“When a friend asks, there is no to-morrow.”

George Herbert.

When Evereld parted with the kindly American girl and Dick Lewisham a sense of great loneliness for a time overwhelmed her. She looked in a dazed way at the various delicacies displayed in the prettily arranged shop, wondering whether she would ever feel hungry again. Having at last selected some dainty little meat patties, and two crescent-shaped rolls, she walked on to the next halting-place of the electric tram, and, after a very brief waiting, found herself, to her great relief, comfortably installed in a corner seat en route for Vevey. She had judged it more prudent to take the tram, knowing that she would more easily be traced had she gone direct from Territet station to Geneva by the railroad or by steamer. When once they were safely out of Montreux, and the risk of meeting any of the visitors in the Rigi Vaudois was practically over, she breathed more freely, even finding time to enjoy the lovely glimpses of the lake and the mountains as they sped through Clarens and the pretty surroundings of Vevey.

Arrived at length in that quaint old town, she was set down at the railway station, where she prudently took her ticket only as far as Lausanne, travelling second class because she knew that she was less liable to find herself alone, and had heard the continental saying that only fools and Englishmen travel first class. It was during the twenty minutes’ waiting time at Lausanne that her perplexities began.

A kindly looking English lady, seeing that she seemed to be alone, sat down beside her and began to talk about the weather and the scenery. Finally she hazarded a direct question.

“Have you a long journey before you?”

“Not very long,” said Evereld, colouring, as she glanced inquiringly into her companion’s face, as though to make sure what sort of person she was. In one sense the look reassured her, for the most suspicious mortal could not have credited this mild-faced lady with evil design, but, on the other hand, she was evidently one of those inquisitive mortals who delight in asking questions, in season and out of season.

“I am going myself to Geneva, if that is your direction we might perhaps travel together,” said the lady pleasantly.

“Thank you,” said Evereld, reflecting that after all she could baffle the questions by reading when once they had started.

“It is not so easy for a girl to travel alone abroad as it is in England,” said her companion, looking curiously at Evereld’s girlish face. “I almost wonder your parents allow it.”

“I have no parents,” said Evereld.

“Indeed, and have you been staying with friends?”

“Yes,” said Evereld. “And I am on my way now to some other friends.” Murmuring an excuse she sprang up and went to the window to see whether the train was nearly ready.

“This is dreadful,” she reflected. “If we talk much longer she will drag the whole story out of me. I will buy some papers and try to make her read.”

“You are sure your luggage is all right?” exclaimed the good lady the moment she returned.

“Quite sure, thank you,” said Evereld, clasping her hand bag closer and trembling lest she should be asked some quite unanswerable question.

At length an official began vigorously to ring the great bell in the doorway and to shout the intelligence that passengers for Geneva and various other places must take their seats.

“Can I help you?” said Evereld, politely offering to take a basket from the large heap of possessions with which her neighbour was surrounded. She was startled to feel something jump inside it in an uncanny way.

“Thank you if you would. To tell the truth it is my little dog in there, but he is such a good traveller, I don’t think you will mind him.”

“Shall I say that I detest dogs and so escape to another carriage?” reflected Evereld smiling to herself. But on the whole in spite of the tiresome questions she rather liked this good English lady and found a certain comfort in her presence when once they were installed in the train. Her spirits rose as they travelled further and further from the Mactavishs, she even grew hungry, made short work of the provisions she had bought, parried her friend’s questions skilfully by counter questions about the pet dog and finally took refuge in “Pride and Prejudice” and in the delicious humour of Jane Austen’s characters forgot all her dangers and difficulties till the train steamed into Geneva station.

“I suppose your friends will meet you?” asked the talkative lady as she fastened the dog up in his basket.

“No,” said Evereld, “but I shall manage very well now, thank you,” and with rather hurried farewells she sprang from the carriage not offering to carry the basket any further but promising to send a porter. Fortunately her companion was in such a bustle with the effort of collecting her various belongings that she did not notice the English girl’s somewhat abrupt departure, and Evereld with a joyful sense of escape made her way to the outside of the station and getting into one of the little public carriages drove off to make her purchases in the town.

Having bought an ulster and a warm shawl which made a very respectable show when put into her cloak straps she went back to the station, dined in a leisurely way and passed the rest of her two hours’ waiting time as patiently as she could. By six o’clock she was safely in the train once more, with the happy knowledge that she had no more changes that night, and would arrive at Lyons in rather more than four hours. Her heart danced for joy as she reflected that by the next afternoon she might have safely reached Bride O’Ryan and AimÉe Magnay, her greatest friends, in Mrs. Magnay’s old home in Auvergne. That was the safe refuge towards which she was steering her course, that was the thought which had darted into her mind on the previous evening when she had decided that flight was the only thing under the circumstances.

Later on however when darkness had stolen like a pall over the landscape, when weary with want of sleep and worn out with excitement and anxiety, the glad sense of escape died away, she grew unutterably sad-hearted and forlorn.

At the other end of the carriage two men wrangled together over the vexed question of having the window open or shut. A fat French lady went to sleep and snored monotonously, just opposite her a young couple on their honeymoon laughed and chatted in low tones with much outward demonstration, while beyond a young mother sat with her baby in her arms, an air of placid content on her face.

Never before had Evereld felt such a unit, never before had she realised how really alone she was in the world. She shuddered to think what would have become of her if Ralph had never crossed her path. And then as the engine throbbed on through the darkness all those terrors of imagining from which her healthy uneventful life had so far been exempt, laid strong hold upon her, and made the night hideous.

She saw Ralph lying ill and forlorn in a fever hospital. She saw him lying with pale lips and hands folded in the awful calm of death. She saw herself alone and brokenhearted, struggling to make something of her maimed life and failing in the attempt. She saw Sir Matthew tracking her out and carrying her back to the house in Queen Anne’s Gate. Worst of all she saw herself standing in church and passively allowing herself to be married to Bruce Wylie.

She had just reached this climax in her miserable thoughts when as the train stopped at the wayside station the door of the carriage was opened and in came a very aged priest whose rusty black raiment had an old and somewhat countrified look. His thin, worn face might have been stern in youth, but the passing years had mellowed it, and like Southey’s holly tree what had once been sharp and aggressive had grown tender as it more nearly approached heaven. His keen eyes seemed to take in the occupants of the carriage in one glance and he at once divined that the sad little English girl in the corner was for some reason feeling altogether desolate. He took the vacant place beside her and began to unwrap a package which he carried. It proved to be a cage containing a bullfinch, and Evereld watched with interest the scared fluttering of the bird and the gentle reassuring face of the old man as he tried to pacify it.

“It is its first journey,” he said glancing at her. “The unaccustomed has terrors for us all. It will soon understand that it is quite safe. Eh, Fifi? Should I let any harm happen to thee, thou foolish one?”

“Can it sing any tune?” said Evereld. “We had one in London that sang a bit of the National Anthem.”

“And Fifi is just as patriotic,” said the old priest laughing, “he will pipe two lines of Partant pour la Syrie, I am taking him to cheer up one of my parishioners who is lying ill at Lyons. He will think Fifi from the PresbytÈre almost as good as one of his own friends from the village. And when the lad is better why he will bring back this winged missionary to me. My old housekeeper would not hear of parting with Fifi altogether, he is the life of the house she says.”

The bird growing now more accustomed to its strange surroundings piped cheerfully the familiar air of the refrain

“Amour a la plus belle

Honneur au plus vaillant.”

“Ah! he sings better than ours ever did,” said Evereld thinking of the bird Ralph had brought from Whinhaven.

“And he is more tractable than a choir boy,” said the old priest laughing. “Does he sing too loud and tire one’s head—it is but to cover his cage and he is as quiet as any mouse.”

After that they drifted into talk about life in rural France, and by the time they reached Lyons Evereld felt that the old man had become quite a friend.

The other passengers scrambled out of the carriage each intent on his own affairs, but the priest helped her courteously with her roll of cloaks.

“Would you mind telling me what is the best and most quiet hotel to go to?” she asked. “I cannot get on any further till nine o’clock to-morrow morning. I am on my way to stay with friends near Clermont-Ferrand.”

“You are over young my child,” he said, “to travel unprotected. But I know it is not in England as with us, the young demoiselles have greater liberty. The best plan will be for you to go to an Hotel close by. As it happens I know the manager and his wife and if you will permit me I will walk with you to the door, and ask them to take good care of you. I think you are like Fifi, not over well-accustomed to travelling.”

“Thank you very much,” said Evereld gratefully. “Now I shall feel safe indeed.”

The old priest piloted her across the crowded platform and having given her luggage to the hotel porter himself took her to the Manager’s little office where Madame, a comely and pleasant looking woman, sat at her desk busily casting up accounts. Her face lighted up at sight of the old man.

“A thousand welcomes Father Nicolas, it is long since you paid us a visit.”

“You are well,” said the old priest, “I need not ask that, for it is easily to be seen, and busy as usual. Is your husband in?”

“He will be desolated, but he has gone to his Club.”

“Ah, well, I will call and see him to-morrow. In the meantime will you kindly do your utmost to make this young English lady feel at home and comfortable. She is unable to travel further till the 8.59 to-morrow morning. I leave you in good hands,” he said, taking kindly leave of Evereld, “Madame has a great reputation for taking good care of her guests.”

“It will be my greatest pleasure,” said the manager’s wife. “Mademoiselle looks tired and will doubtless like to go to her room.”

Evereld assented and toiled upstairs after the brisk capable looking manageress who chatted pleasantly as they went.

“He has the best of hearts, old Father Nicolas,” she said. “I have known him since I was a child. There is not a living thing I verily believe that he does not love. It was a sight to see him standing on a winter’s morning in the garden of the PresbytÈre and feeding the birds before he went to Mass.”

“Where does he live?” asked Evereld.

“At Arvron, a little village where there are many poor. His people adore him. This will be your room, mademoiselle, and shall I send you up a little hot soup to take the last thing, or will you rather come down to the salle À manger?”

“I should like it here please,” said Evereld. “And you won’t let me over-sleep myself and miss the train to-morrow. I am so tired, I think I should sleep the clock round if no one called me.”

“I will call you myself,” said the manageress. “It is a busy life here and I am always an early riser. Bon soir, mademoiselle. I hope you will be quite rested by the morning.”

“How much easier it has all been than I expected,” thought Evereld, as she made her preparations for the night. “To think that this time yesterday I was at Glion and in such a panic lest anything should prevent my getting away! I wonder whether I had better telegraph to Mrs. Magnay, and tell her I am on my way to ask her protection? I don’t think I will. It might lead to my being traced later on, and besides I have no idea whether there is a telegraph office within reasonable reach of the Chateau. How I wonder what it will be like.”

Her reflections were interrupted by the arrival of a pretty young chambermaid who brought her a basin of the most delicious soup; and long before midnight she was sound asleep and dreaming of Bride and AimÉe.

She woke up in excellent spirits, chatted with Madame as she breakfasted on the coffee and rolls, which the pretty chambermaid brought to her bedroom, and set off on the next stage of her journey full of hope for the future and relief that all had passed off so well. At that very minute Sir Matthew Mactavish was ruefully regarding her empty room at Glion and wondering how he could possibly trace her out. But Evereld was too busy to trouble herself much over the thought of his well-deserved discomfiture. Every one seemed intent on being kind to her here. The Manageress was almost motherly in her solicitude, the chambermaid waited on her as though service were a pleasure, and the hotel porter neglected the other passengers in the omnibus until he had seen her safely established in the salle d’attente with her possessions. Here to her surprise she found old Father Nicolas reading his breviary.

“It was too early yet to see the sick lad I told you of,” he explained, “so I thought I would start you on your way, if you will permit me the pleasure.”

“I shall never forget all your kindness,” she said gratefully. “I was feeling so dreadfully alone till you got into the train last night.”

“Well it is no bad thing to learn what loneliness means,” said the old man thoughtfully. “Nothing so well teaches you to go through life on the look out for the lonely, that you may serve them. Ha! They come to announce your train. I will inquire if you have a change of carriages at Montbrison.” He hurried away, returning in a minute or two to help her with her packages.

“Yes, I am sorry to say they will turn you out at Montbrison, but you will have only ten minutes waiting and no difficulty at all in that quiet place. I see M. Dubochet and his two daughters—very pleasant people—will you go in the same carriage?”

And so with a few pleasant words of introduction to Mademoiselle Dubochet, Father Nicolas bade Evereld God-speed, and as the train moved off she looked out wistfully after her kindly old friend, wondering whether she should ever again come across him.

The clock was striking five when after an uneventful journey Evereld found herself outside the station at Clermont-Ferrand, giving orders to a somewhat rough-looking Auvergnat to drive her to the ChÂteau de Mabillon. The man seemed inclined to hold out for a certain sum for the journey and as Evereld had no notion of the distance, she was determined to make no rash promises. It would never do to be extravagant now, for there was no saying how long her last allowance would have to supply her wants.

“M. Magnay will settle with you when we reach the chÂteau,” she said with a little touch of dignity in her manner. The man instantly subsided, feeling that he had no stranger to deal with, but a friend of the family. And Claude Magnay’s name was quite sufficient to assure him that he would receive his rightful fare, but not the extortionate sum he had demanded of the new comer.

The little incident had however depressed Evereld. She had spoken confidently to the man but now a qualm of doubt came over her. She was about to cast herself on the mercy of AimÉe’s parents, and after all she knew little about them: on their occasional visits to Southbourne, she had gone with AimÉe and Bride to spend Saturday afternoon with them, and she had been three or four times to their London house, but she realised now that she was going to ask a very great favour of them, and that possibly they might not care to shelter her from her lawful guardian.

These thoughts lasted all the time they were driving through the narrow and dingy streets of Clermont-Ferrand, and she fancied that the lava built houses seemed to frown upon her and to assure her that she was an unwelcome visitor. Before long however they had left the town behind them and were driving through the most beautiful country, and in that sunny smiling landscape it was impossible to give way to anxious thoughts. The glowing colours of the autumn leaves, the picturesque vineyards, the river with its gleaming water reflecting the blue sky, and the strange irregular mountains which rose on every hand filled her with delight.

The sun had set when at length they reached a narrower and more secluded valley; Evereld fancied they must be getting near to Mabillon and inquired of her driver.

“It is two kilometres to the chateau,” said the Auvergnat. Then after a few minutes he again turned round from the box seat. “Madame Magnay and her daughter are down at the mill yonder,” he said.

“Oh, stop then, and let me speak to them,” said Evereld eagerly; and springing from the carriage she hastened towards AimÉe who quickly perceived her and ran forward with a cry of joyful astonishment.

“This is a delightful surprise. Are you travelling back through France? Mother, you remember Evereld?”

Mrs. Magnay gave her a charming greeting, containing all the warmth and animation which English greetings so often lack.

“I remember Evereld very well, and am more delighted than I can say to welcome her to my dear old home.”

“You are very good,” said Evereld shyly, “I have come to you because I was in great trouble, and I thought—I felt sure—you would help and advise me. It is impossible for me to stay longer with Sir Matthew Mactavish.”

Her eyes were full of tears, and Mrs. Magnay taking her hand began to lead her towards the carriage.

“You are quite tired out, poor child,” she said caressingly. “We are very sorry for your trouble, but very glad that it brought you to Mabillon. This evening you shall tell us all about it. Do you see that pretty girl waving her hand to us from the cottage door? That is my dear old Javotte’s granddaughter. AimÉe has told you how she starved herself in the siege of Paris that we might have food enough. Dear old woman!”

“And here is one of the best views of Mont D’Or,” said AimÉe, “only the light is fading so fast you can’t properly see it.”

Chatting thus, they soon reached the old chÂteau, a great part of which had now been carefully restored, and Mrs. Magnay seeing how pale and worn her guest looked, determined to take her straight upstairs.

“Run AimÉe,” she said, “and tell your father to settle with the driver, and then bring a cup of tea for Evereld. I shall take her to Bride’s room, she will be more snug in there I think.”

So Evereld was taken straight to her friend, and then while Mrs. Magnay herself kindled the wood fire, and daintily piled up fir-cones to catch the blaze, Bride made her rest in the snuggest of easy chairs, and she had very soon told them the whole story.

“I know nothing of English law,” said Mrs. Magnay. “Are you sure you can put yourself under the protection of the Lord Chancellor?”

“I think so,” said Evereld. “Don’t you remember, Bride, how we used to tease you about your answer in that examination we had, when you wrote—‘The Lord Chancellor must be a very busy man for Blackstone says he is the natural guardian of all orphans, idiots and lunatics.’”

“To be sure I do,” said Bride laughing. “Well if Blackstone says so, you must surely be right.”

“I will go and talk over matters with my husband, and see what he advises, and in the meantime, Bride, I strongly advise you to put Evereld to bed. She looks to me quite tired out. Rest and forget your troubles, dear. No one can molest you at Mabillon, and you say that Sir Matthew can have no clue to your whereabouts.”

“No, he will naturally think I have gone to Mrs. Hereford, or to my old governess at Dresden,” said Evereld. “To-morrow I must write to Mrs. Hereford and ask her to let Ralph know that I am safe. I am so afraid he may hear that I have disappeared and be anxious about me.”

“Write to him,” said Bride, “and let Doreen forward your letter.”

In the meantime Mrs. Magnay told the whole story to her husband, and it was decided that he should put the case straight into the hands of a London solicitor. Evereld, being consulted as to the one she would prefer, unhesitatingly named Ralph’s old friend Mr. Marriott of Basinghall Street, and as Claude Magnay knew that she could not have mentioned a more trustworthy and efficient man he wrote to him and made her on the following morning also write with a full description of all that had passed, of her suspicions with regard to her fortune and of her wish for a thorough investigation of her affairs.