Chapter II

TWENTY years ago two girls might have been seen approaching a London railway-station. They had evidently been on a shopping expedition, for they were quite laden with numbers of small parcels, besides which they had one of considerable bulk, though not very weighty. A glance at their fine, fresh faces and the lovely colour on their cheeks suggested the idea that they were country girls on a visit to the metropolis. Indeed, few persons could have met these girls without giving them a second glance. One, the elder by several years, was unusually tall; but her carriage was equally remarkable for grace and dignity, and her features for almost faultless regularity. No wonder that she attracted some attention amongst the many passers-by.

The younger, a girl of eighteen, was also above the middle height, and although not a beauty like her sister, her face just possessed the charm which was lacking in the other. It beamed with intelligence, and seemed to be the reflection of an active mind, a cheerful temper, and a warm, loving heart.

Even as they passed along, the unselfish character of the younger was made manifest. She insisted on carrying the larger share of the parcels, notably the largest of all, which was evidently a source of considerable annoyance to her beautiful companion, who plainly deemed these packages infra dig. Though surrounded by strangers, she glanced round from time to time, to see if, by any chance, some acquaintance were noticing her, and carried such parcels as she retained by their loops of string and on the tips of her fingers, as if under constant protest.

As they were nearing the station the elder girl said, "I am so glad we are getting near the end of our tramp. You, Lizzie, scarcely seem to care how many bundles you have about you, if you can only carry them; but I hate to go along laden just like a pack-horse, and on a warm day, too. This hot weather makes me look like a washerwoman."

"It would take a great deal to make you look like a washerwoman, Edith," replied Lizzie, with a merry laugh. "I never saw you look better than you do at this moment. I get as red as a peony all over my face, and you are only rose-coloured, and in the proper places. Do touch my face with your handkerchief; for mine is deep down in one of my many pockets, each of which is crammed with odds and ends of purchases."

Mollified by this tribute to her personal appearance, Edith did as she was requested, and the girls, finding they had a quarter of an hour to spare, seated themselves on a shady seat at one side of the platform, on which Lizzie also placed her larger parcels; seeming thankful for the rest.

They were not going home together after all. They were guests in the same house; but they had other friends in the neighbourhood besides those with whom they were staying. Edith, especially, had many acquaintances, amongst whom she had often visited when in London on former occasions, and she was going to spend the evening with an old schoolfellow recently married.

Lizzie, in London for the first time; was a stranger to this married friend of her sister. She had been invited to accompany Edith; but had declined, because had she gone she must have disappointed some quite little children, to whom she considered herself engaged.

"You might have gone with me, Lizzie," said Edith, in a tone of annoyance. "Just as though it mattered for you to romp with those little cousins to-night."

"I had promised the children before Mrs. Martin's invitation came, and these little people feel a disappointment far more than elder ones do. Besides, I know your friend does not really want me, and Sam and Nellie do. She only asked me out of civility to you, and you will enjoy your confab a great deal better by yourselves. Even if Mrs. Martin did want me, a promise is a promise, and I must keep my word."

A slight look of contempt crossed Edith's fair face as Lizzie announced her intention of keeping her appointment with the little people, but she felt that, after all, her frank young sister might be rather in the way than otherwise, on the principle that two are company, three none. She was rather reckoning on an hour's tête-à-tête with Mrs. Martin, who had been her chosen school friend, and as whose bridesmaid she had officiated a few months before. Mr. Martin and his brother would be in to dinner at six, and then there would be two couples for chatting, and perhaps a stroll together, before she should have to return to her temporary home, and rejoin Lizzie there.

Edith did not say aloud what was passing through her mind. Her reply was, "Of course you cannot go with me now, as you have not dressed for the purpose, and I was certain you would go back to those children in any case. But you will have to take every one of the parcels and my umbrella. It will not matter, as you take the train directly, and you can have a cab from the station."

"Oh no, I can manage very well. But, Edith, you forget. I have no money left. You must give me some."

"And I have very little; only five and sixpence. I cannot go to Mrs. Martin's without anything in my pocket. If you had not persisted in buying that Shetland shawl to-day we should have had plenty and to spare, and if you had let the shop people send it, we need not have gone about laden like two excursionists."

"We are excursionists," laughed Lizzie. "Haven't we got special tickets for this very trip? As to the shawl, it was so exactly what mamma has been trying to obtain, that I felt we ought not to risk losing it. I care nothing about carrying it, for though it makes rather a large parcel, it is very light, and I shall have the pleasure of forwarding it to mamma at once. Besides, Edith, you bought several little things for yourself after I had spoken for the shawl."

Lizzie felt just a little bit hurt at her sister's reproof, for Edith's purchases, which had nearly drained her purse, were all for her own personal adornment, and helped very considerably to increase the load which she declined to share. The shawl would add greatly to the comfort of their rather delicate mother, who needed one which would combine warmth with extreme lightness, and who had begged the girls to send one from London with as little delay as possible.

Edith insisted that in such roasting hot weather, the shawl could not be of any consequence. Lizzie's great desire was to execute her mother's commission, and to keep her promise.

Again the girl reminded her elder sister of her own moneyless condition. "However the cash has gone, Edith, it is gone, and I suppose the railway people will not give me a ticket for nothing. You must spare me something in the shape of a coin. I will do with as little as possible. I can pay the cabman from my money at home."

"The fare is only fourpence," said Edith, taking out her purse and abstracting the only small coin in it. "I suppose this sixpence will do. By the bye, it is my train that goes at the quarter; yours is at the half-hour, so you will have to wait by yourself."

A moment after the first train glided in, and, after a brief pause, carried Edith away with it.

In spite of the heat, Lizzie, who had only lunched after a very mild fashion at a confectioner's, and who had the vigorous appetite of a healthy girl, began to feel excessively hungry. It seemed impossible for her to endure another quarter of an hour at the station and the short railway journey and cab drive without having something in the shape of food to sustain her.

So, taking up her load, she moved towards a refreshment room and procured a bun. A wistful little face, with hollow eyes, was peering at her through the open doorway and gazing longingly at the food.

Ever sensitive to the call of need, the warm-hearted girl rose and handed the untasted bun to the famished-looking lad, who had hardly time to make a rude nod and utter thank ye' before one of the porters gave him a gentle push, and said, "Come, youngster, get out o' this. We can't do with beggars in the station."

The child, only too glad to escape, was off like an arrow, and Lizzie sat down to discuss another bun in the place of the one she had given away. She then paid her twopence, and was going out of the refreshment room with a very unsatisfied feeling when she suddenly remembered that she had just another penny loose in a small outside jacket pocket. This time she chose a different kind of bun, and when she had eaten it found, to her horror, that the price of it was twopence, and that when it was paid for she would not have sufficient money left to purchase her railway-ticket.

Lizzie picked up her parcels and went out of the refreshment room, feeling half-perplexed, half-amused at the position in which she found herself. "What would mamma think if she knew that I was wandering about here at a railway-station in London, and with only three-pence in my pocket? Actually unable to go on my way for want of a penny. What shall I do for two more halfpennies? Poor mamma! She would fancy all kinds of horrors—that I should be kidnapped, perhaps, for she seemed to think that Edith ought to keep me close at her side under all circumstances. Five minutes to train time. Something must be done."

What Lizzie did was to indulge in a hearty laugh first of all, and whilst these thoughts were passing through her mind. The next thing was to go towards the window, at which a boy-clerk was giving out tickets. The boy was looking excessively cross, and he did his work in a morose fashion, without uttering a word, unless compelled to reply to a question, which he did as briefly as possible. The fact was he had made a mistake in giving change to a passenger early in the day, and had been obliged to make up the deficiency out of his own pocket, in accordance with rules.

Lizzie explained her position to this youngster, after peeping over his shoulder to see if there was any older person in the office to whom she might appeal.

"Can't help it. Ticket's fourpence," was the sullen reply.

"But I have told you I am just a penny short. If you will let me have a ticket, I will leave something with you worth many shillings. This silk umbrella, my silver pencil-case, or one of my parcels. You can look inside."

For a moment the sullen face relaxed; but no, the young clerk was in a savage mood, and determined to revenge himself on all the other passengers who might come to him for the dishonesty of that one who had gone off with more than his lawful change. He therefore shook his head, and gruffly said, "Booking-offices are not pawnshops."

No other reply could Lizzie get, and she turned from the little window with a slight quiver of the lip, which told of a little sinking of the heart at the thought of her predicament. To add to her discomfort, the train by which she should have gone on, came in and went without her. There would be another in a few minutes; after that a very long interval. She must make an effort to obtain a penny, if she even begged for it. She was far too tired to walk the weary miles between her and home, had she known the way, and it would be a very expensive cab ride. Edith would certainly scold her roundly if she were to use that mode of conveyance. She must not think of it.

Glancing along the platform, Lizzie saw a lady and a gentleman sauntering slowly towards her, arm-in-arm. The thought crossed her mind that a lady would be sure to help a girl like herself out of such an unexpected dilemma, and she accordingly advanced towards the couple, and, in as few words as possible, explained her position, and simply asked for the gift of a penny.

To Lizzie's utter astonishment, the lady turned on her a hard, searching glance. Then looking up at her husband she said, while her lip was curled contemptuously, "Do you believe this absurd story?"

The gentleman did not answer, but Lizzie often remembered, in after days, the deprecating glance which he cast on his wife, though he seemed afraid to suggest that, after all, the "absurd story" might be true.

His companion did not hesitate long.

"I do not believe a word of your tale," she said in a harsh voice. "It is most unlikely that a person of your dress and appearance should be really in need of a penny. I suspect there is some trick in this application. Go away. I shall give you nothing."

After another searching look, first at Lizzie, then at her husband, which seemed to ask if there were any acquaintance between them, she turned away, the hard expression still on her face. Lizzie stood for a moment, as if petrified with astonishment, and then, utterly overcome with pain and mortification, she burst into tears, and once more took her seat on the bench where she had rested before.

At this crisis of the story there was a unanimous burst of indignation from mamma's three listeners. Flossie could hardly believe it possible that a woman could be so horrid. Jack wished he could punch the boy at the booking-office, and Madge lifted her sympathetic blue eyes, all moist with tears, and asked "if the story were real, or only make-believe?"

"Absolutely true," replied mamma.

"Were you the girl without a penny?" inquired Jack, who had a way of connecting his mother with all her stories, and who insisted that she was like all the nice heroines.

"No, Jack. I never was placed in such a strait. But I regret to say I must leave Lizzie in it, for I hear your father's step. You must wait till to-morrow for another chapter."