Mord Em'ly/Chapter 9
CHAPTER IX.
The five-shilling piece which Mord Em'ly had received from the princesses for swift honesty was shown to nobody but Ronicker. The coin had a fine, substantial look about it, as though it were capable of almost anything, and Mord Em'ly, having exhibited it to her friend, returned it to her bodice. The two had no opportunity of considering the question further until late at night, when the other girls in the room were asleep; even then their conversation had to be carried on in the quietest of whispers. Through a rent in the blind the moon sent a light which illuminated one or two of the many texts which crowded the walls of the room.
"You'll come too, Ronicker, won't you?"
"No!"
"Well, but I thought—"
"Whatever you thought," whispered Ronicker, "I ain't coming this journey. Five bob wouldn't pay the expenses of two; and, besides, you'll want a shilling or two when you get there."
"Shall you stay on, then?"
"I shall wait till I get another shop, and I shall bolt off from there. They can't touch me then."
"I'd a jolly sight rather not leave you be'ind, Ronicker."
"You'll be a jolly sight better off alone. When shall you make a start?"
"To-morrer!" said Mord Em'ly.
"Then, you get off to by-bye now," advised Ronicker. "Likely as not, you may not 'ave a comfortable bed for a night or two. Get all the sleep you can."
With every desire to take Ronicker's advice, Mord Em'ly found herself unable to close her eyes that night. It seemed to her that she was commencing to make history—history of an adventurous and exciting character; necessary, therefore, that all of her wits should be kept easy of access. Mord Em'ly watched the dawn creep into the room as though it were fearful of awakening sleepers too early; she looked several times to see if her five shilling piece were still quite secure under her pillow. She took care in dressing to hide it in safety; Ronicker and she exchanged a solemn wink when they parted after breakfast. Later, whilst Mord Em'ly was at work in the dressmaking-room, Ronicker ran across the green from the laundry, her white cap slipping from her head, and pressed a piece of notepaper in her hand, bearing the words, "Gode Luck!" which Mord Emly correctly assumed to be intended as an encouragement,
"Mord Em'ly! put that cape down."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Can I trust you to run out and get something in the village?"
"Yes, 'am."
"I want a birthday card to send to a niece of mine, and it must have an angel on it, because it looks better, coming from me. Besides, she's fond of 'em."
"Yes, ma'am."
"Here's sixpence, and if you can get one that looks good enough for fourpence, and it's got a good angel, by all means—"
Careful instruction from the dressmaking teacher, and urgent commands not to be gone more than five minutes. Mord Em'ly, glancing around the work-room before she went out at the door, caught the eyes of one or two of the girls seated at the four wooden tables, with their work in front of them. There may have been something of defiance in Mord Em'ly's look, for two of the girls furtively made faces at her as she went out; not so furtively, though, as to escape the notice of the mistress, by whom, to Mord Em'ly's content, they were sharply reprimanded.
"I'm going up to the stationer's, too," remarked Mrs. Batson, coming out of Pleasant Cottage in a crape bonnet, and fully dressed for public promenade. "We'll walk along together, Mord Em'ly."
It would have been disastrous to have hinted to Mrs. Batson that her presence was not desired; Mord Em'ly could only hope that she would be spared companionship when the purchases at the stationer's had been completed. It seemed, however, that Mrs. Batson's elaborate preparations for a lengthened outing were but a ruse to enable her to catch two of her charges, as she expressed it, "on the hop," and whilst Mord Em'ly selected a card with the most attractive angel, Mrs. Batson mentioned that she should return to the Home at once.
"Boffled!" murmured Mord Em'ly, under her breath.
Nevertheless, the little woman made the last strategic effort. On their return to the iron gates, she affected to remember, with great self-reproach, that she had left twopence change on the stationer's counter.
"You are a silly thing," said Mrs. Batson severely. "Anybody'd think you did it a purpose. I 'ope you don't think I'm going to tripse all the way back with you?"
"I ain't afraid to go alone," said Mord Em'ly. "P'r'aps you don't mind leaving this for me at the dressmaking room and mentioning that I've gone back."
Mrs. Batson snatched at the envelope.
"Give it 'ere," she said crossly. "You gels are more trouble than you are worth. Get along with you, do, and don't take a twelvemonth to get there and back."
Mord Em'ly, to show her contrition, ran quickly off until she reached the large house where the two stone Crusaders were on guard. There she had noticed just now a small round fur hat resting near a clump of stones, left apparently by some lady tramp to whom an impression had suddenly occurred that the shape was no longer fashionable. This Mord Em'ly took, and when she had run again for ten minutes, she rested at a milestone, and, taking off her own black straw hat, effected an exchange. The black straw hat was, she felt, a screaming informer, telling everybody that she had escaped from the Home, and she felt relieved to see it sail away on the leisurely waters of the canal. The small fur hat she dusted, and brightened it up with a bunch of primroses; she arranged her cloak differently, and felt to see that the five-shilling piece was safe.
"Thus disguised," said Mord Em'ly, quoting from a melodrama that she had once seen at the Elephant and Castle Theatre, "all obstacles to my desprit object are set at nort."
She was sufficiently acute not to go from the nearest station, but to reach the next meant a run and walk of five miles. She knew that, as yet, nobody was attempting to pursue her, but she made up her mind to imagine that everybody in the Home was already out; that the alarm had been sounded, and that twenty-five bloodhounds strained at the leathern cords which held them in their desire to reach her. One or two country lads, driving slow, thoughtful horses, flicked at her with their whips as she flew by, and told her, encouragingly, that she'd miss her young man if she didn't hurry. She pretended that she could hear the hoarse breathing of the dogs, and forced herself to increase her speed. As she neared the station she stopped to make quite sure that she was not being pursued (having, in fact, somewhat over-persuaded herself on this point), to dust boots and to regain breath, in order that there might be nothing in her manner to excite suspicion. Unnoticed by her, a puff of white smoke on the railway came nearer; a short train glided up to the station and glided off again before she observed it. She ran up the inclined roadway to the station, and rapped impatiently at the trap-door labelled Pay Here.The trap-door was thrown up, and a boy's face filled the space.
"’Ullo there!" said the boy.
"What time's the next train to London?" asked Mord Em'ly, panting.
"Two-firty-three!" said the boy shortly.
"But that's over two hours to wait. Isn't there one before that?"
"It's a peculiar thing 'bout this line," said the boy, in the slow, appreciative way of one to whom opportunities for conversation came rarely, "that we never 'ave no train before the next. Did you fink about orderin' a special?"
"Whatever shall I do?" said Mord Em'ly, bewildered. "Why, in two hours they—"
She stopped.
"Tell you what," said the office-boy; "I've got a capital idea."
"What's that?"
"Sit down and wait," he said, and slammed the trap-door.
Mord Em'ly read all the advertisements, and smelt all the flowers on the narrow platform, and inspected the "Rules and Regulations" (these made her tremble, because it seemed that there was little you could do to a railway company without being instantly liable to a fine not exceeding forty shillings and costs). She was the only passenger in the station, and the staff appeared to consist of the boy who peeped over the blinds of his office now and again with a menacing air, to see whether bye-laws were being broken. Once, when she rattled a dreary, empty automatic machine, he jumped up, and shouted, "’Ands off there, can't you!" with such volume that the little station echoed it, and quite a dozen people seemed to be warning Mord Em'ly. An hour went by. Meal-time at the Home brought with it a feeling of hunger.
"Young man!" called Mord Em'ly.
"Now begin asting questions again," said the office-boy gloomily. "You passengers are enough to make a chap apply for his superannuation."
"Can I get anything to eat 'ere, please? I can pay for it."
"You want a tayble d'hôte dinner, I spose," remarked the office-boy satirically. "Soup, fish, ontrees, and so forf."
"I want about three penn'orth of something."
"We don't make free penn'orths," he said, "and we don't make noffing. You won't get anyfing to eat 'ere; you can make yourself jolly well certain about that."
A smell of something warm and eatable came through the open trap-door. Mord Em'ly sighed.
"Any other questions?"
"No," said Mord Em'ly dolefully.
"Don't you mind asting 'em," he said gruffly. "It's what I'm paid for, to be 'ere, and be badgered out of me life. What are you going to London for?"
"To get some work to do."
"Where's your box?"
"Been sent on," said Mord Em'ly boldly. "Been sent on by goods train."
"You'll be a wonderful 'elp to London, you will," said the office-boy. "S'pose everyfing's at a standstill till you get there."
"Daresay I shall brighten the place up a bit."
"Never been in London before, I lay. I've been up twice this year."
"Why, you silly kid," said Mord Em'ly, with indignation, "Wasn't I born there?"
The office-boy's contempt for the small passenger vanished on hearing this. His manner changed so much that he offered Mord Em'ly one-half of a huge meat pasty that was warming itself near the stove, and, filling a tumbler from the filter in the corner of the outer office, recommended her to go into the tiny waiting-room.
"You feed your face in there," said the office boy, "whilst I get on with my abstract. Talking to you isn't performing duties what the company pays me for."
Mord Em'ly was finishing the last crumbs of the office-boy's meat pasty when a clatter of wheels made her start. There was but half an hour now to wait for the train, and her first sensation of nervousness had worn off. Two familiar voices came to her ears as the outer office opened; she crept swiftly to the door of the tiny waiting-room, and turned the key. She listened, her heart beating violently, her face white with fear. The sonorous voice of the chaplain applied for the stationmaster.
"You can't see him."
"Why can't I see him, boy?"
"You can't see him" (with some annoyance at being called boy), "because he ain't 'ere."
"Perhaps," said the voice of the new secretary, "perhaps this lad can tell us. Has a girl, a short girl, in a blue serge dress, booked for London this morning?"
"She ain't," said the office-boy.
"Or for anywhere?"
"No!"
"Have you been on duty since eleven?"
"I've been on duty since eight a.m., and I don't get off duty till eight p.m., and a pretty tough job it is, what with the time, and what with the S.M. being laid up, and me—"
"Tell me, boy! Is there such a girl on the station now?" asked the chaplain.
Mord Em'ly, in the tiny waiting-room, held her breath. She saw hope in the fact that the young official was still being called boy.
"Since you ast the question," said the office-boy oracularly, "I beg to inform you that there ain't."
"I think we will wait and see the next train off, Miss Cresswell."
"Very well," said the new secretary.
"You can't go on the platform wifout a ticket," said the office-boy warningly.
"We don't wish to go on the platform, my boy. It will be sufficient for our purpose to remain here."
"I can't prevent that," said the office-boy regretfully.
"You see," said the new secretary to the chaplain, "there are only two possible stations, so that we are sure to intercept her."
"Providing she is going back to town."
"They always go back to town."
"Thought she seemed rather a clear-headed, sensible girl," said the chaplain. "Almost the last one that I should have suspected."
"It is just those," replied the new secretary, in a cryptic way, "that one ought to suspect. The odd thing, to my mind, is that, being so near the time of her departure, she should have decided to run off."
"Can it be that these girls don't like the idea of domestic service?" suggested the chaplain.
"They must be made to like it," said the new secretary definitely.
The chaplain did not appear to see his way to continuing the conversation on these lines, and suggested that the new secretary should rest in the waiting-room, whilst he kept a look-out.
"Boy!" he cried, "Why is this door locked?"
"’Cause somebody's locked it, I spose."
"Have you the key of this waiting-room door?"
"I have not," replied the office-boy, in a precise, Ollendorffian manner, "the key of that waiting room door."
Mord Em'ly, with her hand at her mouth to prevent herself from making a sound, heard presently a tap on the window that looked out on the platform. The office-boy was there, beckoning to her. Acting upon his whispered directions, she opened the window carefully; with the aid of a chair she stepped on the sill, and thence jumped down.
"Mind my narcissuses," growled the office-boy. "’Ere's your ticket. Two and two."
"Can you keep 'em in there till I get away?"
"Jump in a carriage at the back of the train, and keep your 'ead well down."
The office-boy found sufficient change in his pocket.
"Shall I—shall I give you a bob for all your kindness?" asked Mord Em'ly hesitatingly.
"Yus," said the office-boy, "do—if you want to insult me."
"I want to thank you."
"Then you stick to your change. Why didn't you tell me you'd run away from somewhere, and—? She's signalled now."
She (who was the train) came into the station, and she took Mord Em'ly, and Mord Em'ly, head well down, waved a hand as farewell to the office-boy. Looking out as the train went Londonwards the girl saw the chaplain and the new secretary step into the open carriage and drive off. The compartment was, but for herself, empty, and, turning, she executed very gravely on the space between the seats the intricate steps of a jig.