The Independence of Claire Part 5

"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 a.s.sent.

"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 pa.s.senger, 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!

CHAPTER FIVE.

MISS RHODES, POISONER.

It is a somewhat dreary feeling to arrive even at a friend's house before seven o'clock in the morning, and be received by sleepy-looking people who have obviously been torn unwillingly from their beds in deference to the precepts of hospitality, but it is infinitely worse to arrive at a lodging-house at the same hour, ring several times at the bell before a dingy servant can be induced to appear, and to realise a moment later that in a tireless parlour you perceive your journey's goal!

Claire Gifford felt a creep of the blood at the sight of that parlour, though if her first introduction had been at night, when the curtains were drawn and the lamps lit, she would have found it cosy enough.

There was no sign of her room-mate; perhaps it was too much to expect her to get up at so early an hour to welcome a stranger, but Claire _had_ expected it, felt perfectly sure that--had positions been reversed--she herself would have taken pains to deck both herself and her room in honour of the occasion, and so felt correspondingly downcast.

Presently she found herself following the dingy maid up three separate nights of stairs, and arriving at a tiny box of a bedroom on the top floor. There was a bed, a washstand, a chest of drawers doing service as a dressing-table, two chairs and a sloping roof. Claire would have been quite disappointed if that last item had been missing, for whoever heard of a girl who set out to make her own living who had not slept in a room with a sloping roof? On the whole, despite its tiny proportions, the little room made a pleasant impression. It was clean, it was bright, walls and furniture were alike of a plain unrelieved white, and through the open cas.e.m.e.nt window could be seen a distant slope of green overtopping the intervening chimney tops. Claire's eyes roved here and there with the instinct of a born home-maker, saw what was lacking here, what was superfluous there, grasped neglected possibilities, and mentally re-arranged and decorated the premises before a slower person would have crossed the floor.

Then she took up her stand before the small mirror, and devoted a whole minute to studying her own reflection from the point of view of Captain Erskine Fanshawe of unknown address. By her own deliberate choice she had cut herself off from future chance of meeting this acquaintance of an hour; nevertheless it was distinctly reviving to discern that her hat was set at precisely the right angle, and that for an all-night voyager her whole appearance was remarkably fresh and dainty.

Claire first smiled, and then sighed, and pulled out the hat-pins with impatient tugs. To be prudent and self-denying is not always an exhilarating process for sweet and twenty.

Presently the maid came staggering upstairs with the smaller boxes, and Claire busied herself in her room until the clock had struck eight, when she again descended to the joint sitting-room. This time the fire was lighted, and the table laid for breakfast, and behind the tea-tray sat Miss Rhodes, the English mistress, already halfway through her meal.

She rose, half smiling, half frowning, and held out a thin hand in welcome.

"Morning. Hope you've had a good crossing. Didn't know when you'd be down. Do you take coffee?"

"Please!" Claire felt that a cup of coffee would be just what she needed, but missed the familiar fragrant scent. She seated herself at the table, and while Miss Rhodes went on with her preparation, studied her with curious eyes.

She saw a woman of thirty-two or three, with well-cut features, dark eyes, and abundant dark hair--a woman who ought to have been distinctly good-looking but who succeeded in being plain and commonplace. She was badly-dressed, in a utility blouse of grey flannel, her expression was tired and listless, and her hair, though neat, showed obvious lack of care, having none of the silky sheen which rewards regular systematic brushing. So far bad, but, in spite of all drawbacks, it was an interesting face, and Claire felt attracted, despite the preliminary disappointment.

"There's some bacon in that dish. It will be cold, I'm afraid. You can ring, if you like, and ask them to warm it up, but they'll keep you waiting a quarter of an hour out of spite. I've given it up myself."

"Oh, I'm accustomed to French breakfasts. I really want nothing but some bread and coffee." Claire sipped at her cup as she finished speaking, and the sudden grimace of astonishment which followed roused her companion to laughter.

"You don't like it? It isn't equal to your French coffee."

"It isn't coffee at all. It's undrinkable!" Claire pushed away her cup in disgust. "Is it always as bad as that?"

"Worse!" said Miss Rhodes composedly. "They put in more this morning because of you. Sometimes it's barely coloured, and it's always chicory." She shrugged resignedly. "No English landlady can make coffee. It's no use worrying. Have to make the best of what comes."