CHAPTER XVI
A Rash Step
Honor's sleep was undoubtedly of a very pretended description. She laystill in bed, pressing her hand to her burning head, to try to calm thethrobbing in her temples and allow herself to think collectedly. Shemust decide upon what course she meant to take, for matters could notgo on thus any longer. Before nine o'clock to-morrow morning she mustagain face Miss Maitland, and take her choice between betraying Dermotand her expulsion from St. Chad's. In either case, the danger to herbrother seemed great. If Miss Cavendish wrote to Major Fitzgerald,asking him to remove his daughter from the College, he would naturallycome over to Chessington and make full enquiries as to the reason. Shewould not be able to face her father's questions, and Dermot's secretwould come out, after all. How might this most fatal consummation beavoided?
"If I were only at home, instead of here, then Father wouldn't be ableto go and call at Orley Grange," she said to herself.
It was a new idea. She wondered she had not thought of it before. Shewould solve the problem by running away! She would thus meet her fatherat Kilmore Castle, instead of in Miss Maitland's presence at St.Chad's; and could avoid many awkward questions, simply saying she hadbeen accused of taking a sovereign, and leaving out Dermot's part inthe story altogether.
The prospect was immensely attractive. She felt scarcely capable ofonce more confronting the cold scorn of her companions. Home seemed ahaven of refuge, an ark in the midst of a deluge of trouble, the oneplace in the wide world where she could fly for help. Perhaps hermother might be better, and well enough to see her, and she could thenpour out her perplexities into sympathetic ears. But how to get toIreland? It was impossible to travel without money, and she had lessthan a shilling left in her purse. She knew, however, that a line ofsteamboats ran from Westhaven to Cork; if she could walk to the formerplace she thought she could persuade the captain of one of the vesselsto take her to Cork by promising that her father's solicitor, who livedthere, would pay for her when she arrived. Mr. Donovan had often beenon business at Kilmore Castle; she knew the address of his office, andwas sure that he would advance her sufficient to pay for both thesteamer journey and her railway ticket to Ballycroghan.
The first thing, therefore, to be done was to leave the College asearly and as secretly as she could. She did not dare to go to sleep,but lay tossing uneasily until the first hint of dawn. Sunrise was atabout four o'clock, so soon after half-past three it was just lightenough to enable her to get up and dress. Miss Maitland had sent aglass of milk and a plate of sandwiches and biscuits for her supper thenight before, but she had left them untouched on her dressing-table.Now, however, she had the forethought to drink the milk and put thebiscuits and sandwiches in her pocket. The face which confronted herwhen she looked in the glass hardly seemed her own, it was sounwontedly pale, and had such dark rings round the eyes. She moved veryquietly, for she was anxious not to waken her room-mate.
"Janie mustn't know what I intend, or she'll get into trouble for notstopping me," she thought. "It's a comfort that she, at any rate,doesn't believe I've done this horrible thing, and that she'll stand upfor me when I'm gone."
She listened for a minute, till the sound of her friend's even andregular breathing reassured her; then, drawing aside the curtain, shecrept into the next cubicle. Janie was lying fast asleep, her headcradled on her arm. With her fair hair falling round her cheeks, shelooked almost pretty. Honor bent down and kissed the end of one of theflaxen locks, but too gently to disturb its owner; then, with ascarcely breathed good-bye, she left the room. She had laid her planscarefully, and did not mean to be discovered and brought back toschool; so, instead of going downstairs, and thus passing both VivianHolmes's and Miss Maitland's doors, she went to the other end of thepassage, where the landing window stood wide open, and, managing toclimb down by the thick ivy, reached the ground without mishap. Shecrept through the garden under the laurel bushes, and, avoiding thecricket field, scaled the wall close to the potting shed, helped verymuch by a large heap of logs that had been left there ready to bechopped. Once successfully over, she set off running in the directionof the moors, and never stopped until she was quite out of sight ofeven the chimneys of St. Chad's. Then, hot and utterly breathless, shesat down on the grass to rest.
It was still very early, for the sun had only just risen. The air wasfresh and pleasant. Behind her lay green, round-topped hills, and infront stretched the sea, smooth as glass, with a few small, white sailsgleaming in the distance. Innumerable rabbits kept scuttling past. Onesmall one came so near that she almost caught it with her hands, but itdived away into its burrow in a moment. She brought out her sandwichesand biscuits, and began to eat them. She was hungry already, andthought wistfully of breakfast. The bread had gone rather dry and thebiscuits a little stale, but she enjoyed them, sitting on the hillside,especially when she remembered all she had escaped from at St. Chad's.She felt that, once back in dear old Ireland, her difficulties would benearly at an end, and she registered a solemn vow never to cross theChannel again, except under the strictest compulsion. The last fragmentof biscuit having vanished, she got up and shook down the crumbs forthe birds; then, turning towards the hills, she struck a footpath whichshe thought must surely lead in the right direction. Westhaven, thoughtwenty-five miles away by the winding coast road, or the railway, wasonly twelve miles distant if she went, as the crow flies, over themoors. The authorities at the College, she imagined, would never dreamof looking for her there. When they discovered her absence they wouldprobably suppose she had gone to Dunscar, and would enquire at thestation, and search the main road; but, of course, nobody would haveseen her, and there would be no clue to her whereabouts.
She was so pleased to have such a good start that she felt almost inhigh spirits, and strode along at a fair pace, keenly enjoying theunwonted sense of freedom. It was very lonely on the moors, and noteven a cottage was to be seen. The path was hardly more than a sheeptrack, sometimes nearly effaced with grass, and she had to trace it asbest she could. After some hours she began to grow tired anddesperately hungry again. She wondered how she was to manage anythingin the way of lunch; then, hailing with delight the sight of a smallfarm nestling in a hollow between two hills, she turned her steps atonce in that direction. She had a sixpence and two pennies in herpocket, and thought that she might perhaps be able to buy some food.
The farm, on nearer acquaintance, proved a rather dirty anddilapidated-looking place. Honor picked her way carefully through thelitter in the yard, and was about to knock at the door, when a colliedog flew from the barn behind, barking furiously, showing his teeth,and threatening to catch hold of her skirt. Much to her relief, he wascalled off by a slatternly, hard-featured woman, who, hearing thenoise, came out of the house with a pail in her hand, and stood lookingat her visitor in much amazement.
"I want to know," said Honor, "if you can let me have a glass of milkand some bread and butter, and how much you would charge for it."
"We don't sell milk here," replied the woman, shaking her head. "I'vejust put it all down in the butter-pot, so I'm afraid I can't obligeyou."
"Oh!" said Honor blankly. Then, "I should be so glad of a little breadand butter, if you can let me have it."
"Are you out on a picnic?" asked the woman. "Where are the rest ofyou?"
"No, I'm by myself," answered Honor. "I'm walking across the moors toWesthaven."
"To Westhaven? You're on the wrong road, then. That path will lead youout at Windover, if you follow it."
Poor Honor was almost dumbfounded at such unexpected bad news.
"Have I gone very far wrong?" she faltered. "I must get on to Westhavenas fast as I can. Perhaps you can tell me the right way?"
"Aye, I can put you on the path, if you want," replied the woman; "butyou'll have a good long bit to go."
"Is there any village where I could buy something to eat? I've hadnothing since breakfast," said Honor, returning again to her first andmost pressing need.
"No, there
ain't," said the woman; then, apparently softening a little,"Look here, I don't mind making you a cup of tea, if you care to payfor it. The kettle's boiling. You can step in if you like."
Glad to get a meal in any circumstances, Honor entered the squalidkitchen, and tried not to notice the general untidiness of hersurroundings, while the woman hastily cleared the table and set out ateacup and saucer, a huge loaf, butter, and a pot of tea. The dog hadmade friends, and crept up to Honor, snuggling his nose into her hand;and a tabby cat, interested in the preparations, came purring eagerlyto join the feast. Honor did not know whether to call it latebreakfast, dinner, or tea, but she told Janie afterwards she thoughtshe must have eaten enough to combine the three, though she only paidsixpence for it all. She finished at last, and got up to go; then,remembering the long walk still in store for her, she gave the farmer'swife her remaining twopence for some extra slices of bread and butterto take with her.
"It's a tidy step for a young lady like you, and a-going quite alonetoo," said the woman, eyeing Honor keenly as she led her round the sideof the cottage, to point out the right path. "You've come from over byDunscar, I take it?"
"Oh, I'm a good walker!" replied Honor, who did not wish to encourageenquiries. "I shall soon get along. Thank you for coming so far withme."
"You're welcome," said the woman. "I hope you'll keep the path, andreach there safe; but if you'll take my advice, you'll turn round theother way and go straight back to school. You'd just get there bytea-time."
Honor started at this parting remark, and hurried on as fast as shecould. How did the woman guess she had run away from the College? Ofcourse!--she had forgotten her hat. Everyone in the neighbourhood ofChessington knew the unmistakable "sailors", with their colouredribbons and badges. She might have remembered they would easily berecognized, and blamed her own stupidity and lack of forethought. Shehoped no message would be sent to Miss Cavendish, and looked roundcarefully to see if she were being followed. Yes, she could certainlysee the woman now, calling a boy from a field, and pointing eagerly inher direction. They would perhaps try to take her back against herwill, and she would be marched ignominiously, like a prisoner, to St.Chad's.
"That they shall never do!" she thought, and choosing a moment when thepair were passing round the front of the house, she turned from thepath and scrambled up the bed of a small stream on to the hills again.She decided that so long as she knew the right points of the compass,it would be quite easy to find her way, as she could walk in a linewith the path, only higher up on the moor, where she would be neitherseen nor followed. She flung her hat away, determined that it shouldnot betray her again; and, on the whole, she liked to have her headbare, the wind felt so fresh and pleasant blowing through her hair. Fora while she went on briskly, then, coming across a spring, which roseclear and bubbling through the grass and sedges, she took off her shoesand stockings, and sat dabbling her feet in the water, watching a pairof dragon flies, and plaiting rings from the rushes that grew around.
She stayed there so long that when she happened to look at her watchshe was startled to find it was nearly half-past four.
"I must push on," she said to herself. "I've a long way to be goingyet. I wonder what time the steamer starts for Cork, and if I shallfind it waiting in the harbour?"
She was quite sure that she had come in exactly the same direction asthe path, but somehow she did not seem to be getting any nearer tocivilization. On and on she wandered, hour after hour, seeing nothingbefore her but the same bare, grass-covered hills, till she began togrow alarmed, and to suspect that after all she had completely missedher way. The sun was setting, and as the great, red ball of fire sankbehind the horizon, her spirits fell in proportion. What was she to do,alone and lost on the hills? Even if she could reach Westhaven indaylight, she would not like to be obliged to go to the quay in thedark; and suppose there were no night boat, like the mail steamer inwhich she had crossed from Dublin to Holyhead, where could she go untilmorning? She had not foreseen any of these difficulties when she setout, it had all appeared so easy and simple; but she saw now what arisky adventure she had undertaken. She was almost in despair, whenluckily she came across a track sufficiently trodden to indicate thatit probably led to some human habitation. It was growing very duskindeed now, but she could just see to trace the path, and she hurriedhopefully on, till at length the lights of a farm-house window shoneout through the gathering gloom.
At first Honor thought of knocking boldly at the door and asking forfood and shelter; but then, she reflected that the people of the housewould think it most strange for a nicely dressed girl to presentherself so late in the evening with such a request, and would be sureto ask awkward questions, and might possibly send a messenger to theCollege to tell of her arrival, detaining her there in the morninguntil Miss Cavendish or Miss Maitland arrived to fetch her. Even supperand a bed, welcome though they might prove, would be too dearly boughtat such a price; and she determined, instead, to spend the night in abarn, the door of which stood conveniently open. It was half-filledwith newly made, sweet-smelling hay, on to which she crept in thedarkness; and flinging herself down, she drew some of it under her headfor a pillow. A strange bed indeed, and very different from the one inher cubicle at St. Chad's! But at least she was free to go when shepleased; she meant to be up at daybreak, before anyone on the farm wasastir, and to-morrow she would surely reach Westhaven and the steamer,and be able to start for that goal of all her wanderings--home.
It is easy enough before you go to sleep to resolve that you will rouseyourself at a certain time, but not quite so simple to carry it out,especially when you happen to be dead tired; and Honor's case was noexception to the rule. Instead of waking at dawn, she slept peacefullytill nearly eight o'clock, and might even have slept on longer still ifthe farmer and his son had not chanced to stroll into the barn on theirway to the stable. The boy was walking to the far end to hang a rope ona nail, when he suddenly ran back, with his eyes nearly dropping fromhis head with surprise.
"Dad!" he cried. "Dad! Come and look here! There's a girl sleeping onthe hay!"
Honor, newly aroused, was just raising herself up on her elbow; she hadnot quite collected her senses, nor realized where she was. Startled bythe voices, she jumped up, with the instinctive impulse to run away;then, seeing that two strangers stood between her and the open door,she sat down again on the hay and burst out crying.
"STARTLED BY THE VOICES, SHE JUMPED UP"]
"There! There!" said the farmer. "Don't you take on so, missy; we ain'ta-goin' to hurt you. Tom, you'd best run in and fetch Mother hither!"
"Mother", a stout, elderly woman, arrived panting on the scene in a fewmoments. No lady in the land could possibly have proved kinder in suchan emergency. She kissed and soothed poor Honor, took her indoors andgave her hot water to bathe her face and wash her hands, and finallysettled her down in a corner of the delightfully clean farm-kitchen,with a dainty little breakfast before her.
Honor felt sorely tempted to unburden herself of her story to this truefriend in need, but the dread that she would be sent back to St. Chad'skept her silent, and she only said that she had been lost on the moor,and was anxious to get to Westhaven, and to go home as speedily aspossible, all of which was, of course, absolutely true. Mrs. Ledbury,no doubt, had her suspicions; but, seeing that questions disturbed herguest, with true delicacy she refrained from pressing her, andsuggested instead that, as her husband was driving into Westhavenmarket that morning, he could give her a lift, and save her a walk ofnearly seven miles.
Honor jumped at the opportunity; she felt stiff and worn out after heryesterday's experiences, and much disinclined for further rambles; soit was with a sigh of genuine relief that she found herself seated inthe high gig by the side of the old farmer.
"Good-bye, dearie!" said Mrs. Ledbury, tucking a shawl over Honor'sknees, and pressing a slice of bread and honey into her hand, from fearthat she might grow hungry on the road. "You run straight home when youget to Westhaven! They'l
l be in a fair way about you, they will that!It gives me a turn yet to think of you sleeping in the barn all nightlong, with rats and mice scrambling round you, and me not to know youwas there!"
Mr. Ledbury was evidently not of a communicative disposition; he drovealong without vouchsafing any remarks, and Honor was so lost in herthoughts that she did not feel disposed to talk to him. Her greatanxiety now was to catch the steamer to Cork; she wished she had someidea of the time of its starting, and only hoped that it did not setoff early in the morning, for to miss it would seem almost more thanshe could bear. The gig jolted slowly on over the uneven road, till atlength the moor gave way to suburban villas and gardens, quicklyfollowed by streets and shops; and they finally drew up in the busymarket-place of Westhaven.
Mr. Ledbury helped Honor to dismount, and having thanked him and saidgood-bye, she turned round the nearest corner; then, once safely out ofhis sight, she set off as fast as she could for the harbour. Partly,perhaps, because she enquired chiefly from children, whose directionswere not very clear, and partly because it is generally difficult tofind one's way in a fresh place, it was a long time before she saw thewelcome gleam of the water and the masts of the shipping; and then,after all, she found she had come to the wrong quay, and it was only bydint of continual asking that at last she arrived at the particularlanding-stage of the Irish steamers.
"Want the boat to Cork, miss?" said the weather-beaten seaman to whomshe addressed her question. "Why, she's bin gone out an hour and a halfago. She was off at eleven prompt. When will there be another, did yesay? Not till eight to-night, and she's only a cargo."
Honor's hopes, which had managed to sustain her spirits so far, droppedto zero at this bad news. There she was, penniless, in a strange town;and how could she get through all the long, weary hours until theevening? Gulping down a lump in her throat, she asked the sailor if thecargo vessel were already in the harbour, and if it were possible thatshe might go on board now, and wait there till it should be time to setsail.
"We're expecting of her in every minute," said the man, looking atHonor curiously. "You can speak to the captain when she comes. Maybehe'd let you, maybe he wouldn't; I shouldn't like to give anopinion"--which, to say the least, was not consoling.
Honor walked on a little farther down the landing-stage, trying to winkback her tears. She was in a desperate strait, and almost began to wishshe had never left St. Chad's. Suppose the captain would not take herwithout the money for her passage? Possibly he might not know Mr.Donovan's name, and would think she was an impostor; what would she dothen? She turned quite cold at the idea, and had to sit down on abulkhead to recover herself, for she felt as though her legs wereshaking under her.
She did not remember how long she sat there. A noise and bustle behindpresently attracted her attention, and turning round, she saw that asteamer was arriving, and that the sailors were busy catching the thickcables and fastening the vessel to the wharf. The gangway was thrownacross, and a few passengers stepped on shore. They had evidentlytravelled steerage--two or three women, with babies and bundles, and aparty of Irish labourers come over for the harvest, with theirbelongings tied in red pocket-handkerchiefs; but after them strode atall figure, with a grey moustache, at the sight of whom Honor sprangup from her seat with a perfect scream of delight, and raced along thequay like a whirlwind, to fling herself joyfully into the gentleman'sarms.
"Father! Father!" she sobbed. "Oh, is it really and truly you?"
The New Girl at St. Chad's: A Story of School Life Page 16
