Who? Part 1

Who?

by Elizabeth Kent.

CHAPTER I

THE WOMAN IN THE COMPARTMENT

It was six o'clock on a raw October morning, and the cross Channel boat had just deposited its cargo of pale and dishevelled pa.s.sengers at Newhaven. Cyril Crichton, having seen his servant place his bags in a first-cla.s.s compartment, gazed gloomily at the scene before him.

It was the first time in three years that he had set foot on his native sh.o.r.e and the occasion seemed invested with a certain solemnity.

"What a mess I have made of my life! Yet G.o.d knows I meant well!" He muttered in his heart. "If I hadn't been such a good-natured a.s.s, I should never have got into all this trouble. But I won't be made a fool of any longer. I will consult Campbell as to what--" He paused. It suddenly occurred to him that he had forgotten to let the latter know of his impending arrival. "I will send him a wire," he decided.

The telegraph-office was farther off than he expected, and to Crichton's disgust, he found it shut. He had forgotten that in well-regulated England, even matters of life and death have to wait till the offices open at eight A.M.

He was still staring at the closed window, when he was startled by the guard's whistle, and the slamming of the carriage doors. Turning quickly, he ran back, trying to find his compartment, but it was too late; the train was already moving. Flinging off a porter's detaining hand, he jumped on to the foot-board and wrenched open the nearest door.

The impetus flung him headlong into the lap of a lady,--the sole occupant of the carriage. To his horror and amazement, instead of listening to his apologies, she uttered a piercing shriek and fell forward into his arms. For a moment Crichton was too dazed to move.

There he knelt, tightly clasping her limp form and wondering fearfully what would happen next. At last he managed to pull himself together, and staggering to his feet, laid her gently on the seat near the window.

Strangely enough, he had had no idea, so far, as to the appearance, or even the age, of the lady with whom fate had thrown him into such intimate contact: consequently he now looked at her with considerable curiosity. Her slight, graceful figure proclaimed her youth, but her face was completely concealed by a thick, black veil, which prevented him from so much as guessing the outline of her features. As she continued to show no sign of returning consciousness, Crichton looked helplessly around for some means of reviving her. More air was what she needed; so with much trepidation he decided to unfasten her veil. His fingers fumbled clumsily over their unaccustomed task, but finally the last knot was disentangled, the last pin extracted. The unknown proved to be even younger than he expected, and to possess beauty of the kind which admits of no discussion. At present, however, it was sadly marred by a red welt, probably the result of a fall, Crichton decided, which disfigured her left cheek. A minute before he had been cursing his luck, which invariably landed him in strange adventures, but at the sight of her beauty, our hero suddenly ceased to find the situation annoying. His interest, however, increased his alarm. What if she were dead or dying?

Heart attacks were not uncommon. Bending over her, he laid his hand on her heart, and as he did so, the long lashes lifted, and a pair of sapphire blue eyes looked straight into his. Before he had time to move, she threw out both hands and cried: "Oh, let me go!"

"Don't be alarmed. Notwithstanding my unceremonious entrance, I a.s.sure you, I am a perfectly respectable member of society. My name is Crichton."

The girl staggered to her feet. "Crichton?" she gasped.

He looked at her in surprise.

"Yes, Crichton. Do you know any member of my family by any chance? My cousin, Lord Wilmersley, has a place near here."

"No," she faltered, "I--I am quite a stranger in this part of the country."

He was sure she was lying, but what could be her object in doing so? And why had his name caused her such alarm? What unpleasant connection could she possibly have with it? The only male members of his family who bore it, were, a curate, serving his probation in the East End of London, and a boy at Eton.

"That is a pity," he said. "I hoped we might find some mutual friends who would vouch for my inoffensiveness. I can't tell you how sorry I am to have given you such a fright. It was unpardonably stupid of me. The fact is, I am rather absent-minded, and I should have been left behind if I had not tumbled in on you as I did. Please forgive me."

"On the contrary, it is I who should apologise to you for having made such a fuss about nothing. You must have thought me quite mad." She laughed nervously.

"Madam," he replied, with mock solemnity, "I a.s.sure you I never for a moment doubted your sanity, and I am an expert in such matters."

"Are you really?" She shrank farther from him.

"Really what?" he inquired, considerably puzzled.

"A--a brain specialist? That is what they are called, isn't it?"

He laughed heartily.

"No, indeed. But you said----"

"Of course! How stupid of me!"

"Why should you know that I am a soldier?"

She blushed vividly. "You don't look like a civilian."

"At all events I hope I don't look like the keeper of an insane asylum."

"No, indeed. But you said----"

"Oh, as to being an expert. Was that it? I must plead guilty to having attempted a feeble joke, though as a matter of fact, it so happened that I do know something about lunatics."

"Aren't you dreadfully afraid of them?"

"On general principles, of course, I am afraid of nothing, but I fancy a full-grown lunatic, with a carving knife and a hankering for my blood, would have a different tale to tell."

"Oh, don't speak of them!" She covered her eyes with her hands.

"I beg your pardon."

"Why should you beg my pardon?" she asked looking at him suspiciously.

"I really don't know," he acknowledged.

"I know that I am behaving like a hysterical schoolgirl. What must you think of me! But,--but I am just recovering from an illness and am still very nervous, and the mere mention of lunatics always upsets me. I have the greatest horror of them."

"Poor child, she must have been through some terrible experience with one," thought Crichton.

"I trust you may never meet any," he said aloud.

"I don't intend to." She spoke with unexpected vehemence.

"Well, there is not much chance of your doing so. Certified lunatics find it pretty difficult to mingle in general society."

"I know--oh, I know--" Her voice sounded almost regretful.

What an extraordinary girl! Could it be--was it possible that she herself--but no, her behaviour was certainly strange and she seemed hysterical, but mad--no, and yet that would explain everything.

"I am sure it was the horrid crossing which upset you--as much as anything else," he said.

"I didn't cross, I--" She stopped abruptly, and bit her lip.

It was quite obvious that for some reason or other, she had not wished him to know that she had got in at Newhaven. He knew that politeness demanded he should not pursue a subject which was evidently distasteful to her. But his curiosity overcame his scruples.

"Really? It is rather unusual to take this train unless one is coming from the continent."

"Yes. One has to start so frightfully early. I had to get up a little before five." That meant she must live in Newhaven, and not far from the station at that--but was it true? She had about her that indescribable something which only those possess whose social position has never been questioned. No, Newhaven did not seem the background for her. But then, had she not herself told him that she did not live there? She might have gone there on an errand of charity or--After all, what business was it of his? Why should he attempt to pry into her life? It was abominable.