The adventurous lady

by J. C. Snaith

To bed—to dream, but not to sleep. The situation that shaped itself so fantastically to Girlie’s mind in the tardy hours of a long and wakeful night was almost more than she could bear. Here was the last straw. Playing with human souls is a perilous game. In drifting at another’s bidding into such a position she had not reckoned upon the cost to herself. She was not of the stuff of which the real adventuress is made. The whole affair was really an outrage upon her deepest instincts. She had neither the cynicism, the native impudence nor “the sense of the theater” to keep the thing going. Somewhere about the hour of four, when the night was at its darkest and her courage was very low, she resolved to make an end. With remorse inflicting such torments upon her there seemed nothing else to do. She spent the rest of the night feverishly planning a way out. None there was, alas, that could hope to spare her the tragic weight of humiliation, and worse than humiliation she had so honestly earned; but as far as possible she must defend herself against a public exposure.

Until getting-up time came she strove with this problem. But she was caught in a trap from which there was no escape. Daylight stealing into the cell of the condemned could not have been more unwelcome than the faint rose of dawn creeping through the blinds of King Edward’s bedroom. Girlie did not know how to face another day. The matutinal cup of tea, brought to her at eight o’clock by a very trim housemaid, found her in an abject state of “nerves.” She had reached the conclusion by this time that her only hope lay in immediate flight. By some miracle Mr. Jupp had not yet denounced her, but she felt sure it could only be a question of hours. And even if the miracle went on and he still refrained from doing so, the position into which she had allowed herself to drift with Lord Duckingfield was quite unendurable. She was now haunted by the thought of this good and simple man for whom she had a real regard.

Yes, she must get away. But where could she go? To The Laurels? Only too clearly did she realize that there was nothing to hope for from that quarter—at any rate if she flagrantly disobeyed her instructions. Besides in her present state of mental and moral weakness she really went in fear of her Evil Genius.

After a time her mind began to run upon an aunt in Scotland. Now that she had wantonly forfeited her only means of getting a living, that austere dame, an elder sister of her mother’s, whom she remembered but faintly, was the only relation or friend to whom she could turn. Her recollection of Aunt Alice was dim and it was not agreeable. Aunt Alice lived a long way off, she was the wife of a struggling doctor with a large family of her own, and the best her niece could hope for was an astonished and grudging welcome. Still there seemed no alternative now.

Wrought upon by the need for action, Girlie got out of bed and took her purse from the left hand drawer of the dressing table. In a state of nervous excitement she hunted for the address of Aunt Alice. Presently she was rewarded with the sight of an old letter bearing the postmark “Inverness.” Her heart sank. She knew nothing of Inverness, except that it was somewhere in the north of Scotland.

Further examination of the inside of the purse revealed that her means of getting to Inverness amounted to just two pounds, five shillings and ninepence. Such a meager sum, even if it allowed her to get so far, which at the present cost of travel was very doubtful, would provide absolutely nothing to live upon. That fact alone seemed to make the project hopeless. For one weak instant, in the face of this rebuff, her mind reverted to Lady Elfreda’s jewels, to which she had access. But the thought—if thought it could be called—was at once dismissed. Not for a moment could any scheme of that kind be entertained. All the same she indulged in a forlorn little sigh as the fact came home to her once more that nature had not designed her for the adventuress pur sang.

In spite, however, of such a lack of means her mind continued to run upon Inverness. Throughout an uncomfortable, appetiteless breakfast the thought of that distant haven obsessed her. She managed to nibble a piece of toast under the eye of the attentive and solicitous Lord Duckingfield, who had so assiduously helped her to this simple fare with a comment upon its meagerness. This morning, as every morning, he was the soul of kindness and courtesy. But she was quite unable to talk to him; in fact, she did not dare to look in his direction. It was a great relief when at last she was able to carry Bradshaw to the good log fire in the hall.

There, upon the scene of the previous evening’s tragi-comedy she delved further into the problem of transporting herself from Clavering St. Mary’s to the north of Scotland.

One important fact in regard to a very long and tortuous journey was soon established. The sum of two pounds five shillings and ninepence rendered the project hopeless.

Bradshaw in hand, she was still trying to meet a not unexpected facer, when a voice of rather delicately reproachful curiosity came from over her shoulder. It was that of the hostess and Girlie felt a tremor of guilty dismay.