," he answered--"but my "cleverness," or whatever it may be, is not of the successful order.
And I"m getting old now, so that most of my activity is past. I have written a few books--"
"Books!"--she clasped her hands nervously, and her eyes grew brilliant--"Oh! If you can write books you must always be happy!"
"Do you think so?" And he bent his brows and scrutinised her more intently. "What do YOU know about it? Are you fond of reading?"
A deep blush suffused her fair skin.
"Yes--but I have only read very old books for the most part," she said--"In the farm-house where I was brought up there were a great many ma.n.u.scripts on vellum, and curious things--I read those--and some books in old French--"
"Books in old French!" he echoed, wonderingly. "And you can read them?
You are quite a French scholar, then?"
"Oh no, indeed!" she protested--"I have only taught myself a little. Of course it was difficult at first,--but I soon managed it,--just as I learned how to read old English--I mean the English of Queen Elizabeth"s time. I loved it all so much that it was a pleasure to puzzle it out. We had a few modern books--but I never cared for them."
He studied her face with increasing interest.
"And you are going to earn your own living in London!" he said--"Have you thought of a way to begin? In old French, or old English?"
She glanced at him quickly and saw that he was smiling kindly.
"Yes," she answered, gently--"I have thought of a way to begin! Will you tell me of some book you have written so that I may read it?"
He shook his head.
"Not I!" he declared--"I could not stand the criticism of a young lady who might compare me with the writers of the Elizabethan period--Shakespeare, for instance--"
"Ah no!" she said--"No one can ever be compared with Shakespeare--that is impossible!"
He was silent,--and as she resumed her reading of the "Morning Post" he had lent her, he leaned back in his seat and left her to herself. But he was keenly interested,--this young, small creature with her delicate, intelligent face and wistful blue-grey eyes was a new experience for him. He was a well-seasoned journalist and man of letters,--clever in his own line and not without touches of originality in his work--but hardly brilliant or forceful enough to command the attention of the public to a large or successful issue. He was, however, the right hand and chief power on the staff of one of the most influential of daily newspapers, whose proprietor would no more have thought of managing things without him than of going without a dinner, and from this post, which he had held for twenty years, he derived a sufficiently comfortable income. In his profession he had seen all cla.s.ses of humanity--the wise and the ignorant,--the conceited and the timid,--men who considered themselves new Shakespeares in embryo,--women in whom the unbounded vanity of a little surface cleverness was sufficient to place them beyond the pale of common respect,--but he had never till now met a little country girl making her first journey to London who admitted reading "old French" and Elizabethan English as unconcernedly as she might have spoken of gathering apples or churning cream. He determined not to lose sight of her, and to improve the acquaintance if he got the chance. He heard her give a sudden sharp sigh as she read the "Morning Post,"--she had turned to the middle of the newspaper where the events of the day were chronicled, and where a column of fashionable intelligence announced the ephemeral doings of the so-called "great" of the world. Here one paragraph had caught and riveted her attention--it ran thus--"Lord and Lady Blythe have left town for Glen-Alpin, Inverness-shire, where they will entertain a large house-party to meet the Prime Minister."
Her mother!--It was difficult to believe that but a few hours ago this very Lady Blythe had offered to "adopt" her!--"adopt" her own child and act a lie in the face of all the "society" she frequented,--yet, strange and fantastic as it seemed, it was true! Possibly she--Innocent--had she chosen, could have been taken to "Glen-Alpin, Inverness-shire!"--she too might have met the Prime Minister! She almost laughed at the thought of it!--the paper shook in her hand. Her "mother"! Just then the old gentleman bent forward again and spoke to her.