“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 moiré 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.