CHAPTER XII.

_FLIGHT._

Next a lover--with a dream 'Neath his waking eyelids hidden, And a frequent sigh unbidden, And an idlesse all the day, And a silence that is made Of a word he dares not say.

Adele gave a little scream. She looked at Margaret. Her face had turned as pale as ashes. She had not generally much color, but this was no ordinary pallor: a gray, livid look seemed to spread itself gradually over her features till even her lips were blanched. For a moment she seemed to be stunned. Then she rose, apparently with difficulty, and leaning forward on the window-sash seized the blind to put it between themselves and the audacious watcher.

He did not wait for it to be drawn down. Turning slowly, he passed away down the quiet street, but before he did so, Adele saw that his lips curled themselves into a mocking smile. Astonishment and a vague sense of alarm had rendered her helpless for the moment. When the blind was drawn down and the man had gone, she leapt to her feet and threw both her arms round Margaret's waist, for, leaning still as if for support against the window-sash, Adele saw that her friend was tottering, and that in her widely-opened eyes there was a dazed, bewildered look. She drew her down gently to the nearest seat, then, kneeling by her side, rubbed one of her cold hands in both her own. "Mrs. Grey, what is it?" she cried almost piteously. "Can I do anything for you?"

Her voice seemed to arouse Margaret. She passed one of her hands over her forehead. "Was it a dream?" she said in a faint, low voice. "I thought I saw him; and I had vowed, sworn that he should never set eyes on me again; and he was smiling, I thought, a mocking, triumphant smile, such as--" Then suddenly she caught sight of the lowered blind: "Why did I draw down the blind? the sun is not on the street. Ah yes," with a heavy sigh, "I remember now. He was standing there--he has tracked me; but, thank God! I am not at home. I am in big, endless London. He shall find out no further; I will leave this place at once. Oh! Maurice, Maurice!"

It might have been the cry of a tormented spirit passed away for ever from hope and peace and joy. The misery of those last words was so deep and poignant that the young girl shuddered.

She could not speak: she knelt helpless by her friend's side, not even attempting consolation, while Margaret, covering her face with both hands, wept hot tears, that streamed through her fingers and on to Adele's hand, which rested still upon her knees. And so they remained for a few moments--moments that seemed ages to poor Adele; then, unable to bear it longer, she rose to her feet, and putting her arms round Margaret's neck kissed her on the brow. It was the impulsive movement of a helpless sympathy, a girl-like action. She could not help, but she could comfort.

Mrs. Grey had forgotten her presence. The touch aroused her. She looked up suddenly, and shaking off the flowing tears took the young girl's hands in hers. "Poor child!" she said gently, "it is too bad of me to frighten you like this. I fear I am very selfish and forgetful; but you know nothing--God grant you never may!--of miseries like mine. And now--will you think me ungrateful?--I fear I must ask you to leave me. It is necessary for me to go from here at once. And yet," she continued meditatively, "if you _could_ stay till the last; he might return--"

"I shall not think of leaving you till I see you out of this place, Mrs. Grey," said Adele authoritatively. "Listen," she continued, more rapidly; "I can arrange it all. I told you before of my talent for management, and now it has all come into my head quite suddenly. Ah, I should have made a first-rate diplomatist. You want to escape this rude man, and no wonder. If you do as I say we shall be off in a quarter of an hour. Leave your boxes with their address; I can see to their being sent after you. I see they are nearly packed. My cousin is at the end of the street waiting for me; he will fetch the carriage, which is only a few yards distant, and we can drive you to any station you like to mention. There you can take a ticket--not, if you like, to your own village, but to some place at no great distance, in case this man should follow us, and to-morrow you can go on to your own home."

There was something enlivening in Adele's energy. Margaret's face brightened, she wiped away the remaining tears, and turning aside renewed the struggle which Adele's entrance had interrupted with the obstinate trunk.

"Your plan would be perfection but for one thing," she said with the quiet dignity which had characterized her before this excitement had come. "My dear Miss Churchill, forgive me, you are young. I am a total stranger to you. Your mother, your friends--would they not be displeased? Is it right for you to do this?"

"It is, it is," said Adele eagerly; "indeed, dear Mrs. Grey, mamma allows me to go everywhere with Arthur. She has full confidence in him."

"And Arthur?"

"Is my cousin. You saw him the other day. He is waiting for me now." In spite of herself Adele blushed as she spoke.

Margaret looked at her in some surprise, but the ingenuous young face told its own tale. In her turn she was filled with admiration and love. She held out her hand. "Thank you," she said. That was all for a moment, as the tears were ready to flow; then after a pause, "What you have seen to-day will tell you more eloquently than I could that neither you nor your friends need have any fear on my account. If Arthur should become unmanageable at any future time, send him to me; I promise to cure him. And now, dear, I suppose we must be setting to work; I will accept your kind offer: it seems, after all, the best course to pursue."

It was done without the slightest awkwardness.

Margaret might have been a queen accepting a favor from one of her courtiers, and it was in this light that Adele thought of the service she was rendering to her friend, for Margaret was, in her young, inexperienced eyes, a very queen by means of her beauty and charm. And then they set themselves to work without further delay. In a very few moments Margaret's hasty toilette was complete--a black shawl, the little close bonnet, a crape veil, the bright Indian scarf, from which she did not seem to care to separate herself, a tiny morocco-leather case, which might contain valuables of some kind, and a carpet-bag, which by Adele's aid had been hastily filled with a few necessaries,--these were all; then the boxes were locked and labelled, the landlady's account was settled, and orders given to her to keep the boxes until they should be called for, Adele promising that Arthur should perform this little service. It did not take very long. Adele had scarcely been half an hour in the house when they left it together, Margaret closely veiled and not venturing to look around, Adele gazing right and left to assure herself that they were not followed. Not a person was in sight on either side of the way, and she breathed more freely.

Arthur meanwhile had been pacing the thoroughfare upon which the street in which Mrs. Grey had been lodging opened out. He was not very impatient, for his head had been full of Margaret; he had been forming and reforming, always unsuccessfully to himself, her image in his brain, and dreaming all kinds of mad dreams about the services he would render her in the future, and the sweet returns of love and gratitude he might be blest enough to gain. Adele's concurrence in his plans was, he felt, a grand step in the right direction; thenceforth everything would go swimmingly, for it was not possible that she could set aside Adele's offered friendship--indeed, the very length of time that was elapsing was a favorable sign.

But, not even in his wildest dreams, had he imagined that he should see her again that very day, that the means of doing her a service would immediately be put into his hands; when, therefore, he saw two ladies instead of one emerging from ---- street, he was beyond measure astonished.

They stopped to let him reach them, and, rather embarrassed through all his delight, he offered his greeting to Margaret Grey. She was herself calm and quiet, only the heightened color in her beautiful face betraying in any way a sign of her recent emotion.

Adele was by far the more excited of the two. "Fetch the carriage, Arthur," she said, "as quickly as ever you can. We shall follow slowly to the place where we left it; you can come back with it to meet us. Don't stop to ask why, like a good old fellow. There's no time to lose."

It was evidently for Margaret, so Arthur started off at such headlong speed that many of the foot-passengers stood still to look after him, wondering at his excitement. If some of his languid friends in that other world, London of the West, could have seen him, I greatly fear he would have been degraded for ever in their estimation; undue activity or a public display of ultra eagerness is not among the list of fashionable failings; in fact, it is bad form. But Arthur did not think at the moment of his position in the world of fashion, and it was not likely that any of his friends would have been benighted enough to put such a space as that which separates Islington from Hyde Park between themselves and their daily haunts.

Breathless he hailed the coachman, who crossed the street with unusual alacrity. He could only imagine from Mr. Arthur's state of excitement that Miss Adele had fallen down in a fit or that some similar misfortune had happened. He was an old servant, and took, as he often said in the servants' hall, "a deep hinterest in the family."

"Nothing wrong sir, I 'ope," he said, stooping down confidentially from his exalted position on the top of the coach-box.

"No," replied Arthur impatiently. "Drive me along this road until I tell you to stop."

He jumped in, and the mystified coachman obeyed, stopping instinctively at the sight of his young mistress with a person carrying a carpet-bag. Even if Arthur had not used the check-string vigorously, astonishment would have brought the worthy man to a stand-still. Imagination was not his strong point, and it was difficult for him even to conceive what all this meant.

"The Great Northern Station, and then home," said Adele, not wishing to mystify him too far; "and _please_ drive quickly."

He obeyed, and as easily and rapidly they drove along the streets Margaret leant back among the cushions, closed her eyes and sighed deeply. It was a sigh of intense relief. "To-morrow," she said--"to-morrow I shall be at home."

Very little more passed between the three until the carriage stopped before the station; there Adele held out her hand very reluctantly. "I am afraid I must say good-bye," she said gently; "I ought to be at home. Mamma will be expecting me. I shall leave Arthur to take care of you and see you into your carriage." With a glance Margaret thanked Adele for her noble trustfulness.

"We shall meet again?" said the young girl earnestly.

"I trust so, dear; you know my address. If anything should bring you in my direction I shall be only too delighted to see you; but," and her voice grew low and tender, "if we never should meet again, remember this--I shall _never_ cease to thank you in my heart for the way in which you have acted to-day."

She had got out of the carriage and was standing near the door, one hand still in Adele's, who seemed to wish to retain it to the last moment. Arthur was beside them, looking interested but helpless, and once more tempted to indulge in that very vain and foolish wish that Providence had made him a woman.

Here was his cousin already Margaret Grey's dear friend: he was nothing to her--a lacquey who might be permitted to see after luggage, to get her ticket, to wait upon her. Nothing! Was that nothing? he asked himself suddenly as Adele closed the carriage door, waved her last farewell and left him alone with Margaret in the busy station. Alone and in a crowd, he her protector, she dependent upon him, he was a man at once, gentle, thoughtful, considerate, ready for any emergency. Only there was one drawback. All his attentions were received so pleasantly, in such a matter-of-fact way--not as a something that was offered personally, a tribute of homage to her whom he admired above all other women, but as the most commonplace thing in the world, a lady's right from the gentleman who has taken upon himself the task of helping her.

The fact was that Margaret Grey knew more of the world than her shabby black dress and general want of style might have seemed to indicate. Certain it is that she had hit upon the very best method of keeping her young knight in his true place.

His heart was burning to show in some way the enthusiasm that devoured him as he stood by her side on the platform, only venturing to glance at her furtively from time to time, but abundantly laden with her small items of property, of all of which she had allowed him to possess himself without the smallest demur. None of this did he dare to show. He could feel in anticipation the look of quiet surprise with which she would greet any presumptuous speech.

Curious glances were cast on them by those who were not too busy in the important stages of arrival and departure to give a thought to anything but their own concerns, for Margaret was one of those women who always attract notice, and once or twice, when she became conscious of such observation, Arthur saw that she started painfully and turned to scan the watcher. He cast his scowls to the right hand and to the left, being quite ready to pick a quarrel with any one for the sake of his divinity; but his scowls were shed abroad in vain; they did not seem to have the slightest effect upon the situation, and at last all necessity for such exercise of his faculties was over. The train, longed for so eagerly by the one, dreaded by the other of these two companions of an hour, came slowly, with majestic quiet, into the station; porters, with anything but majestic quiet, began to bundle and bustle the unfortunate luggage into the vans, lady passengers rushed madly from various corners of the station, gentlemen passengers walked leisurely with a defiant look at the engine (it could not start without them) from the refreshment-rooms, where they had been taking in a stock of strength that might enable them to live through the ennui of a six hours' journey; parties that were about to part gathered woefully together, tears in the eyes of some, an appearance of put-on sadness, covering satisfaction, in the faces of others, and sounding along the line came the voice of the stately guard, "Take your places, ladies and gentlemen."

Then Margaret put out her hand. They had stopped together before a second-class carriage, in which, with all the deference of a young courtier, Arthur had taken her seat, arranged her parcels, placed everything she might need within her reach, even to the little packet of delicate ham sandwiches, flask of sherry and magazine of light reading which he had obtained surreptitiously to add to her comfort during the journey.

She smiled when she got in and saw what he had done. "Thank you," she said, still in the same easy, pleasant way, a queen addressing her subject; "I chose my knight well; and now good-bye. Tell your cousin that I will send her a few lines to let her know of my safe arrival."

Arthur pressed the hand she held out to him. He could not resist it, and then, shriek! puff! the waving of a flag, and the train was gone, carrying her away from his lingering gaze. He turned aside with a sigh and a singular contraction of heart; she, looking round at his thoughtful arrangements, smiled faintly, then, leaning back on the hard seat, closed her eyes and murmured almost audibly, "Thank God! escaped!"

Her thanksgiving, perhaps, was premature, for in her late dwelling-place this was what was happening in the mean time.

She and Adele had scarcely reached the top of ---- street before the landlady, anxious to lose no time, ordered "Apartments" to be hoisted in its usual place, the front-parlor window.

A tall, dark-looking man, who was walking in a leisurely manner down the street with a cigar in his mouth, stopped suddenly and looked at it with some attention. From below the landlady looked at him, and feeling his earnestness prophetic arrayed herself hastily in clean cap and apron, and smoothed from her brow the unquiet look which Betsy's awkwardness had caused. She did not get herself up in vain; he rang the bell and asked to see her rooms.

The landlady dropped a curtsey. This was a grand-looking gentleman in her opinion, with a fine commanding manner--"looked a mili_tairy_ hofficer retired," she said afterward to a neighbor, describing the interview. "They're not in the best of horder, sir," she said deprecatingly--"not for a gentleman the likes of you to see; but there," fearful of losing a lodger, "it _hain't_ all gold as glitters, and if so be has you'll make hallowances, the lady--quite a lady and lived very quiet, not gone above half an hour--says she, a going out of that door, and a givin' me of her hand--"

"Show me the rooms as they are," broke in the gentleman, frowning with impatience; but even this did not check the flow of the landlady's eloquence.

"The lady as has gone--" she began.

"Show me the rooms, woman, without any more jabber," interrupted he so fiercely that, as Mrs. Jones said afterward to a neighbor, "she was all of a tremble, and her feet as nigh as possible giv' way under her from fright."

She did not hazard another remark, but threw open the door of Margaret's sitting-room, still warm, as it were, with the evidences of her presence. The sight appeared to excite the gentleman; he breathed hard and his eyes sparkled; then, not appearing to notice the landlady, who stood respectfully in the doorway, he cast round the room one searching glance.

It seemed to satisfy him. He turned to the landlady, took out his pocket-book and pencil, as if to make a note of her answers, and asked, "Your name, Mrs.--"

"Jones, sir, at your service," she answered, curtseying.

"Mrs. Jones? ah!" He wrote down something in his pocket-book, then looked at her again: "Your rent?"

"Thirty shillin's _hand_ hextras," she replied, audaciously clapping on ten shillings for the military appearance.

"Ah!" he answered once more, nothing else; no bargaining, as Mrs. Jones informed her next-door neighbor, nothing of the kind; he only shut up his pocket-book with a snap and turned aside, apparently quite satisfied. Mrs. Jones flattered herself that his satisfaction arose from prepossession with her rooms and her personal appearance. Quite other was the consideration that caused the prospective lodger such a pleasant glow of satisfaction.

Something indeed was written down in his note-book by that busy-looking pencil. It was not Mrs. Jones's name and address, nor even her exceedingly moderate terms.

If the solitary lady who was leaving London that day to hide her sorrow and loneliness could only have known what was written there, her satisfaction would have flown, for she had left her secret behind her, tacked in large letters to the boxes that were to follow her the next day, and the secret had been transferred to the pocket-book of the man she thought she had escaped.

Poor Adele's diplomacy! It had given way at only one point, but unhappily that point was all important.