Chapter VI: Alone in the World

WHEN Esther and Mary Coppinger parted at the cross roads, both fully intended meeting shortly afterwards in High Street. But when Esther was left to ruminate alone on the message sent by Mary, it magnified itself so much in her mind, and was so hurtful to her pride and self-love, as to shut out every other thought, and she felt herself to be very deeply injured and aggrieved by being told not to come home again until she had found her little sister.

"I'm not wanted at home, that's plain enough," said Esther, talking to herself half aloud, as she went along.

She had formed no definite plan of running away yet, but she brooded over this thought of not being wanted at home until she reached High Street. Here she stood in the shadow of an entry, with a sort of half-formed resolution not to go home again if Mary Coppinger should have found Lilla, and she watched the opposite road for Mary to appear, and let that decide her.

She had not been waiting long, before she saw some one strikingly like her friend in figure and dress, and carrying a little girl whose long fair hair could plainly be seen as they passed a gas lamp.

The road was crossed at just the angle Mary would take to meet her at the spot agreed upon, and although she could not see the faces of either, she felt so certain of their identity that she hastily turned the corner of a neighbouring street, lest Mary should turn back to look for her.

She felt bitterly angry and insulted, and the feeling naturally increased by being pondered over. Until at last, the foolish girl actually herself believed that she had been turned out of doors, because her younger brothers and sisters were loved more than she was.

She scarcely knew where she was going until she found herself close to the railway station, and with the one wild desire to get away from home as fast as she could, she went in and asked for a ticket for the next town. She had about a shilling in her pocket—money of her own—but when this ticket was paid for, she had only a few halfpence left with which to face the world, in an utterly strange neighbourhood.

She had been to the town she booked for once before, but she knew no one there now, for her aunt had moved away long ago, and so she would be a total stranger to the place.

When she reached her journey's end, she found to her dismay that it was raining—a cold drizzling rain, whose every drop seemed to sting and freeze. The station was in a back part of the town, where there were but a few small shops, and these were putting up the last of their shutters, so that almost the only light came from the few gas lamps that shone on the wet sloppy pavement, and made the darkness visible.

Esther drew back for a moment, for even the grimy, draughty station was preferable to the street outside. But presently the passengers had all gone, and one of the porters remarked, as he passed and saw her,—

"It's no good waiting for the rain to-night, miss; it won't give over for hours."

Esther took the hint and went out. Then wondering which way she had better go, and for the first time remembering that it could matter little which way she went, she yet paused on the edge of the pavement, to decide whether she should go up or down the street.

At the same moment, a policeman came slowly pacing along the pavement, and seeing Esther standing without an umbrella in the rain, he said, "Better make haste home, my girl, or you'll soon get wet through."

She needed no second bidding, but hurried away up the street. Where she was to go, what she was to do, she did not know. She could not return home now, even if she had wished, for she had spent nearly all her money coming here, but she did not wish it just yet. Oh, no, she had made up her mind what she would do now; she would get a situation to serve in a confectioner's or stationer's shop. And when she was comfortably settled, she would write and tell them at home all about it, and how well she was getting on, and that she forgave them for all their unkindness to her.

She looked up at the shops as she thought out this plan, and decided that she had made a mistake in coming here so late at night, when it was impossible for her to make the necessary inquiries. Where she was to pass the night, and wait for the morning to come, to begin her search for a situation, was the difficulty now. But she walked on sharply, quickening her pace whenever a policeman appeared, for fear he should speak to her, as the other had done.

Presently she had walked beyond the town, out on a country road, and the wind came sweeping over the fields and chilling Esther almost to the bones. She was tired and footsore, too, and almost wet through. To walk fast any longer was impossible, but she gazed all round through scalding tears, in the hope of finding some shelter from the bitter cold wind and driving rain. Nothing but the bare hedges and vacant fields, however, were to be seen.

And she walked on and on, thinking—when she did think now—that she must have been walking all night, and that the morning would surely soon dawn, when she heard the chimes of a distant church clock wafted to her on the breeze. And then it began to strike.

And she stood still to count,—One, two, three, four, five, six, seven; why, surely the clock must be wrong striking so many times, until Esther had counted twelve.

"Twelve o'clock," she repeated with a shiver, "only twelve," and she recommenced her weary walk with a burst of tears.

But presently she saw a shed in a field, and decided that to sit down on the outside, where she would be a little sheltered from the wind and rain, would be better than walking aimlessly along the road. And so she made her way through a gap in the hedge, and hurried across the field as fast as her tired limbs would carry her. She went all round the shed, and at last found a door which, fortunately for her, some careless hand had left unlocked. She was careful to look all round by the dim light of the doorway before closing the door, and finding there nothing but a heap of straw in one corner, she shut and fastened it, and then lay down on the straw.

Miserable and forlorn as she was, she yet felt thankful for this shelter, and was so utterly tired out, that in spite of being wet and cold, she was soon fast asleep.

It was broad daylight when she awoke with a start of wonder at her strange surroundings—the daylight shining through the chinks of the boards, the straw all round her, so unlike her comfortable bedroom at home. Then the experience of the previous day flashed upon her mind, and she buried her head in the straw and burst into tears.

"But I won't go home," was her next thought.

An attempt to move her arm at this moment caused her such pain that she groaned aloud. And she lay still and wondered whether she should feel better if she rested a little longer. She did not feel so cold now, but her body ached all over, and it was not until several desperate efforts had been made that she succeeded in getting on to her feet.

She shook out her frock, picked the bits of straw from her jacket, hat, and hair, and then prepared to leave the shed, for the sound of distant voices warned her that she might be discovered at any moment now. She peeped out of one the chinks before venturing to open the door. Then after a careful survey, she slipped outside, shut the door again, and made her way to the field path as fast as she could.

But oh! the pain every movement caused her. Her limbs were so stiff and sore that she could scarce drag herself along, and a more wretchedly forlorn object than she now appeared it would be difficult to imagine.

The rain had ceased now, and Esther tried to persuade herself that her troubles were over, as the night had been got through. But if she could only have seen her white face, and considered her mud-bedraggled boots and frock, she would have recognised that she looked more like a tramp than a respectable girl. As to getting a situation, even in the meanest capacity, under present conditions, that was simply out of the question, for who would take in a girl without home or friends, of whom inquiries might be made as to her antecedents?

But Esther still hugged the idea of being able to do without father or mother. And so she turned to retrace her steps along the road she had walked up last night, nibbling the biscuits she had left in her pocket by way of breakfast. Not that she felt hungry, her head ached and throbbed too much for that, but she was afraid if she did not eat something, she might be ill. And so she dragged herself slowly along towards the town once more.

As she reached the outskirts, another church clock struck twelve, and she tried to quicken her pace, lest she should not find what she needed before night came on again.

As soon as she reached a baker's shop, she went in, having made up her mind to try these first. But before any one could come in answer to her tapping on the counter, her courage had begun to fail, and when a cross-looking man said sharply from the doorway, "What do you want?" thinking she was a beggar, she just had wit enough left to say, "I want a halfpenny bun, if you please."

"You'd like a stale penny one, wouldn't you?" said the man in a more gentle tone, thinking she must be half-starved from her appearance.

"Thank you," said Esther meekly, as she took the stale penny bun; and a faint colour stole into her face as she noticed how the man looked at her, and watched her out of the shop.

She did not want the bun just now, and so put it into her pocket, and walked on in a half-dazed fashion. But clinging in a dogged, instinctive sort of way to her purpose of getting a situation in a baker's shop, she soon went into another.

A smart young woman was putting up some cakes in a bag behind the counter, so there was no time to think of anything but the purpose that had brought her into the shop this time. And she said, "If you please, I want a situation to serve in a shop like this; do you know of one?"

The shopwoman paused with a bag in her hand to stare at Esther. She was too much amazed at the question to answer for a minute, but at length she managed to say, "No, I don't know of anything likely to suit you." And she watched her out of the shop with widely opened eyes.

But Esther was really too confused and dazed to notice the wonder her question had excited, and thinking she might do better perhaps among the smaller shops, she turned into a side street that soon brought her to the railway station, which she recognised again as she went on in search of a baker's shop.

They seemed to abound in this neighbourhood, and she went into one after another, repeating her request with a sort of stupid reiteration, but receiving often only very uncivil answers. Less than this would have daunted her if she had been in full possession of all her faculties, but her brain was well-nigh numbed with its misery, and it was not until the gas lamps were lighted that she gave up her quest.

Then she recognised that night was coming again, and she had just sense enough left to find her way back to the road she had already travelled over twice. To get back to the shelter of the shed and its comfortable heap of straw was her one desire in life now. She bought some milk, and drank it in the course of the day, and this, with half the stale bun, was all she wanted.

Soon after she left the town, it began to rain again, just such a cold drizzling rain as that of the previous day, and poor Esther was soon wet through again. Wearily she dragged her stiffened, tired limbs along the wet, muddy road. It was dark long before she gained the shelter she was making for, but it was reached at last. She had just sense enough left to secure the door, and then down she sank on the pile of straw, utterly worn out.

The power to think, to reason, to hope, or to fear was gone now, and the poor girl sank into a state of unconsciousness more akin to insensibility than sleep. She lay tossing on her straw all night, aroused to semi-consciousness sometimes by the burning thirst that now consumed her and the pain in all her limbs whenever she moved.

How long she lay in this miserable plight she never knew, but at length her groans attracted the attention of some one passing by, and the door was opened.

No one who had known her before would have recognised Esther Wright in the dirty, bedraggled creature rolling on the straw with wild, starting eyes, and lips almost blackened with the fever that consumed her.

The man had come prepared to bully the tramp who had dared to take possession of his shed in this unceremonious fashion. But one glance at Esther stopped the angry words he was about to utter, and he scratched his head in perplexity as to what he had better do. The wild eyes, the rolling head, the continuous moaning and muttering, all spoke of the delirium of fever, and, trespassing tramp as she was, something must be done for her.

"Better send for the workhouse people, master, and let them fetch her away," suggested an old labourer, who had slowly limped up behind the first comer.

"Yes, it's the only thing to do, I suppose," said the other with another scratch at his head; "the police ain't no good here now. Drat the tramps! I wish they'd let my shed alone," he muttered as he shut the door again.

The old man was despatched to the relieving officer, with a message that he must come at once and fetch the sick girl away. But several hours elapsed before any one else came near the shed.

At length, a parish nurse, with a couple of men, was sent with a hand ambulance to remove her. And she was carried to the workhouse infirmary, and set down as a "girl tramp, name unknown."

Her clothes were looked over after they were washed. And although the tidy garments betokened a different condition in life from that of a tramp, there was no name or mark upon them, and it was easier to believe they had been given to her by some charitable individual shortly before she was taken ill, than to make inquiries it was nobody's special business to take up. And so, while all sorts of inquiries were being made for Esther in London, here she lay in the workhouse infirmary, scarcely ten miles from home, as a tramp and outcast it was nobody's business to care for, beyond seeing that the doctor's orders were carried out, and that she did not die of actual want and neglect.