the next day i was too fully conscious of being the heroine of a sensational drama, to shed tears over my lonely and miserable self. the boat left the north wall early in the morning, so that toilet, breakfast, farewells were a hurry, a scare, the suspension of feeling in stunned senses. i scarcely tasted tea, but i looked forlornly at the lovely red-and-white cups as big as bowls, which i still remember as a comforting joy to the eye.

all the children around me were stamping and shouting, running every minute between mouthfuls to see if the cab had come, if my box were in the hall, and read aloud the label, "passenger to lysterby by birmingham," in awed tones. it seemed so wonderful to them that i should be described as "passenger" to anywhere. not a tear was shed by anybody. only war-whoops and joyous voluble chatter and thrilling orders that rang along the passage like the clarion notes[pg 114] of destiny. elsewhere hearts under such circumstances might break. here they only palpitated with delight in the unusual, and the whole party was filled with a like impatience to lead me in triumph down to the cab, not from a heartless desire to get rid of me, but for the grand dramatic instant of farewell. they greedily yearned to bundle me into the fatal vehicle, for the intoxicating novelty of waving their handkerchiefs to me from the doorstep as the cab drove off.

what might follow for me they did not take into account, having neither imagination nor tenderness to help them to look beyond a glowing moment. what would follow for them they were already perfectly aware of: a wild race up-stairs, and a whole entrancing afternoon devoted to discussing my departure, voyage, and probable experiences.

my stepfather took me up in his arms, kissed me on both cheeks with his cheery careless affection, and carried me down-stairs. my mother followed with a shawl, and a packet containing cold chicken, bread, cake, and milk.

in the hall the terrible postulant stood waiting for me, and met my scared look with a quick nod, meant to assure me that although her aspect might be that of an ogre, she could be trusted[pg 115] not to devour a little girl. my mother gave her the lunch and the shawl, and told her to keep me warm, as i was not yet recovered from the effects of whooping-cough. through the open door i saw my box on the top of the cab, and it seemed as if hundreds of shrill young voices were shouting blithely to me, "good-bye, angela." quantities of soft young lips strove to kiss me at once, and dancing blue eyes sparkled around me, and gave me the sensation of being already cast out of a warm circle where my empty place would not be felt, where no word of regret would ever be uttered for the unwelcome waif that called them sister.

without a tear or a word, giving back their joyous "good-bye" without sorrow or revolt, i carried my mumbed little heart into the cab, so alone that the companionship of the postulant offered me no promise of protection or sympathy, and i never once looked at my stepfather sitting opposite me.

so i began my life, and so has it continued. some obscure instinct of pride compelled me to wave my handkerchief in response to excited waves of white from the pavement. i looked as if i did not care, and this was the start of a subsequent deliberate development of the "don't[pg 116] care" philosophy, which the good ladies of mercy triumphantly prophesied would eventually lead me to perdition. to perdition it did not lead me, but to many private hours of despair and suffering, for which i could claim no alleviation in the support of my fellows, since i had chosen the attitude of defiance and "don't care."

heaven knows how much i cared! what salt passionate tears i wept because i always cared a great deal too much. but this nobody knew. my pride was to pass for a hardened reprobate, and such were my iniquities and the ferocity of that same untamable pride that if i achieved success in nothing else, here my accomplishment could not be disputed.

i can hardly tell now what were my first definite impressions of a ship and the sea, for it is difficult to recall the time when either constituted a novelty for me. if there were truth in the theory of transmigration of the soul, mine ought to be a remnant of a sailor's, or a child's born at sea. the big vessel inspired me with no fears, but an acute sensation of delight. the ropes, the sailors, the shouting, the wonderful file of porters laden with trunks and portmanteaus, cases and boxes dropping into mysterious depths with such an awful suggestion of fatality, the [pg 117]triumphant assertion of our herded insignificance, the captain's air of deity upon the bridge above, the marvels of the cabins below, and the little perilous stairs one rather slid than walked down, and the rapture of climbing up again from the stuffy dimness into the grey brine-tasting air, to laugh aloud in the intoxication of fear as the ship rose and fell upon the swell of a choppy grey sea rushing into the river's mouth.

it was sad to be alone, to be going away at seven from one's land and home among unknown barbarians; but for one strange hour i was not to be pitied, so quivering with pleasure was this first taste of adventure. by-and-by i grew stunned and quiescent, and was glad to sit still, curled up in some pretty lady's lap, where my cheek rested luxuriously against soft, warm fur. but for the moment i was too eager to see everything, follow every curious movement with childhood's wide alert gaze, hear everything, understand everything.

my stepfather, like a big, good-natured man, humoured me, and we seemed to travel together hand-in-hand over an entire world, looking at all sorts of odd things, and listening to all sorts of odd noises. it was less beautiful, to be sure, but how much more interesting than the [pg 118]pantomime! i provoked a shout of laughter from a man in a greatcoat with a tremendous black beard, by clamouring to know where the sharks were. before the answer could come, a bell rang sharply, and somebody sang out "all ashore!"

"good-bye, angy, and god bless you! be a good child, now, and don't fret," said my stepfather, stooping to gather me to him, and there was a break in his voice i had once before heard, when he found me with dead stevie in my arms.

i can imagine what a piteous little object i must have looked, so frail and fair and small, standing alone on the big deck, without a hand to clasp, a fond smile to encourage me, lips to kiss away my tears. but he was too much of the careless, good-tempered irishman to allow unpleasant emotions to trouble him except in a vague and transient way. now i know how he would blink away the sad vision, and as he turned from me with a cheery "don't fret," he waved his hand encouragingly, and his golden beard shone brightly in the subdued morning lights. he was a brave picture at all times, so smiling and handsome, and tall, and big, with the clearest blue eyes i have ever seen and the most winning of gestures.

i was straining to watch the last of him, forcing my passage through skirts and trousers, like an excited mouse, when a lady caught me up in her arms and held me while i frantically shook my handkerchief, and he to the last stood on the wharf, kissing his hand and waving his hat to me, as if i were a grown-up person. i was enchanted with his gallant air and fine courtesy, and flung him kisses with both hands. then i buried my head in the lady's fur, and sobbed as if my heart would break.

ireland was receding from me, the ship was rocking, there was a sullen deafening roar of steam, and i could no longer discern the one familiar figure i gazed for in the dim indistinguishable crowd on the thin, dark shoreline. the only world i knew was fading fast before my wet glance, and in terror of another i clasped the strange lady's neck, and shivered into her soothing furs.