But the pride and purity of the spirit forbade any real faltering in her resolve. Thousands of other girls lived—contentedly enough she hoped and supposed—upon the market value of their poor little capacities. Upon what grounds was she to be held different? Young and strong, why should not she work as well as others? She felt she ought to be ashamed of herself.
She shut her eyes so that she should no longer see the tempting wealth and elegance she was abandoning. Coloured spirals seemed to whirl in the darkness, and the ensuing giddiness reminded her of her smelling-salts. She slipped the bottle into her hand-bag, then resolved not to sit down again, but to go. She had never before taken a railway journey alone, and must allow ample time for contingencies. It was getting on for five o'clock. The time was ripe.
She crept from her room, and very softly, with many a pause to listen, proceeded to unfasten all hindering chains and locks. But no sound was heard within the sleeping flat, and undisturbed she gained the outer air.
Morris lay wrapped in slumber, all unconscious that the child he had received at her dying father's hands, innocent and wholly dependent on his honour, was now stealing forth homeless into the chill morning, broken-hearted, with a sullied story, and but a few pounds between herself and utter destitution. Nor, had he known, would it have caused him any serious pangs of remorse. The pride of spirit, the refinement of sentiment, that forbade her to take away any of the valuable gifts he had lavished upon her, was totally beyond his comprehension. He could see that it was a pretty enough conceit in theory, perchance, but such a piece of high-faluting foolishness put into practice was, to his mind, quite sufficient to deprive her of the sympathy of all rational beings. In some peculiar manner the fact that any immediate pecuniary difficulties would be entirely of her own making, was in his mind all-sufficient to absolve him from entire blame in the whole affair.
It was a quarter to six when Evarne arrived at the Gare St. Lazare, and learned that the first train for Dieppe started in five minutes. Hurrying to the booking-office, she ordered a first single, then contradicted herself, asking for a second-class ticket. It was so difficult to have to remember to economise.
The slow train, stopping at every station, took six hours to cover the ground, but Evarne felt no impatience. The steamer did not leave until half-past one, and until then one place was as satisfactory as any other. Indeed, it was even restful to sit quietly in a corner, and not have to force her numbed brain to think and plan.
About nine o'clock the train stopped at a station, where she bought a cup of coffee and a roll. As she sipped and nibbled she reflected that at a corresponding hour on the previous morning she had eaten just such another little premier déjeuner. How remote then appeared the prospect of her very next similar meal being taken thus—parted from Morris for ever, dazed and broken-hearted, bound in solitude and fear for another land. "After all, life ought to be somewhat interesting, for it is certainly unexpected," she thought, with a grim, mirthless little smile.
The Channel being on its best behaviour, she escaped the additional trials of illness, but none the less, on arriving at Newhaven, she felt incapable of further effort, and resolved to put up there for the night. The day being Sunday made a good excuse for this feebleness. It really would be most undesirable to arrive in London on the Sabbath evening. She turned with relief into the nearest hotel, and went straight to bed.
She slept; she lay awake; she trembled beneath evil dreams; she shed tears again. The long weary night passed somehow, but left her haggard-eyed and unrefreshed. A maid brought breakfast to her bedside, but Evarne turned with repugnance from the stolid bacon and overdone poached eggs, and it was after a mere pretence of a meal that she arose, paid her bill, and took her seat in the Victoria train.