Margot got right up on to her feet and began to walk blindly forward over the cobblestones. The lights of a car flashed in front of her. Sounds of traffic came through the fog. Her foot struck against the kerb at the edge of a pavement. She turned to the right and walked along slowly without the least idea of where she was going.
She had been walking for half an hour before her mind really began to work again. Someone knocked against her, and a shrill cockney voice said, “Look out! Where are you going?”
Margot moved on, startled. The question repeated itself: “Where are you going? Where-are-you-going?” It was this question that woke her up: “Where are you going?”- “I haven’t anywhere to go.” “Where are you going?”-“I don’t know.” “Where are you going?”-“Oh, I haven’t got anywhere to go.”
She had cried so violently that no more tears came into her eyes, but she felt as if she were crying deep inside her. It was a frightful thing not to have anywhere to go to. She couldn’t possibly go back to Grange Square, where Egbert and somebody else-somebody who had answered the bell that William ought to have answered-were waiting to get their orders about removing her. Even after being so dreadfully frightened by Mr. Percy Smith she could still shake and turn cold when she remembered that vague, suggestive word.
What was she going to do? What did you do when you were a girl and you hadn’t got anywhere to go to, and you didn’t know anyone who would help you, and you only had a shilling in the world. If Papa had only let her have friends like other girls. But he had never let her know anyone except at school. And Mrs. Beauchamp was on her way to Australia. It had been her business to see that Margot didn’t pick up acquaintances in the holidays. Margot would have given a great many things that she did not possess to have had just one acquaintance now.
Mr. Hale-but if it were Mr. Hale who was giving those orders-perhaps it was-perhaps it was Mr. Hale who was going to tell Egbert and William-no, it couldn’t be William- to remove her.
She couldn’t go home. Oh, it wasn’t home anymore; it was only a house where people were planning horrible things. It was Egbert’s house; it wasn’t hers. She hadn’t got anywhere to go-she hadn’t got a home-she hadn’t got anything.
These things kept coming into her mind like a lot of aimless people struggling into a room and drifting out again; they didn’t do anything, they just came in and drifted out, and went away.
Margot went on walking, and the aimless thoughts kept on coming and going. The thick moisture that filled the air with fog began to condense and come down in rain. Soon she was very wet. The rain became heavier; it soaked through her blue serge coat and began to drip from the brim of her hat. The coat had a collar of grey fur. The rain collected on it and trickled down the back of her neck.
Only that afternoon Margot had written to Stephanie that there was something frightfully romantic about being a penniless orphan. It didn’t feel a bit romantic now; it felt cold, and frightening, and desperately miserable.
CHAPTER XVII
Charles Moray was still living at The Luxe, but he had fallen into the way of paying unheralded visits at odd times to the house in Thornhill Square. He did not always let the Latterys know that he had been and gone. He did not always enter the house; sometimes he merely walked along the square, up Thorney Lane, and into the garden by way of the alley that ran behind it. In all his visits he neither saw nor heard anything unusual.
On this particular evening he walked round the garden, heard ten o’clock strike from the church of St. Justin, and went out through the door in the wall, locking it after him. As he stood with his back to the alley-way and withdrew the key, someone passed him in the darkness.
Charles turned and began to walk towards Thorney Lane. The lamp at the end of the alley showed him that it was a woman who had passed behind him whilst he was locking the door. She turned to the left and walked quickly down Thorney Lane past the opening into Thornhill Square to the big thoroughfare that lay beyond. Charles followed her.
The woman was Margaret Langton. If she had been up to her old home, the alley-way and Thorney Lane would be a short cut for her. He thought he would wait a little before catching her up.
The night was cold, but there was no fog. Heavy rain had cleared the air, and the falling temperature seemed to promise frost before morning.
As Margaret turned into the lighted thoroughfare, he saw that she was carrying a parcel. He came up with her with an easy, “Hullo, Margaret! Where are you off to?”
“I’ve been up to see Freddy. I’m going home.”
“So you really haven’t quarrelled with him?”
“No,” said Margaret in a tired voice, “I haven’t quarrelled with Freddy. Why should I?”
Charles took her parcel and tucked it under his arm. It felt like a box, quite light, but awkward to hold.
“Loot?” he inquired.
“Only an old desk of my mother’s. It’s empty. Freddy said I could have it. He’s going abroad, you know.”
“Freddy is!”
“Yes-he can’t bear England without her. He wants to travel.”
“I’m awfully sorry for him,” said Charles.
He was awfully sorry for Margaret too, but he knew better than to say so. She kept her passionate feeling in a shrine which no one else must enter. He held his peace.
They walked on in silence until Margaret stopped and held out her hand.
“I go up here. Give me my parcel, please.”
“I thought I was seeing you home.”
“I don’t know why you thought so.”
“I still think so,” said Charles cheerfully.
Margaret shook her head.
“No. Please give me my box.”
Perhaps she expected him to contest the point. Instead, he said quite meekly,
“Very well, if you like carrying things that run into you, carry them.”
“Thanks,” said Margaret.
Her way lay along one of the darker streets. She felt an odd, rough disappointment as she walked along it alone. She had certainly expected that Charles would thrust his company upon her. She had told him to go; but she had not expected him to go. He was not at all a biddable person. If he let her go home alone, it was because he didn’t to want to come with her. Margaret held her head a little higher. The old desk was a most uncomfortable thing to carry; some-times the edge of it ran into her side, and sometimes into her arm.
In the darkest patch of the road she bumped into someone. Her “Oh, I’m so sorry!” received no answer except a sort of half sob.
“Did I hurt you?”
The distressing little sound was repeated. Margaret began to wonder what was the matter. She could just see someone standing against the brick wall that bordered the tiny front gardens of the houses on this side of the road. The dark figure seemed to be leaning against the wall in a helpless half crouching attitude.
“What is it? Are you ill?”
The figure moved. A girl’s voice said shakily, “I- don’t-know.”
“What’s the matter?”
It was abominably stupid to ask the question-the girl would certainly beg from her.
“I haven’t anywhere to go.”
Margaret moved, and at once two despairing hands caught at her.
“Don’t go away! Don’t leave me!”
Margaret told herself she had been a fool, but she was in for it now. She took the girl by the arm, and felt that her sleeve was soaked.
“Good gracious! You’re wet through.!”
“It rained.” The voice was one of utter misery.
“Come along as far as the lamp-post-we can’t talk in the dark.”
The lamplight showed Margaret a girl with drenched fair hair hanging in wispy curls. The girl was very pretty indeed; even with a tear-stained face and limp hair she was very pretty. Her dark blue coat was beautifully cut, and drenched though it was, Margaret could both feel and see that the stuff had been expensive. It had a grey fox collar, draggled and discouraged-looking, but a fine skin for all that.