Wanted, an English Girl

by Moore, Dorothea

  As she grew older she began to realise that her position was not quite the same as that of Elys and Frances and Flossie. Her father’s early death had left her with very little money—enough to pay for her board at home and her education at the High School and her clothes, Aunt Edith explained, but not enough to keep her in comfort by and by. She began to think more seriously about an education which had hitherto taken the form of rather tiresome lessons interrupting the pleasant process of day-dreaming.

  She found that she was good at languages—that she could beat most girls of her age at French and German, and though lessons were still less attractive than dreams of a life that was a good deal wider and more thrilling than the one lived among countless small rules in Aunt Edith’s house, they had come to be a means to an end.

  The head-mistress said complimentary things about her to Aunt Edith, the kind of things that were never said about Elys and Frances and Flossie, and Aunt Edith began to talk of going abroad for the summer holidays, only “travelling is so expensive”; or of “having a French or German girl in need of a happy home, to spend the holidays”; or of sending Gillian with Elys, “two months older than Gill, and no reason why she shouldn’t be just as good at French,” to Switzerland au paire.

  And the outcome of all these ideas had been Mrs. Trant’s letter and the advertisement enclosed from the German Baroness who wanted “An English Girl.”

  The austere governess had chaperoned Gill through the crossing and the interminable journey, which was only broken by cups of coffee obtained at railway stations, with rolls and sliced ham, until there was a change upon the Insterburg frontier, and Miss Seacomb poked Gill into an exceedingly crowded compartment, after first raking it with a stern eye, and ascertaining that the only male thing in it was aged about nine and wore socks. Gill’s ticket was thrust into her hand, and she was adjured in a breathy whisper to speak to no one till she reached Chardille, where the Baroness had undertaken that she should be met.

  Then the train jerked itself irritably away from the wide low platform, and the small angular figure of Miss Seacomb was lost to sight. Gillian was out in the world alone.

  She felt some sinking of heart then, for all her courage and the stimulus of coffee and rolls. The prospect had been unpleasing all along; now that she was up against it, as it were, it was decidedly frightening as well.

  She thought it would have been easier to feel brave if she had had a proper dinner at midday, and if it had been possible to do more than wash her face inadequately in the morning with a handkerchief and inferior eau-de-Cologne. She had a conviction that she was very dirty as to face and hands, and rough as to hair, and began to make little ineffectual efforts to tidy herself, as well as she could manage in her wedged position.

  But her elbow prodded a billowy lady on her right, who looked daggers at the English girl, and in her confusion poor Gill let her handbag drop upon the floor, and, in trying to pick it up, her hat-brim collided with her neighbour’s on the other side, and she lost a comb. Hot all over, she rescued the comb from underneath the seat, guessing miserably at the uncomplimentary meaning of various remarks which were made about her, and struggled into the corridor, feeling that the probable wrath of the guard, when he found her obstructing the passage, would be easier to bear than the scorn within. Balancing her handbag precariously between herself and the window, she was trying to put back her comb and a loose lock of untidy hair with it, when an aggressive official demanded her ticket and a reason for her presence in the corridor, all in one breath.

  Gill jumped so much that she dropped her ill-used bag for the second time, and all the French that she possessed flew out of her head.

  “What is it—my ticket?” she floundered, trying to hang the new umbrella on her arm and fumble for her ticket at the same moment. The official became quite irascible at her English answer, and shrieked out something even more incomprehensible than he had said before.

  Gill began to feel dazed; where was her ticket? Loose in her coat pocket (there were three of them, and all kinds of things were there and kept turning up, but not the ticket) or in the unlucky bag?

  The official held her shoulder and shouted demands at her, as though he considered her a criminal of the deepest dye, and Gillian could not for the life of her remember whether she had put that wretched ticket into one of the divisions of her “Dorothy” bag—Elys’ parting present—or in either of the side pockets of her coat, or in that special little inside pocket which Aunt Edith had insisted on the traveller stitching into her navy serge coat the night before the journey.

  “Oh, do go and take the other peoples’ tickets first!” she entreated. “I simply can’t think where mine is, all in a moment.”

  As her petition was in English, it is doubtful whether it would have received attention, but, luckily for her, the words and the quiver of fright she could not keep out of them, were caught by someone who was coming down the corridor from the direction of the smoking “Firsts.”

  “What’s the trouble?” a voice asked in English, and Gillian looked up into the pleasant smiling face of a young man, who, unlike herself, looked particularly clean and comfortable.

  “What’s the trouble?” he asked again. “Can I be of any help?”

  Gill forgot all Miss Seacomb’s instructions as to the impropriety of speaking to any man excepting a ticket-collector, and turned with an indescribable sense of relief to this friend in need. “He thinks I’m cheating, or something,” she explained, “but I can find my ticket all right if he will give me a minute and not bother, or shout at me.”

  The young man said something short and sharp to the official, who bowed and went into the compartment to collect the tickets of Gill’s travelling companions there. Gill stooped to pick up her bag and promptly dropped her umbrella.

  “Here, I’ll hold those things for you,” the young man said good-naturedly. “Try your pockets for the ticket. It’s all right,” he added, as she hesitated for a moment. “I have a little sister about your age at home.”

  The “little sister” reassured Gill somehow, and she let him take her bag and umbrella, and even the rather greasy packet of sandwiches which she had not had the presence of mind to throw out of the window, and set to work to search her pockets with free hands.

  “Does your sister go to school?” she asked, rather shyly, but conversation of some sort seemed a necessity when a person had come to your rescue, and was standing by you in a rocking corridor patiently nursing your umbrella, bag, and sandwiches.

  “No, she has governesses at home,” Gillian’s new friend told her.

  She stopped in a searching examination of the second pocket. “What! not more than one?”

  “Three, I think,” said the young man calmly.

  Gill gasped. Her new friend asked a question in his turn. “I suppose you go to school yourself? But isn’t it rather—I mean, I thought there were holidays about this time?”

  Gill reflected afterwards that she ought not to have given all sorts of particulars about her life to an absolute stranger just because he happened to be kind and sympathetic, and because they could not stand looking at each other in dead silence while she hunted for that ticket. If it had been Flossie, it would have been more excusable, for Flossie was much younger, and always talked to everybody. Gill was not usually that way inclined, but somehow she did talk to the young man with the kind eyes, in a way that made her afterwards quite hot to think about.

  It must have been the long, lonely journey that was responsible for her indiscretion, and it was such an indescribable comfort to hear in her loneliness a pleasant, well-bred English voice again. The young man had a particularly nice voice; Gill did not think that even Miss Seacomb could have disapproved of him, though of course she would have disapproved of Gill’s conduct.

  During those few moments while the ticket-collector was in the compartment, and the young man was holding her things, she told her name and the reason of her coming to Insterburg, and even her conv
iction that she wouldn’t like the life or get on with the “Berta girl.” Of course it was dreadfully indiscreet, and her friend’s words gave her a well-deserved shock.

  “Do you know, Miss Gillian, I wouldn’t look on the dark side if I were you. I know Chardille very well indeed, and it is a delightful place.”

  Gillian experienced a cold sense of horror.

  “You know Chardille?”

  “Yes, quite well.”

  “What an idiot I am!” exclaimed poor Gill, with heartfelt conviction. “Of course I oughtn’t to have said anything. You will probably turn out to know the Baroness von Traume and the Berta girl as well as the place?”

  The young man laughed, but it was a very good-natured laugh. “That wouldn’t matter so frightfully, would it? I’m a very safe person, really; besides, you haven’t said anything to matter. Anyone might feel a little doubtful about getting on with a Baroness von Traume, while she is a stranger; but I have met her, as it happens, and she seemed a pleasant sort of woman, as far as I remember.”

  “Do you know Berta, too?” Gill asked. After all, Berta would matter most as far as she herself was concerned. Then she pulled herself up. Of course a young man like this would not be in the least likely to have anything to do with schoolgirls, as a rule, whatever good nature might prompt him to be doing now.

  “Yes, I have had the pleasure of meeting your Miss Berta, and dancing with her too.”

  Gillian had found her missing ticket before this, tucked comfortably into the envelope of a letter which had come for her the morning of the start from home, and which she had pocketed to read upon the journey. So the ticket-collector had ceased to have terrors for her, and she was able to give her full attention to what her new friend said.

  “Did you? How awfully odd. Where?” she demanded, all in one breath.

  “It was at a Cinderella dance in the Grand-Ducal Palace at Chardille,” he said.

  “Does Berta go to the Grand-Duchess’s dances? How ripping for her!” Gill cried. “And, oh, I say, do you mind telling me what she’s like?”

  The ticket-collector had taken her ticket some minutes ago, and there was no reason at all why Gill should not have collected her things and gone back to her place in the crowded compartment, except that she did want very much to hear about the Berta girl, and even more about the Grand-Duchess, the very young ruler of the little state of Insterburg.

  “Do tell me what she’s like!”

  “Who—Miss Berta?”

  “No, the Grand-Duchess, please—she’s ever so much more exciting. Of course I know she’s only about eighteen, and has a whole heap of names, but is usually called Carina, and drives a motor-car of her own, and has some lovely jewels, and all the sort of stuff you do see about royalties in papers; but I’d like awfully to know about her from someone who’s really seen her.”

  Directly she had said it, Gillian knew that the young man could have quite a different tone in his voice from the half-laughing one which she had heard so far.

  “I’m afraid I’m shockingly bad at describing people,” he said; “and, besides, we are just running into Chardille, and you will have to be looking out for Baroness von Traume, won’t you?”

  Gillian, recalled to the prose of life, became very red and held her hand out hastily.

  “I say, I am sorry. I believe I’ve kept you here holding my silly things when you wanted to get back,” she apologised confusedly.

  “Rather not! I’ve enjoyed our talk ever so much,” her friend assured her with refreshing heartiness, as he gave her back her umbrella and bag. “Mind you like Chardille, and give my kind remembrances to Miss Berta.”

  Gill’s cheeks cooled a little. “What name shall I say?” she asked.

  Her friend’s eyes laughed, though his face was grave. “Pity me, Miss Gillian. My god-parents insisted on christening me Rupert—brutal, wasn’t it? I feel I ought to be in a book where the hero rides a palfrey and says ‘me-thinks.’ But all my pals call me George.”

  “George what?” Gill asked.

  The train gave a sudden jerk and stopped. There was a general uprising in the compartment—outside, much shouting in which the word “Chardille” was most conspicuous.

  “Oh, we’re there!” Gill cried in a panic, forgetting the name question, and making a rush in the direction of her bulging hold-all.

  “I’ll get a porter for you,” said her friend, and leaned out of the corridor window, calling something with authority. Then, as two or three porters hurried up, he raised his hat and held out his hand.

  “Good-bye, Miss Gillian, or perhaps I may say ‘Au revoir.’ I shall be in Chardille for a few days, anyhow, and hope we may run across each other again. Good luck to you! I see the Baroness’s crest on a carriage in the station-yard, so you’ll be all right. Don’t let Miss Berta bag all our poets, if you can help it. Good-bye.”

  He disappeared in the direction of his own compartment, while two porters fought with much gesticulation for the possession of Gill’s hold-all, and a tall lady followed them and touched her on the arm.

  “The young lady from England, yes?” she said in French, and Gillian did not even answer her. It seemed unnecessary, since the lady’s yes had not been in the least interrogative. She was simply stating a fact of which she was absolutely sure. Gill followed her conductress across the station into the new world, wondering, and not liking to ask, whether this were the Baroness von Traume.

  CHAPTER III

  The Berta Girl

  A luxurious motor-car was waiting just outside the station, with a footman in a very fine livery of blue and silver standing by the door. Gill felt acutely conscious of the bulginess of the hold-all, as this superior person directed the porter where to place it, by a dignified wave of his hand.

  Gill took her place in the car, after a timid attempt to attract the porter’s attention to the very small tip which Miss Seacomb had carefully explained to her was the proper thing. The attempt did not seem to be observed by anybody but the footman, who produced a coin and handed it to the man, with the same superior dignity that he had shown over the disposal of the luggage.

  By the exceedingly low bow with which the coin was received Gill guessed it to be considerably bigger than her intended tip, which she thrust into the pocket of her coat as though it burnt her fingers.

  The stately lady followed Gill into the car, and away it purred with the smoothness that only perfect mechanism can produce. Gillian, sitting back luxuriously, felt another acute attack of depression, which began with the knowledge that her face and hands were dirty, and went on to the conviction that she would never, never get on with the Berta girl.

  The talk with “Rupert-George,” as she called her friend of the train in her own mind, had taken away a good deal of that horrid feeling; now it was back in full force.

  Still it would never do to give way to it; here she was in Insterburg and here she would have to stay, reading literature and talking English with Berta von Traume till the summer holidays were over.

  She turned round valiantly to the stately lady—it was certainly time that she said something polite about her kindness in coming to the station; only how was she to know if it were Baroness von Traume that she was addressing? Gill took a nervous sidelong look at her, hoping that inspiration might come upon that knotty point. To her dismay, the stately lady was doing exactly the same thing.

  “You are more young than I expected, mademoiselle,” she said, when she saw that the girl’s eyes were upon her.

  “I didn’t know it mattered about age,” Gill stammered, finding French came far less fluently than it did in French conversation classes at the “High.” She had a horrid fear that perhaps after all there was going to be some mistake, and that she would not “do.” It was not that she wanted the post, but it would be so dreadfully ignominious to be sent back as unsuitable, and Aunt Edith would be vexed, and the new umbrella and hold-all would be wasted. She fought with her shyness in her own defence and that of the new b
elongings.

  “I hope you will find me all right about the literature part of the business,” she said. “They sent you my certificates, I suppose, and I’ll do my best to get your” (she suddenly remembered that she wasn’t sure about Berta’s relationship to this stately lady, and blundered awkwardly into) “do my best to get her on.”

  The lady looked at Gillian with an expression in which shocked dismay and anger seemed to be fighting with each other for the mastery.

  “You have strange ways of expressing yourself in England, mademoiselle,” she said coldly. “I must request that you never again use the expression her in speaking of your distinguished pupil; even to me in strictest privacy.”

  Gill felt her face burn. “Well, what next?” she asked herself with indignation. “What does she expect me to say? ‘Fräulein Berta von Traume,’ or ‘Baroness Berta,’ most likely. They all seem to go shares in their silly titles. Wonder where the distinguished part of it comes in, and whether she imagines I’m going to be a sort of servant to this Berta girl, that she’s so jolly superior about it.”

  Poor Gill, it was quite an effort to answer politely, but, after all, she had accepted the post, or Aunt Edith had done so for her, and she must try to put up cheerfully with the drawbacks, even when they seemed as absurd and unnecessary as this one.

  “Oh, all right—I’m sorry—I didn’t know,” she said.

  The stately lady accepted her apology with a slightly less chilling tone in her voice.

  “I understand that the expression was an oversight.”

  “She couldn’t be more forgiving if I’d done something really bad,” Gill thought ruefully. Somehow after that she did not feel inclined for further conversation.

  The silence had not had time to become oppressive before the motor stopped, and Gillian realised, with an uncomfortable quickening of her pulses, that she had arrived, and that there would be more strangers, possibly also provided with eccentric views about manners, to be encountered. She followed the stately lady from the car, trying to look cool and comfortable, and miserably conscious that she was utterly failing in the attempt.