wavering mind yielded at once, having no more power to hesitate or reason. She stamped her foot on the stone pavement, and cried aloud, "I shall not go back—never—never again—it is all over now."
Thus she decided to try the world, to throw herself on chance, they could not be crueller than home. If all failed was there not the river? She had read in the papers of poor women leaping in it when all hope was over—"No, she would not go home."
Now that her mind was quite made up, so strange and delightful a sense of freedom, of adventure, filled that young soul that she could have shouted for joy. She felt no care for the morrow, not she—this new liberty quenched for the moment all other ideas and fears.
"And where to go to now?" she thought. "Where seek employment?"
She had the sixpence her father had given her for her fare, a small capital to start life upon. Should she buy a broom and sweep a crossing, or go out into the country and pluck flowers to sell in the town, as she knew some poor girls did?
She was well aware that she was far from being so ugly as her stepmother had made out. She knew that many a gentleman would stop to buy a flower from a pretty girl like herself, who would pass a plain woman unnoticed. Oh, yes, she knew that.
But she was so glad, so drunk with freedom, that she could not think steadily of these matters just yet. No, she must run wild for an hour or so, until this fever of delight had moderated. She must go to some great open lonely place, where she could laugh and dance to herself for awhile.
This poor little Mary who had never been a child before! all the pent-up childishness of the long sad years burst out in this her wild, mad, first day of freedom.
She thought she would go out of the crowded streets to be by herself in Hyde Park for an hour or so. She had been there once before on a winter's morning, and she had noticed what a vast lonely region it was. So she went up Piccadilly, passed into the Park, and found herself at the corner of Rotten Row.
Imagine her bewilderment at what she saw. It was no longer the dreary desert of the winter's morning, but a great garden filled with such a crowd in carriage, on horseback, and on foot, as only Hyde Park at one period of the day and in the height of the London season can show.
She felt a new sensation of shame and terror creep over her in the midst of all these grand people who were so different from herself. They were looking at her, questioning her right to be there, she thought, and her confusion increased.
She glanced around with nervous bewilderment, and her face and neck flushed crimson. Some were looking at her, it is true; her rare grace and beauty contrasting with her old-fashioned shabby dress naturally attracted attention. Dowagers deliberately raised their pince-nez and stared at her, and young men of fashion gazed with open admiration.
"Oh, this won't do at all!" she said to herself, and she hurried off through the throng till she reached the comparatively deserted open green space in the centre of the Park.
And now she could give play to her feelings. When no one was by, she went wild for a while and clapped her hands with joy, and all because she was alone in the world with a fortune of just six pennies.
At last she sobered down, and sitting on a bench began to ponder quietly but no less happily.
Now it happened that a Satyr of the Parks had seen her from afar off.
So presently there came by an elderly gentleman who was dressed in the height of fashion, belaced, bedyed as to whiskers, and with an affectation of youthful suppleness that must have made his old limbs ache again.
He passed her once, glanced at her, then after a few paces returned again and sat down beside her.
She did not notice him, so absorbed was she in her speculations as how best to invest her capital.
After eyeing her askance for a few minutes, the old gentleman, wishing to break the ice, and not being able to evolve on the spur of the moment anything more original in the way of remarks, said in a smooth and conciliatory voice:
"It is a beautiful day, is it not, my dear?"
She started from her reverie, looked straight at him, instinctively read his meaning, and without a word got up, with proud gesture gathered her shawl around her, and walked away.
Her dream was broken, a chill came over her heart, the incident had made her suddenly realise the horror of her position.
She would find no help from any save from such as this man was. Oh! the cruelty—the wicked cruelty of the city! She shuddered at the picture of her future thus vividly presented to her, and tears, the first for years, came to her eyes.
As miserable as she had but just before been glad, she walked on, in an objectless manner, anywhere. This new wild sensation of freedom had turned her head for the while, and her emotions were intense and rapidly changing to their contraries in an hysterical fashion.
Without knowing how she got there, she again recognised around her the familiar buildings of Fleet Street. She approached her father's office, attracted there by the same sort of fascination that drags the murderer to the scene of his guilt.
Soon she considered how dangerous it was for her to loiter in that neighbourhood. She was aware that she must have been missed by this time; her father had probably made inquiries, had instructed the police, and there were many persons about Ludgate Hill who knew her well by sight.
Feeling hungry she went up a side street near Fetter Lane, and entering a small baker's shop bought a pennyworth of bread, and asked the woman there to give her a glass of water.
Refreshed by this frugal meal she went down to the Thames Embankment, and sitting on a seat tried to think calmly over her position. She had heard of casual wards where homeless penniless people could get lodging for the night. She thought she would most probably have to seek this shelter at least for this night, for even now it was getting late in the afternoon.
Yes! she would wait till it was dark, and then ask a policeman—she dared not do so in broad daylight—to tell her where there was a casual ward.
And so she sat down on benches, or wandered restlessly up and down the streets until it was dark and the long June day was done, when, dizzy and weary, she was once again treading the pavements of Fleet Street.
The bells of St. Clements had just pealed out ten hours, when the girl of a sudden perceived, hurriedly approaching her, her father.
He had evidently returned from home to find traces of her.
For a moment the shock paralysed her, but only for a moment. To her right was a narrow dark street; she darted in and ran down it with the haste that terror and madness give.
This street, or rather alley, is known as Devereux Passage.
On reaching the bottom of it, the poor hunted creature found herself in a sort of cul-de-sac. It was all over. There was no escape. The street ended. On the left were the closed iron gates of the Temple. In front of her was a wall. To the right her flight was also stopped, for there the narrow passage that leads off to Essex Street had wooden barriers placed across it, the pavement being up for repair of drain or water-pipes: so this too seemed to her hurried gaze, and in the dim light, impassable as the dead wall in front.
She was at bay; trembling, faint,
