The Duke's Sweetheart: A Romance

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!

CHAPTER XII.

NIGHT

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.

It was a broad open plain, bounded on all its four straight sides by swift impassable rivers. In that wonderful atmosphere it was possible to see objects distinctly at enormous distances. All this vast plain, hundreds and hundreds of miles every way you looked, was dotted, at regular intervals, with groups of mounted men, a vast horde, more numerous than all the armies of the world combined. These bodies of men kept moving from spot to spot, always movements of equal length, like draughts on a board. Yet no one body of men came in contact with any other. They always kept at regular distances; and the most curious thing was, that although there seemed to be a body of cavalry for each space, so that every space was occupied, they moved about from square to square without touching or filling up the blank places, which were only half the size of the occupied spaces.