The Prophet's Mantle. Hubert Bland
on keeping her in sight. Presently she passed into a quieter street, and Dick at once ranged alongside of her, and, raising his hat said, 'Why, Alice, have you forgotten old friends already?'
The girl turned a very white face towards him.
'Oh, Mr. Richard! I never thought I should see you again, of all people.'
'Why, everybody is sure to meet everyone else sooner or later. How far are you going? Let me carry your parcel.'
'Oh, no, it's not heavy,' she said; but she let him take the brown-paper burden all the same.
'Not heavy!' he returned. 'It's too heavy for you.'
'I'm used to it,' she answered, with a little sigh.
'So much the worse. I'm awfully glad I've met you, my dear girl. Why did you leave us like that? What have you been doing with yourself?'
'Oh, Mr. Richard, what does it matter now? And don't stand there holding that parcel, but say good-bye, and let me go home.'
'And where is home?'
'Not a long way off.'
'Well, I'll walk with you. Come along.'
They walked side by side silently for some yards. Then he said—
'Alice, I want you to tell me truly how it was you left home.'
A burning blush swept over her face, from forehead to throat, and that was the only answer she gave him.
'Come, tell me,' he persisted.
'Can't you guess?' she asked in a low voice, looking straight before her.
'Perhaps I can.'
'Perhaps? Of course you can. Why do girls ever leave good homes, and come to such a home as mine is now?'
'Then he has left you?'
'No,' she said, hurriedly; 'no, no, I've left him. But I can't talk about it to you.'
'Why not to me, if you can to anyone?' he asked.
'Because—because—Don't ask me anything else;' and she burst into tears.
'There, there,' he said, 'don't cry, for heaven's sake. I didn't mean to worry you; but you will tell me all about it by-and-by, won't you? What are you doing now?'
'Working.'
'What sort of work? Come, don't cry, Alice. I hate to think I have been adding to your distress.'
She dried her eyes obediently, and answered:
'I do tailoring work. It seems to be the only thing I'm good for.'
'That's paid very badly, isn't it?' he asked, some vague reminiscences of "Alton Locke" prompting the question.
'Oh, I manage to get along pretty well,' she replied, with an effort at a smile, which was more pathetic in Dick's eyes than her tears had been. He thought gloomily of the time, not so very long ago either, when her face had been the brightest as well as the fairest in Thornsett village, and his heart was sore with indignant protest against him who had so changed her face, her life, her surroundings. He looked at her tired thin face, still so pretty, in spite of the grief that had aged and the want that had pinched it, and found it hard to believe that this was indeed the Alice with whom he had raced through the pastures at Firth Vale—the Alice who had taken the place in his boyish heart of a very dear little sister. Ah, if she had only been his sister really, then their friendship would not have grown less and less during his school and college days, and his protection would have saved her, perhaps, from this. These foster-relationships are uncomfortable things. They inflict the sufferings of a real blood tie, and give none of the rights which might mitigate or avert such suffering.
'How's mother and father?' she said, breaking in among his sad thoughts.
'They were well when I saw them, but I've not seen them lately. We've been in great trouble.'
'Yes. I saw in the papers. I was so sorry.'
'Then you read the papers?'
'I always try to see a weekly paper,' she said a little confusedly. 'Then you don't know how they are at home?'
'I only know they're grieving after you still.'
'They know I'm not dead. I let them know that, and I should think that's all they care to know.'
'You know better than that. My dear child, why not go home to them? I believe the misery you have cost them—forgive me for saying it—will shorten their lives unless you do go back.'
'Go back? No! I've sowed and I must reap. I must go through with it. I live just down here. Good-night.'
It did not look a very inviting residence—a narrow street, leading into a court which was too dark and too distant to be seen into from the corner where she had stopped.
'I sha'n't say good-night till you say when I shall see you again.'
'What's the use? It only makes me more miserable to see you, though I can't help being glad I have seen you this once.'
'But I must try to do something for you. I think I've some sort of right to help you, Alice.'
'But I've no right to be helped by you. Besides, I really don't need help. I have all I want. I'd much better not see you again.'
'Well, I mean to see you again, anyway. I shall be in London for some time. When shall I see you?'
'Not at all.'
'Nonsense!' he said, authoritatively. 'You must promise to write, at any rate, or I shall come down here and wait from eight to eleven every evening till I see you.'
'Very well. I'll write, then. Good-bye!'
'But how can you write? You don't know my address. Here's my card;' and he scribbled the address in pencil. 'It's a promise, Alice. You'll write and you'll see me again?'
'Yes, yes; good-bye;' and she turned to leave him.
'Why, you're forgetting your parcel.'
'So I am. Thank you!' As she took it from him, he said suddenly, watching her keenly the while—
'Roland is in town now. Shall I bring him to see you?'
'No, no; for God's sake, don't tell him you've seen me!'
And she left him so quickly as to give no time for another word. As she sped down the street a loitering policeman turned to look sharply at her, and two tidy-looking women who were standing at the opposite corner exchanged significant glances.
'I never thought she was one of that sort!' said one.
'Ah!' said the other, 'bad times drives some that way as 'ud keep straight enough with fair-paid work.'
CHAPTER VI.
BETWEEN TWO OPINIONS.
