E. Phillips Oppenheim

"A figure from the past I see once more as in a dream."

This evening I have had an adventure! I am thankful, for it has occupied my thoughts for awhile; and for anything that does that I am grateful. I had been in the house all day, restless and nervous, and towards dusk I put on my cloak and a thick veil, and went out into the street. I scarcely noticed which way I went. It was all the same to me. A dull purple bank of clouds hung low down in the west, and the air was close and still. By-and-by I heard thunder, and big raindrops fell upon the pavement. A storm was threatening, and I longed for it to come and clear the air.

I must have been walking for nearly an hour, when it came at last, and the rain fell in great sheets. I looked around for a cab, but there was none in sight. I had no idea where I was,—London is so vast and large,—and though, by the distant roar of wheels, I could tell that I was not far from a great thoroughfare, the street in which I was seemed to be deserted. Just by my side was a dark tunnel, gloomy and vault-like in appearance; but in that downpour any refuge was welcome, and I stepped back underneath it. It was like going into the bowels of the earth; and, every now and then, there was a roar over my head which made me almost dizzy. But, from round the corner, I could see that it was only the sound of trains passing and repassing, so I decided to stay until I could see a cab.

Opposite to me was a man with a truck-load of oranges, and by his side a boy seated before a red-hot swinging can, containing chestnuts. There was no one else in the street, although at the bottom of it crowds of people and a constant stream of vehicles were hurrying along. On the other side of the way was a tall and grim-looking building, discoloured with smoke and age. It was evidently a hospital or institution of some sort. The windows were long and narrow, and one or two of them, I could see, were of stained glass. There was no brass plate by the front door, nor any sign. In the absence of anything else to do, I began to frame surmises as to what the place might be. The spotlessly white doorsteps and polished bell interested me; they seemed out of tone with the character of the place and its surroundings, so utterly bare and dreary. I began to wish that a caller would come and ring the bell, so that I could get a peep at the interior. But no one did, although I noticed that more than one hurrying passer-by glanced up at it curiously.

The thunder died away, but the rain still came down heavily. If it had not been for my curious interest in that great ugly building opposite, I should have risked a wetting, and made my way down to the busy thoroughfare in the distance. But I was anxious to see some one enter or leave the place, or for something to happen which would give me an idea as to its character; so I waited. Half an hour passed, and my curiosity remained unsatisfied. There was no sign of life about the place; not even a tradesman had called, nor had that forbidding-looking portal once been opened. It was still raining fast, but there were signs of finer weather, and right overhead was a break in the clouds. I should certainly be able to leave now in a few minutes; but, strangely enough, all my impatience seemed gone. The grim-looking building opposite had fascinated me. I had no desire to leave the place until I had found out all about it.

It was odd, that curiosity of mine; all my days I shall wonder at it. On the face of it, it seemed so unreasonable, and yet it led to so much. I have no creed, and I know nothing about philosophies, or perhaps to-night's adventure might have meant even more to me. But, indeed, it seems as though some unseen hand led me out and brought me into that deserted street. From to-night there must be changes in my life; I cannot escape from them. As yet I am too much in a whirl to ask myself whether I wish to.

To return to that house. When I saw that the storm was clearing, and that I should be able to leave in a few minutes, I determined to make an effort to satisfy my curiosity. I crossed the road, and addressed the man who was sitting on the handles of his barrow of oranges.

"Do you know what place that is opposite?" I asked, pointing across the road.

He took out a filthy pipe from his mouth, and spat upon the pavement. I think that he must have noticed my look of disgust, for he answered me surlily, "No, I don't!"

I turned to the boy. "Do you?" I asked.

He shook his head. "Not for certain, ma'am. I believe it's some sort of a Roman Catholic place, though. Them gents in long clothes and shovel hats is allus going in and hout. 'Ullo, Bill! Here she be again! She's a-trying it on, ain't she?"

The man looked up and grunted. I followed the boy's glance, and saw a tall, dark woman walking swiftly along on the other side of the road. From the very first her figure was somehow familiar to me, and

She stopped outside the closed door, and hesitated for a moment, as though doubtful whether to ring or not. During her moment of hesitation she glanced round, and I recognised her. She could not see me, for I was in the shadow of the underground tunnel.

"Blarmed if she ain't come again," the man growled. "She's as regular as clockwork! Wonder what she wants!"

I felt my knees trembling; I could not have crossed the road at that moment if it had been to save my life. The boy looked up at me curiously.

"Happen you know her, lady," he remarked. "She's been here at this time, or thereabouts, pretty near every day for a fortnight."

Happen I know her! Yes, that was the boy's odd phrase. It rang in my ears, and I found myself gasping for breath. My eyes were fixed upon that tall, slender figure, clothed in sober black, waiting upon the doorstep with bowed head, and standing very still and motionless. It was like an effigy of patience. There were not two women in the world like that; it was impossible. She was in England, and alone—free! What did it mean? Should I run to her, or hide away? I glanced over my shoulder where the black shadows of the tunnel were only dimly lit by the feeble gaslight. I could steal away, and she would never see me. Yet as I thought of it, the grimy, barren street and the solemn-looking building faded away before my eyes. The sun and wind burned my face; the wind, salt with ocean spray, and echoing with the hoarse screaming of the sea-birds that rode upon it. I was at Cruta again, panting to be free, stealing away in the twilight down the narrow path amongst the rocks to where that tiny boat lay waiting, like a speck upon the waters. And it was she who had helped me—the sad-faced woman who had braved the terrible anger of the man whom we had both dreaded. Again I heard her gentle words of counsel, and the answering lies which should have blistered my lips. For I lied to her, not hastily or on impulse, but deliberately in cold blood. Anything, I cried to myself, to escape from this rock, this living death! So I lied to her, and she helped me. No wonder that I trembled. No wonder that I half made up my mind to flee away into the sheltering darkness of that noisome-looking tunnel.

It takes long to set down in writing the thoughts which flashed through me at that moment. Yet when I had made up my mind the woman was still there, waiting meekly before the closed door.

"You were speaking of her," I said to the boy, who was half-sitting, half-crouching against the side of the tunnel. "What was it you said? I did not hear."

Man and boy commenced to tell me together. Their strange London talk puzzled me, and I could only extract a confused sense of what they said. The woman, to whom they rudely pointed, had called at the building opposite every day for a fortnight at about this hour to make some inquiry. Day by day she had turned away, after one brief question asked and answered, with bowed head and dejected manner. Yet, day by day, she returned and repeated it. Ever the same disappointment, the same despair!

They knew nothing more. Her regular visits had awakened a certain curiosity in them, and they had commenced to look for them, and indulge in a little mild speculation as to her one day meeting with a different reception. Nothing more! There was a shade of pity in the boy's tone, and I gave him a shilling; then I crossed the road.

As I left the kerbstone, the door opened and I heard her question:—

"Has Father Adrian called or written, or sent any address yet, please?"

The man, who had opened the door only a few inches, kept in the background, and I could see nothing of him, but I heard his grim, monosyllable reply:

"No! Father Adrian has not visited or communicated with us."

She turned away with a meek "Thank you," and found herself face to face with me. My heart smote me when I saw how poor were her clothes, and how thin her features.

At first she did not know me; but I raised my veil, and whispered her name softly in her ear.

She threw up her hands, and swayed backwards and forwards upon the pavement.

"Adrea! Adrea!" she cried wildly. "My God!"

A cab drove up, and I called it. She had just strength enough to enter it, leaning heavily upon my arm; then she fainted.