The next afternoon Claire started on her journey to London. She had
spent the night with friends, and been seen off at the station by quite
a crowd of well-wishers. Little souvenirs had been showered upon her
all the morning, and everyone had a kindly word, and a hopeful prophecy
of the future. There were invitations also, and promises to look her up
in her London home, and a perfect shower of violets thrown into the
carriage as the train steamed out of the station, and Claire laughed and
waved her hand, and looked so complacent and beaming that no one looking
on could have guessed the real nature of her journey. She was not
pretending to be cheerful, she _was_ cheerful, for, the dreaded parting
once over, her optimistic nature had asserted itself, and painted the
life ahead in its old rosy colours. Mother was happy and secured from
want; she herself was about to enjoy a longed-for taste for
independence; then why grumble? asked Claire sensibly of herself, and
anything less grumbling than her appearance at that moment it would be
hard to imagine.
She was beautifully dressed, in the simplest but most becoming of
travelling costumes, she was agreeably conscious that the onlookers to
her send-off had been unanimously admiring in their regard, and, as she
stood arranging her bags on the rack overhead, she saw her own face in
the strip of mirror and whole-heartedly agreed in their verdict.
"I'm glad I'm pretty! It's a comfort to be pretty. I should grow so
tired of being with myself if I were plain!" she reflected complacently
as she settled herself in her corner, and flicked a few grains of dust
from the front of her skirt.
She had taken a through first-class ticket from sheer force of habit,
for Mrs Gifford had always travelled first, and the ways of economy
take some time to acquire. In the opposite corner of the carriage sat
an elderly woman, obviously English, obviously also of the _grande dame_
species, with aquiline features, white hair dressed pompadour fashion,
and an expression compounded of indifference and quizzical good humour.
The good humour was in the ascendant as she watched the kindly Belgians
crowd round her fellow-passenger, envelop her in their arms, murmur
tearful farewells, and kiss her soundly on either cheek. The finely
marked eyebrows lifted themselves as if in commiseration for the victim,
and as the door closed on the last farewell she heaved an involuntary
sigh of relief. It was evident that the scene appealed to her entirely
from the one standpoint; she saw nothing touching about it, nothing
pathetic; she was simply amused, and carelessly scornful of
eccentricities in manner or appearance.
On the seat beside this imposing personage sat a young woman in black,
bearing the hall mark of lady's maid written all over her in capital
letters. She sat stiffly in her seat, one gloved hand on her knee, the
other clasped tightly round the handle of a crocodile dressing-bag.
Claire felt a passing interest in the pair; reflected that if it were
her lot in life to be a maid, she would choose to live on the Continent,
where an affectionate intimacy takes the place of this frigid
separation, and then, being young and self-engrossed, promptly forgot
all about them, and fell to building castles in the air, in which she
herself lived in every circumstance of affluence and plenty, beloved and
admired of all. There was naturally a prince in the story, a veritable
Prince Charming, who was all that the most exacting mind could desire,
but the image was vague. Claire's heart had not yet been touched. She
was still in ignorance as to what manner of man she desired.
Engaged in these pleasant day-dreams Antwerp was reached before Claire
realised that half the distance was covered. On the quay the wind blew
chill; on the boat itself it blew chillier still. Claire became aware
that she was in for a stormy crossing, but was little perturbed by the
fact, since she knew herself to be an unusually good sailor. She tipped
the stewardess to fill a hot bottle, put on a cosy dressing-jacket, and
lay down in her berth, quite ready for sleep after the fatigue and
excitement of the past week.
In five minutes the ship and all that was in it was lost in dreams, and,
so far as Claire was concerned, it might have been but another five
minutes before the stewardess aroused her to announce the arrival at
Parkeston Pier. The first glance around proved, however, that the other
passengers had found the time all too long. The signs of a bad crossing
were written large on the faces of her companions, and there was a trace
of resentment in the manner in which they surveyed her active movements.
An old lady in a bunk immediately opposite her own seemed especially
injured, and did not hesitate to put her feelings into words, "_You_
have had a good enough night! I believe you slept right through... Are
you aware that the rest of us have been more ill than we've ever been in
our lives?" she asked in accusing tones. And Claire laughed her happy,
gurgling little laugh, and said--
"I'm _so_ sorry, but it's all over, isn't it? And people always say
that they feel better afterwards!"
The old lady grunted. She certainly looked thoroughly ill and wretched
at the moment, her face drawn and yellow beneath her scanty locks, and
her whole appearance expressive of an extremity of fatigue. It seemed
to her that it was years since she had left the quay at Antwerp, and
here was this young thing as blooming as though she had spent the night
in her own bed! She hitched a shawl more closely over her shoulders,
and called aloud in a high imperious tone--
"Mason! Mason! You must really rouse yourself and attend to me. We
shall have to land in a few minutes. Get up at once and bring me my
things!"
The covering of another bunk stirred feebly, and two feet encased in
black merino stockings descended slowly to the floor. A moment later a
ghastly figure was tottering across the floor, lifting from a box a
beautifully waved white wig, and dropping it carefully over the head of
the aggrieved old lady of the straggly locks.
It was all that Claire could do to keep from exclaiming aloud, as it
burst upon her astonished senses that this poor, huddled creature was
none other than the _grande dame_ of the railway carriage, the haughtily
indifferent, cynically amused personage who had seemed so supremely
superior to the agitations of the common ruck! Strange what changes a
few hours' conflict with the forces of Nature could bring about!
Ill as the mistress was, the maid was even worse, and it was pitiful to
see the poor creature's efforts to obey the exigent demands of her
employer. In the end faintness overcame her, and if Claire had not
rushed to the rescue, she would have fallen on the floor.
"It's no use struggling against it! You must keep still until the boat
stops. You'll feel better at once when we land, and you get into the
air." Claire laid the poor soul in her bunk, and turned back to the old
lady who was momentarily growing younger and more formidable, as she
continued the stages of her toilette.
"Can I help you?" she asked smilingly, and the offer was accepted with
gracious composure.
"Please do. I should be grateful. Thank you. That hook fastens over
here, and the band crosses to this side. The brooch is in my bag--a
gold band with some diamonds--and the hat-pins, and a clean
handkerchief. Can you manage? ... The clasp slides back."
Claire opened the bag and gazed with admiration at a brown _moire_
antique lining, and fittings of tortoiseshell, bearing raised monograms
in gold. "I shall have one exactly to match, when I marry my duke!" was
the mental reflection, as she selected the articles mentioned and put
the final touches to the good lady's costume.
Later on there was Mason to be dressed; later on still, Claire found
herself carrying the precious dressing-bag in one hand, and supporting
one invalid with the other, while Mason tottered in the wake, unable for
the moment to support any other burden than that of her own body.
Mrs Fanshawe--Claire had discovered the name on a printed card let into
the lining of the bag--had no sympathy to spare for poor Mason. She
plainly considered it the height of bad manners for a maid to dare to be
sea-sick; but being unused to do anything for herself, gratefully
allowed Claire to lead the way, reply to the queries of custom-house
officials, secure a corner of a first-class compartment of the waiting
train, and bid an attendant bring a cup of tea before the ordinary
breakfast began.
Mason refused any refreshment, but Mrs Fanshawe momentarily regained
her vigour, and was all that was gracious in her acknowledgment of
Claire's help. The quizzical eyes roved over the girl's face and
figure, and evidently approved what they saw, and Claire, smiling back,
was conscious of an answering attraction. Thoughtless and domineering
as was her behaviour to her inferior, there was yet something in the old
lady's personality which struck an answering chord in the girl's heart.
She was enough of a physiognomist to divine the presence of humour and
generosity, combined with a persistent cheerfulness of outlook. The
signs of physical age were unmistakable, but the spirit within was
young, young as her own!
The mutual scrutiny ended in a mutual laugh, which was the last breaking
of the ice.
"My dear," cried Mrs Fanshawe, "you must excuse my bad manners! You
are so refreshing to look at after all those horrors on the boat that I
can't help staring. And you've been so kind! Positively I don't know
how I should have survived without you. Will you tell me your name? I
should like to know to whom I am indebted for so much help."
"My name is Claire Gifford."
"Er--yes?" Plainly Mrs Fanshawe felt the information insufficient.
"Gifford! I knew some Giffords. Do you belong to the Worcestershire
branch?"
Claire hitched her shoulders in the true French shrug.
"_Sais pas_! I have no English relations nearer than second cousins,
and we have lived abroad so much that we are practically strangers. My
father died when I was a child. I went to school in Paris, and for the
last few years my mother and I have made our headquarters in Brussels.
She married again, only yesterday, and is going to live in Bombay."
Mrs Fanshawe arched surprised brows.
"And you are staying behind?"
"Yes. They asked me to go. Mr Judge is very kind. He is my--er--
stepfather!" Claire shrugged again at the strangeness of that word.
"He gave me the warmest of invitations, but I refused. I preferred to
be left."
Mrs Fanshawe hitched herself into her corner, planted her feet more
firmly on the provisionary footstool, and folded her hands on her knee.
She had the air of a person settling down to the enjoyment of a
favourite amusement, and indeed her curiosity was a quality well-known
to all her acquaintances.
"Why?" she asked boldly, and such was the force of her personality that
Claire never dreamt for a moment of refusing to reply.
"Because I want to be independent."
Mrs Fanshawe rolled her eyes to the hat-rail.
"My dear, nonsense! You're far too pretty. Leave that to the poor
creatures who have no chance of finding other people to work for them.
You should change your mind, you know, you really should. India's quite
an agreeable place to put in a few years. The English girl is a trifle
overdone, but with your complexion you would be bound to have a success.
Think it over! Don't be in a hurry to let the chance slip!"
"It _has_ slipped. They sail from Marseilles a week from to-day, and
besides I don't want to change. I like the prospect of independence
better even than being admired."
"Though you like that, too?"
"Of course. Who doesn't? I'm hoping--with good luck--to be admired in
England instead!"
"Then you mustn't be independent!" Mrs Fanshawe said, laughing. "It
was the rage a year or two ago; girls had a craze for joining
Settlements, and running about in the slums, but it's quite out of date.
Hobble skirts killed it. It's impossible to be utilitarian in a hobble
skirt... And how do you propose to show your independence, may I ask?"
"I am going to be French mistress in a High School," Claire said
sturdily, and hated herself because she winced before the eloquent
change of expression which passed over her companion's face.
Mrs Fanshawe said, "Oh, really! How _very_ interesting!" and looked
about as uninterested the while as a human creature could be. In the
pause which followed it was obvious that she was readjusting the first
impression of a young gentlewoman belonging to her own leisured class,
and preparing herself to cross-question an entirely different person--an
ordinary teacher in a High School! There was a touch of patronage in
her manner, but it was still quite agreeable Mrs Fanshawe was always
agreeable for choice: she found it the best policy, and her indolent
nature shrank from disagreeables of every kind. This pretty girl had
made herself quite useful, and a chat with her would enliven a dull hour
in the train. Curiosity shifted its point, but remained actively in
force.
"Tell me all about it!" she said suavely. "I know nothing about
teachers. Shocking, isn't it? They alarm me too much. I have a horror
of clever women. You don't look at all clever. I mean that as a
compliment--far too pretty and smart, but I suppose you are dreadfully
learned, all the same. What are you going to teach?"
"French. I am almost as good as a Frenchwoman, for I've talked little
else for sixteen years. Mother and I spoke English together, or I
should have forgotten my own language. It seems, from a scholastic
point of view, that it's a useful blend to possess--perfect French and
an English temperament. `Mademoiselle' is not always a model of
patience!"
"And you think you will be? I prophesy differently. You'll throw the
whole thing up in six months, and fly off to mamma in India. You
haven't the least idea what you are in for, but you'll find out, you'll
find out! Where is this precious school? In town, did you say? Shall
you live in the house or with friends?"
"I have no friends in London except Miss Farnborough, the head mistress,
but there are fifteen other mistresses besides myself. That will be
fifteen friends ready-made. I am going to share lodgings with one of
them, and be a bachelor girl on my own account. I'm so excited about
it. After living in countries where a girl can't go to the pillar-box
alone, it will be thrilling to be free to do just as I like. Please
don't pity me! I'm going to have great fun."
Mrs Fanshawe hitched herself still further into her corner and smiled a
lazy, quizzical smile.
"Oh, I don't pity you--not one bit! All young people nowadays think
they are so much wiser than their parents; it's a wholesome lesson to
learn their mistake. You're a silly, blind, ridiculous little girl, and
if I'd been your mother, I should have insisted upon taking you with me,
whether you liked it or not. I always wanted a daughter like you--sons
are so dull; but perhaps it's just as well that she never appeared. She
might have wanted to be independent, too, in which case we should have
quarrelled.--So those fifteen school-mistresses make up your whole
social circle, do they? I wouldn't mind prophesying that you'll never
want to speak a word to them out of school hours! I have a friend
living in town, quite a nice woman, with a daughter about your age.
Shall I ask her to send you a card? It would be somewhere for you to go
on free afternoons, and she entertains a good deal, and has a craze for
the feminist movement, and for girls who work for themselves. You might
come in for some fun."
Claire's flush of gratification made her look prettier than ever, and
Mrs Fanshawe felt an agreeable glow of self-satisfaction. Nothing she
liked better than to play the part of Lady Bountiful, especially when
any effort involved was shifted onto the shoulders of another, and in
her careless fashion she was really anxious to do this nice girl a good
turn. She made a note of Claire's address in a dainty gold-edged
pocket-book, expressed pleasure in the belief that through her friend
she would hear reports of the girl's progress, and presently shut her
eyes, and dozed peacefully for the rest of the ride.
Round London a fine rain was falling, and the terminus looked bleak and
cheerless as the train slowed down the long platform. Mason, still
haggard, roused herself to step to the platform and look around as if
expecting to see a familiar face, and in the midst of collecting her own
impedimenta Claire was conscious that Mrs Fanshawe was distinctly
ruffled, when the familiar figure failed to appear. Once more she found
herself coming to the rescue, marshalling the combined baggage to the
screened portion of the platform where the custom-house officials went
through the formalities incidental to the occasion, while the tired
passengers stood shiveringly on guard, looking bleached and grey after
their night's journey. The bright-haired, bright-faced girl stood out
in pleasant contrast to the rest, trim and smart and dainty as though
such a thing as fatigue did not exist. Mrs Fanshawe, looking at her,
stopped short in the middle of a mental grumble, and turned it round, so
that it ended in being a thanksgiving instead.
"Most neglectful of Erskine to fail me after promising he would come...
Perhaps, after all, it's just as well he did not."
And at that moment, with the usual contrariety of fate, Erskine
appeared! He came striding along the platform, a big, loosely-built
man, with a clean-shaven face, glancing to right and left over the
upstanding collar of a tweed coat. He looked at once plain and
distinguished, and in the quizzical eyes and beetling eyebrows there was
an unmistakable likeness to the _grande dame_ standing by Claire's side.
Just for a moment he paused, as he came in sight of the group of
passengers, and Claire, meeting his glance, knew who he was, even before
he came forward and made his greeting.
"Holla, Mater! Sorry to be late. Not my fault this time. I was ready
all right, but the car did not come round. Had a good crossing?"
"My dear, appalling! Don't talk of it. I was prostrate all night, and
Mason too ill to do anything but moan. She's been no use."
"Poor beggar! She looks pretty green. But-- er--" The plain face
lighted with an expectant smile as he turned towards the girl who stood
by his mother's side, still holding the precious bag. "You seem to have
met a friend..."
"Oh--er--yes!" With a gesture of regal graciousness Mrs Fanshawe
turned towards the girl, and held out her gloved hand. "Thank you _so_
much, Miss Gifford! You've been quite too kind. I'm really horribly in
your debt. I hope you will find everything as you like, and have a very
good time. Thank you again. _Good-bye_. I'm really dropping with
fatigue. What a relief it will be to get to bed!" She turned aside,
and laid her hand on her son's arm. "Erskine, where _is_ the car?"
Mother and son turned away, and made their way down the platform,
leaving Claire with crimson cheeks and fast-beating heart. The little
scene which had just happened had been all too easy to understand. The
nice son had wished for an introduction to the nice girl who a moment
before had seemed on such intimate terms with his mother: the mother had
been quite determined that such an introduction should not take place.
Claire knew enough of the world to realise how different would have been
the proceedings if she had announced herself as a member of the "idle
rich," bound for a course of visits to well-known houses in the country.
"May I introduce my son, Miss Gifford? Miss Gifford has been an angel
of goodness to me, Erskine. Positively I don't know what I should have
done without her! Do look after her now, and see her into a taxi. Such
a mercy to have a man to help!" That was what would have happened to
the Claire Gifford of a week before, but now for the first time Claire
experienced a taste of the disagreeables attendant on her changed
circumstances, and it was bitter to her mouth. All very well to remind
herself that work was honourable, that anyone who looked down on her for
choosing to be independent was not worth a moment's thought, the fact
remained that for the first, the very first time in her life she had
been made to feel that there was a barrier between herself and a member
of her own class, and that, however willing Mrs Fanshawe might be to
introduce her to a casual friend, she was unwilling to make her known to
her own son!
Claire stood stiff and poker-like at her post, determined to make no
movement until Mrs Fanshawe and her attendants had taken their
departure. The storm of indignation and wounded pride which was surging
through her veins distracted her mind from her surroundings; she was
dimly conscious that one after another, her fellow-passengers had taken
their departure, preceded by a porter trundling a truck of luggage;
conscious that where there had been a crowd, there was now a space,
until eventually with a shock of surprise she discovered that she was
standing alone, by her own little pile of boxes. At that she shook
herself impatiently, beckoned to a porter and was about to walk ahead,
when an uneasy suspicion made itself felt. The luggage! Something was
wrong. The pile looked smaller than it had done ten minutes before.
She made a rapid circuit, and made a horrible discovery. A box was
missing! The dress-box containing the skirts of all her best frocks,
spread at full length and carefully padded with tissue paper. It had
been there ten minutes ago; the custom-house officer had given it a
special rap. She distinctly remembered noticing a new scratch on the
leather. Where in the name of everything that was inexplicable could it
have disappeared? Appealed to for information the porter was not
illuminating. "If it had been there before, why wasn't it there now?
Was the lady _sure_ she had seen it? Might have been left behind at
Antwerp or Parkeston. Better telegraph and see! If it had been there
before, why wasn't it there now? Mistakes did happen. Boxes were much
alike. P'raps it was left in the van. If it was there ten minutes
before, why wasn't it--"
Claire stopped him with an imperious hand.
"That's enough! It _was_ there: I saw it. I counted the pieces before
the custom-house officer came along. I noticed it especially. Someone
must have taken it by mistake."
The porter shook his head darkly.
"On purpose, more like! Funny people crosses by this route. Funny
thing that you didn't notice--"
Claire found nothing funny in the reflection. She was furious with
herself for her carelessness, and still more furious with Mrs Fanshawe
as the cause thereof. Down the platform she stalked, a picture of vivid
impetuous youth, head thrown back, cheeks aflame, grey eyes sending out
flashes of indignation. Every porter who came in her way was stopped
and imperiously questioned as to his late load, every porter was in his
turn waved impatiently away. Claire was growing seriously alarmed.
Suppose the box was lost! It would be as bad as losing _two_ boxes, for
of what use were bodices minus skirts to match? Never again would she
be guilty of the folly of packing bits of the same costumes in different
boxes. How awful--how awful beyond words to arrive in London without a
decent dress to wear!
Whirling suddenly round to pursue yet another porter, Claire became
aware of a figure in a long tweed coat standing on the space beside the
taxi-stand, intently watching her movements. She recognised him in a
moment as none other than "Erskine" himself, who, having seen his mother
into her car, was presumably bound for another destination. But why was
he standing there? Why had he been so long in moving away? Claire
hastily averted her eyes, but as she cross-questioned porter number
four, she was aware that the tall figure was drawing nearer, and
presently he was standing by her side, taking off his hat, and saying in
the most courteous and deferential of tones--
"Excuse me--I'm afraid something is wrong! Can I be of any assistance?"
Claire's glance was frigid in its coldness; but it was difficult to
remain frigid in face of the man's obvious sincerity and kindliness.
"Thank you," she said quietly. "Please don't trouble. I can manage
quite well. It's only a trunk..."
"Is it lost? I say--what a fag! Do let me help. I know this station
by heart! If it is to be found, I am sure I can get it for you."
This time there was a distinct air of appeal in his deep voice. Claire
divined that the nice man was anxious to atone for his mother's cavalier
behaviour, and her heart softened towards him. After all, why should
she punish herself by refusing? Five minutes more or less on the
station platform could make no difference one way or another, for at the
end they would wish each other a polite adieu, and part never to meet
again. And she _did_ want that box!
She smiled, and sighed, and looked delightfully pretty and appealing, as
she said frankly--
"Thank you, I _should_ be grateful for suggestions. It's the most
extraordinary and provoking thing--"
They walked slowly down the platform while she explained the situation,
and reiterated the fact that she had seen the box ten minutes before.
Erskine Fanshawe did not dispute the statement as each porter had done
before him; he contented himself with asking if there was any
distinctive feature in the appearance of the box itself.
Claire shook her head.
"The ordinary brown leather, with strappings and C.G. on one side. Just
like a thousand other boxes, but it had a label, beside the initials. I
don't see how anyone can have taken it by mistake." She set her teeth,
and her head took a defiant tilt. "There's one comfort; if it _is_
stolen, whoever has taken it will not get much for her pains! There's
nothing in it but skirts. Skirts won't be much good without the bodices
to match!"
The man looked down at her, his expression comically compounded of
sympathy and humour. At that moment, despite the irregularity of his
features, he looked wonderfully like his handsome mother.
"Er--just so! Unfortunately, however, from the opposite point of view,
you find yourself in the same position! Bodices, I presume, without
skirts--"
Claire groaned, and held up a protesting hand.
"Don't! I can't bear it. It's really devastating. My whole outfit--at
one fell sweep!"
"Isn't it--excuse my suggesting it--rather a mistake to--er--divide
pieces of the same garment, _so_ that if one trunk should be lost, the
loss practically extends to two?"
"No, it isn't. It's the only sensible thing to do," Claire said
obstinately. "Skirts must be packed at full length, and a dress-box is
made for that very purpose. All the same, I shall never do it again.
It's no use being sensible if you have to contend with--_thieves_!"
"I don't think we need leap to that conclusion just yet. You have only
spoken to two or three porters. We'd better wait about a few minutes
longer until the other men come back. Very likely the box was put on a
truck by accident, and if the mistake was discovered before it was put
on the taxi, it would be sent back to see if its owner were waiting
here. If it doesn't turn up at once, you mustn't be discouraged. The
odds are ten to one that it's only a mistake, and in that case when the
taxi is unloaded, the box will be sent back to the lost luggage office,
or forwarded to your address. Was the full address on the box, by the
way?"
Claire nodded assent.
"Oh, yes; I have that poor satisfaction at least. I was most methodical
and prudent, but I don't know that that's going to be much consolation
if I lose my nice frocks, and am too poor to buy any more."
The last phrase was prompted by a proud determination to sail under no
false colours in the eyes of Mrs Fanshawe's son; but the picture evoked
thereby was sufficiently tragic to bring a cloud over her face. The
memory of each separate gown rose before her, looking distractingly
dainty and becoming; she saw a vision of herself as she might have been,
and faced a future bounded by eternal blue serge. All the tragedy of
the thought was in her air, and her companion cried quickly--
"You won't need to buy them! They'll turn up all right, I am quite sure
of that. The worst that can happen is a day or two's delay. After all,
you know, there are thousands of honest folk to a single thief, and even
a thief would probably prefer a small money reward to useless halves of
dresses! If you hear nothing by to-morrow, you might offer a reward."
"Oh, I will!" Claire said gratefully. "Thank you for thinking of it."
No more porters having for the moment appeared in sight, they now
turned, and slowly retraced their steps. Claire, covertly regarding her
companion, wondered why she felt convinced that he was a soldier;
Erskine Fanshawe in his turn covertly regarded Claire, and wondered why
it was that she seemed different from any girl he had seen before. Then
tentatively he put a personal question.
"Do you know London well, Miss Gifford? My mother told me you were--
er--coming to settle--"
"Not at all well, as a whole. I know the little bit around Regent
Street, and the Park, and the places one sees in a week's visit, but
that's all. We never stayed long in town when we came to England. I
shall enjoy exploring on half holidays when I am free from work. I am a
school-mistress!" said Claire with an air, and gathered from her
companion's face that he knew as much already, and considered it a
subject for commiseration. He looked at her with sympathetic eyes, and
asked deeply--
"Hate it very much?"
"Not at all. Quite the contrary. I adore it. At least, that's to say,
I haven't begun yet, but I feel sure I _shall_!" Claire cried ardently;
and at that they both laughed with a delightful sense of understanding
and _camaraderie_. At that moment Claire felt a distinct pang at the
thought that never again would she have the opportunity of speaking and
laughing with this attractive, eminently companionable man; then her
attention was distracted by the appearance of two more porters, who had
each to be interviewed in his turn.
They had no good news to give, however, so the searchers left the
platform in disgust, and repaired to the office for lost luggage, where
the story of the missing box was recounted to an unsympathetic clerk.
When a man spends his whole life listening to complaints of missing
property, he can hardly be expected to show a vehement distress at the
loss of yet another passenger, but to Claire at this moment there was
something quite brutal in his callous indifference. The one suggestion
which he had to make was that she could leave her name, and the manner
in which it was given was a death-blow to hope.
At this very moment, however, just as Claire was bending forward to
dictate the desired information she felt a touch on her arm, and looking
in the direction of Mr Fanshawe's outstretched hand, beheld a porter
approaching the office, trundling before him a truck on which reposed in
solitary splendour, a long brown dress-box, and oh, joy of joys! even at
the present distance the white letters C.G. could be plainly
distinguished on the nearer side! Claire's dignity went to the winds at
that sight, and she dashed forward to meet her property with the joyous
impetuosity of a child.
The explanation was simple to a degree, and precisely agreed with Mr
Fanshawe's surmise as to what had really happened. During Claire's
trance of forgetfulness, the box had been wheeled away, with a large
consignment of luggage, and the mistake discovered only when the various
items were in process of being packed into a company's omnibus, when,
there being no one at hand to claim it, it had been conveyed--by very
leisurely stages--to the lost luggage office.
All's well that ends well! Claire gleefully collected her possessions,
feeling a glow of delight in the safety which an hour before she would
have taken as a matter of course, and stood at attention while each
separate item was placed on the roof of the taxi. The little addresses
of which she had boasted were duly inserted in leather framings on each
box, the delicate writing too small to be deciphered, except near at
hand. Claire saw her companion's eyes contract in an evident effort to
distinguish the words, and immediately moved her position so as to
frustrate his purpose. She did not intend Mr Fanshawe to know her
address! When she was seated in the taxi, however, there came an
awkward moment, for her companion waved the chauffeur to his seat, and
stood by the window looking in at her, with a face which seemed unduly
serious and earnest, considering the extremely slight nature of their
acquaintance.
"Well! I am thankful the box turned up. I shall think of you enjoying
your re-united frocks... Sure you've got everything all right? Where
shall I tell the man to drive?"
For the fraction of a second Claire's eyes flickered, then she spoke in
decided tones.
"`The Grand Hotel.'"
Mr Fanshawe's eyes flickered too, and turned involuntarily towards the
boxes on the roof. What exactly were the words on the labels he could
not see, but at least it was certain that they were not "The Grand
Hotel!" He turned from the inspection to confront a flushed, obstinate
face.
"Do you wish me to give the man that address?"
"I do."
Very deliberately and quietly Mr Fanshawe stepped back a pace, opened
his long coat, and fumbled in an inner pocket for a leather pocket-book;
very quietly and deliberately he drew from one bulging division a
visiting card, and held it towards her. Claire caught the word
"Captain" and saw that an address was printed in the corner, but she
covered it hastily with her hand, refusing a second glance. Captain
Fanshawe leant his arm on the window sash and said hesitatingly--
"Will you allow me to give you my card! As you are a stranger in town
and your people away, there may possibly be--er--occasions, when it
would be convenient to know some man whom you could make of use. Please
remember me if they do come along! It would be a privilege to repay
your kindness to my mother... Send me a wire at any time, and I am at
your service. I hope you _will_ send. Good morning!"
"Good-bye!" said Claire. Red as a rose was she at that moment, but very
dignified and stately, bending towards him in a sweeping bow, as the
taxi rolled away. The last glimpse of Captain Fanshawe showed him
standing with uplifted hat, the keen eyes staring after her, with not a
glint of humour in their grey depths. Quite evidently he meant what he
said. Quite evidently he was as keen to pursue her acquaintance as his
mother had been to drop it.
Claire Gifford sat bolt upright on her seat, the slip of cardboard
clasped within her palms, and as she sat she thought many thoughts. A
physiognomist would have been interested to trace the progress of those
thoughts on the eloquent young face. There was surprise written there,
and obvious gratification, and a demure, very feminine content; later on
came pride, and a general stiffening of determination. The spoiled
child of liberty and the High School-Mistress of the future had fought a
heated battle, and the High School-Mistress had won.
Deliberately turning aside her eyes, so that no word of that printed
address should obtrude itself on her notice, Claire tore the card
sharply across and across, and threw the fragments out of the window.
A moment later she whistled through the tube, and instructed the
chauffeur as to her change of address.
Adieu to the Fanshawes, and all such luxuries of the past. Heigh-ho for
hard work, and lodgings at fifteen shillings a week!