Love stories; Reformatories -- Fiction; Social classes -- Fiction; Young women -- Fiction
Nor was this all. Drifting round the last sheltering corner came
the reek of a pipe. Jean's heart sank. After all, the trap! Then
second thought told her that a foe in ambush would not smoke, and she
gathered courage to reconnoiter. Across the quadrangle she made out the
motionless figure of the watch. He was plainly without suspicion. He
had completed his circuit and was lounging against a hydrant, his idle
gaze upon the stars.
So for cycling ages he sat. Yet but a quarter of an hour had lapsed
when the man knocked the ashes from his pipe, yawned audibly, and
turned upon his heel. The instant the door of the gatehouse swallowed
him, Jean sped like a phantom across the open ground, skirted the
hospital, the tool-sheds, and the hotbeds, and plunged into the
recesses of the garden. All else was simple. The high fence had no
terrors; her scaling-ladder was a piece of board. The asperities of the
barbed wire she softened with her shawl. When the town clock brought
forth its next languid announcement she heard it without a tremor. She
was resting on a mossy slope a mile or more away.
She made but a brief halt, for the East, toward which she set her
face, was already paling. It was no blind flight. She struck for
the hills deliberately, since behind the hills ran the boundary of
another commonwealth. All fellow-runaways, whose stories she knew,
had foolishly held to the railroad or other main-traveled ways, and,
barring the brilliant Sophie, had for that very reason come early to
disaster. Jean reasoned that they were in all likelihood city girls
whom the woods terrified. Their stupidity was incredible. To fear what
they should love! She took great breaths of the cool fragrance. She
could not get her fill of it.
Nevertheless, it was not yet her purpose to quit the tilled countryside
utterly. She hoped first to compel clothing from it somehow--clothing,
and then food, of which she began to feel the need. The fact that
she must probably come unlawfully by these necessaries gave her
slight compunction. In some rose-colored, prosperous future she could
make anonymous amends. She haunted the outskirts of three several
farmhouses, but without success. At none of them had garments of any
kind been left outdoors over night. Some impossible rags fluttered from
a scarecrow in a field of young corn; that was all. Things edible, too,
were as carefully housed. Near the last place she found a spring with a
tin cup beside it. She drank long, and took the cup away with her.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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