She felt confused, slightly raving! What sort of supper would he give her? Fishes, of course, all sorts of fishes and then afterwards the big fishes would eat her and no one would lament unless perhaps, perhaps Margot! But no, it was impossible to think that Margot would be sorry. Why should a shopgirl be sorry? She, Margot, was only that—nothing more at all, although they did make such a fuss about her at Desmondstown.
Suddenly in the midst of her meditations there came a curious and remarkable lull. She no longer found it necessary to cling to either one side or the other of the berth. It seemed as though someone, she thought it was Margot, had poured oil on the disturbed waters. Might she, could she, would she be allowed to save even such a wicked girl as Tilly?
Tilly acknowledged now that she was wicked and that Margot was good and then all of a sudden the stewardess bustled in.
"For the Lord's sake get up, missie," she said in a cheerful tone. "I couldn't come near ye with others so bad, but we are in harbour, thank the Lord, and all danger is over. Yes, we had a rough night, mighty rough. I've never gone through a worse, but I couldn't stay along of cowards. Here's your jacket, missie, I'll slip it on ye, and here's your hat! You do look bad, but we are very late in, and if you want to catch your train for London, ye'd best hurry up. Shall I get a porter for your luggage, missie?"
Tilly answered "yes" in a meek sort of voice and then she gave the stewardess who had done nothing for her all night a shilling out of her scanty store. Presently she was on dry land and in the train. She was not going to eat her supper with Davy Jones, she was going to live after all; she had passed through a fearful night, but she was going to live.
Everything was new and fresh to her now, and when a boy brought her a cup of tea and a plate of bread and butter, she ate greedily and with appetite. Then it occurred to her that she ought to wire to her father. She had money enough for this, too. The Desmond had supplied her with plenty of money.
Mr. Raynes was a coal merchant on a large scale, exceedingly well off. He lived on Clapham Common. The house was ugly and without any pretence to good looks. Tilly's stepmother met her in London, scolded her, shook her, put her hat straight and asked her why in the world was she coming home so soon.
Tilly felt all the old wicked feelings rising in her breast when her stepmother began to harangue her. She immediately said that she was only wasting time at Desmondstown and wanted to work very hard indeed, so as to get to Arles one week before term began.
The stepmother went on scolding. Tilly hardly listened. She was feeling wicked again, but she was thankful to be on dry land. They reached the big, luxuriously furnished, vulgar-looking house on Clapham Common.
Tilly suddenly felt herself very sick; her stepmother was fairly kind to her when she was really sick. She allowed her to go to bed and sent Mary Ann, the house-parlourmaid, upstairs to look after her.