In the Wilderness | Page 8

in the impenetrable fog.
She stood still and listened. She heard nothing. Traffic seemed stopped in this region. On her left there were three steps. She went up them and was under the porch of a house. Light shone dully from within, and by it she could just make out on the door the number "8." At least it seemed to her that probably it was an "8." She hesitated, came down the steps, and walked on. It was impossible to see the names of the streets and squares. But presently she would come across a policeman. She went on and on, but no policeman bulked shadowy against the background of night and of the fog which at last seemed almost terrible to her.
Rosamund was not timid. She was constitutionally incapable of timidity. Nor was she actively alarmed in a strong and definite way. But gradually there seemed to permeate her a cold, almost numbing sensation of loneliness and of desolation. For the first time in her life she felt not merely alone but solitary, and not merely solitary but as if she were condemned to be so by some power that was hostile to her.
It was a hideous feeling. Something in the fog and in the night made an assault upon her imagination. Abruptly she was numbered among the derelict women whom nobody wants, whom no man thinks of or wishes to be with, whom no child calls mother. She felt physically and morally, "I am solitary," and it was horrible to her. She saw herself old and alone, and she shuddered.
How long she walked on she did not know, but when at last she heard a step shuffling along somewhere in front of her, she had almost--she thought--realized Eternity.
The step was not coming towards her but was going onwards slowly before her. She hastened, and presently came up with an old man, poorly dressed in a dreadful frock-coat and disgraceful trousers, wearing on his long gray locks a desperado of a top hat, and carrying, in a bloated and almost purple hand, a large empty jug.
"Please!" said Rosamund.
The old gentleman shuffled on.
"Could you tell me--/please/--can you tell me where we are?
She had grasped his left coat-sleeve. He turned and, bending, she peered into the face of a drunkard.
"Close to the 'Daniel Lambert,'" said an almost refined old voice.
And a pair of pathetic gray eyes peered up at her above a nose that was like a conflagration.
"Where's that? What is it?"
"Don't you know the 'Daniel Lambert'?"
The voice sounded very surprised and almost suspicious.
"No."
"It's well known, very well known. I'm just popping round there to get a little something--eh!"
The voice died away.
"I want to find Great Cumberland Place."
"Well, you're pretty close to it. The 'Daniel Lambert's' in the Edgware Road."
"Could you find it?--Great Cumberland Place, I mean?"
"Certainly."
"I wish you would. I should be so grateful."
The gray eyes became more pathetic.
"Grateful to me--would you, miss? I'll go with you and very glad to do it."
The old gentleman took Rosamund home and talked to her on the way. When they parted she asked for his name and address. He hesitated for a moment and then gave it: "Mr. Thrush, 2 Albingdon Buildings, John's Court, near Edgware Road."
"Thank you. You've done me a good turn."
At this moment the front door was opened by the housemaid.
"Oh--miss!" she said.
Her eyes left Rosamund and fastened themselves, like weapons, on the old gentleman's nose. He lifted his desperado of a hat and immediately turned away, trying to conceal his jug under his left arm, but inadvertently letting it protrude.
"Good night, and thank you very much indeed!" Rosamund called after him with warm cordiality.
"I'm glad you've got back, miss. We were in a way. It's ever so late."
"I got lost in the fog. That dear old man rescued me."
"I'm very thankful, miss, I'm sure."
The girl seemed stiffened with astonishment. She shut the street door automatically.
"He used to be a chemist once."
"Did he, miss?"
"Yes, quite a successful one too; just off Hanover Square, he told me. He was going round to get something for his supper when we met."
"Indeed, miss?"
Rosamund went upstairs.
"Yes, poor old man," she said, as she ascended.
Like most people in perfect health Rosamund slept well; but that night she lay awake. She did not want to sleep. She had something to decide, something of vital importance to her. Two courses lay open to her. She might marry Dion Leith, or she might resolve never to marry. Like most girls she had had dreams, but unlike most girls, she had often dreamed of a life in which men had no place. She had recently entered upon the career of a public singer, not because she was obliged to earn money but because she had a fine voice and a strong temperament, and longed for self-expression. But she had