Wanted, an English Girl

by Moore, Dorothea

  There were wide stone steps in front of her, and great doors standing wide, and liveried footmen waiting statuesquely. Gill felt a distinct sense of resentment against Mrs. Trant; she might at least have mentioned the grandeur of the Baroness and her establishment, and then perhaps Aunt Edith would not have contemplated the post for her. Never had she felt so conscious of the indifferent cut and quality of her serge coat and skirt; never before had it seemed to matter so much that her tan shoes were thick with a clumsy thickness, and that there was a darn that showed above the ankle, done in a shade of brown that did not match the stocking. She had put on her gloves in the car, so that the griminess of her nails was not apparent; but she felt that every smut in the train had found a resting place somewhere about her, particularly in the region of the face and neck.

  She made a desperate attempt to put her hat straight as she walked up the many steps, with her heart in her clumsy shoes; and that seemed all that it was possible to do just then, except to endure and try not to show how much she minded.

  She was in a wonderful hall, with beautiful carved panelling; the size of everything made her feel about two inches high. The stately lady said something to a footman, and then turned with perfect courtesy but no friendliness to poor Gill.

  “I will conduct you to your own apartments—you will doubtless be glad to arrange your dress.”

  The formality struck a fresh chill. “Your own apartments”; it sounded dreadfully lonely. Though Gillian did not feel drawn towards the Berta girl, she had at least looked to finding something of a companion in her. She had thought that Berta, fat and spectacled and conceited very probably, but still at least another girl of her own age, would come out into the hall to greet her; would conduct her to the schoolroom and probably to her bedroom too; would ring for hot water and inquire about the journey, and tell the English girl about the time of meals, and whether one put on last summer’s best frock for dinner, or a proper evening one, and all the other things one wanted to know.

  But in “your own apartments” there was no mention of a schoolroom, and Berta’s company therein. Gillian thought of the ugly, shabby basement schoolroom at Aunt Edith’s house with a sudden acute sense of longing that brought an aching lump into her throat. It had never been a very homey room, with its patternless carpet and curtainless windows, its small gas fire, its oilcloth table cover. She had often thought it a hideous place, as the girls sat preparing their lessons there in the evenings.

  It was never tidy; if Elys dropped shavings from her wood-carving, they would be there for three or four days untouched. Flossie’s little messy bags of sticky sweets were to be found in all sorts of unexpected places, adhering moistly to a lesson-book in the shelf, or under the more or less ragged music on the cheap piano, where somebody was always practising with wearisome reiteration.

  But to-night that ugly, unloved room had quite a pleasant look in Gill’s mind. If the girls were not playing tennis in one of the High School courts they would probably be there, lounging about in the unusual luxury of nothing to do, talking of Gill herself very likely, wondering what she was doing—perhaps even envying her.

  Gill suddenly knew that she must not think any more of that dismal basement room if she meant to face Berta and the situation like an English girl. She choked back the lump in her throat, and tried to take an intelligent interest in her surroundings.

  It seemed to her as though she had been conducted through endless corridors since mounting that flight of magnificent stairs, with great carved balustrades. How would she ever find her way to the front door again, when she wanted to go out? she wondered. It was all very beautiful and splendid, but most uncomfortably large. Still, the end was reached at last; the stately lady threw open the door of a delightful sitting-room, where a small wood fire crackled cheerily in the grate—a welcome spectacle despite the time of year—and an open door showed that a daintily furnished bedroom lay beyond.

  The chairs in the sitting-room were covered with clean artistic chintz—there were English books in a bookcase against the wall—the whole little domain had a look about it as though great pains had been taken to make the English stranger feel comfortable and at home.

  Gillian felt indescribably grateful for that welcome; it took away a little of the forlorn feeling.

  “How awfully pretty!—I mean, it does look comfortable. Thank you so much,” she said. “May I go into my bedroom and wash my face and hands? I know I’m not fit to be seen.”

  The stately one assenting, Gill hurried into the dainty bedroom, with its fresh muslin and pale pink fittings. There was hot water all ready in a shining brass jug, in the delicate wash-hand basin. Gill took off her dusty hat, tossing it down anyhow upon the pale pink satin quilt, and, pouring out the water, pushed back her hair and plunged her face right into it. As she did so a quick light step sounded in the outer room—a step that certainly was not the measured one of the stately lady whom she believed to be the Baroness. Someone called—“Miss” something; she did not catch the “Courtney,” as she was splashing with the water.

  Berta, of course, come to make friends, Gill thought. Her heart quite warmed to the German girl now that she had seen those nicely-chosen books in the bookshelf. Very possibly it was not the right thing in Insterburg for a schoolgirl to come down to the hall door and greet a visitor; anyhow, Berta must have felt very kindly towards her, or she would not have thought about those books.

  “Do you mind coming in?” she called back cordially. “I’m just in the middle of washing my face, you see.”

  A girl came in, in answer to her invitation. Gill, drying her face with hasty vigour, almost dropped the towel altogether in her astonishment. Anything less like the Berta of her imagination it would have been impossible to find.

  “The Berta girl” was tall and very slim, with wonderful dark grey eyes that looked out of a delicately-featured face, tinted like a pale wild rose. Her dark cloudy hair was beautifully dressed, and up; her white frock was quite simple but of an indescribably dainty simplicity.

  Gillian felt ready to sink through the soft carpet of her bedroom floor when she remembered what she had thought about the Berta girl.

  This surprising Berta came forward with a charming smile, and held out a small hand, on which a couple of beautiful rings glittered. She did not seem to have noticed the English girl’s embarrassment. She spoke in very good English, the slight touch of foreign accent seeming to add a charm to her delicate pronunciation.

  “You have had a long and tiring journey, I am afraid; but it gives me great pleasure to see you here, Miss Berkley.”

  The conclusion was rather a shock.

  “My name’s Courtney,” Gill said, wishing that everything she said would not sound so blunt and rough.

  “Gillian Courtney—I expect English names are rather mixing at first,” she added. “You are Fräulein Von Traume, of course?” Gill took some credit for not saying “Berta” sans phrase, but the stately lady’s snub was still in her mind, and besides this girl had her hair up. Of course they would be Gillian and Berta to each other, almost at once; it would be ridiculous to use the Miss, as though they were boarding-school girls of a hundred years ago. Still it was better to wait a little, and let the girl who was at home make the suggestion.

  Berta had taken Gill’s hand in hers. She still held it in a very nice friendly way, as she said:

  “I cannot help thinking that there is some mistake—”

  “Oh, dear, it isn’t my age again, is it?” Gill asked rather piteously. There was no doubt about it; she had wanted to stay quite definitely since Berta came into the room. “I’m sure Mrs. Trant must have explained that I was only sixteen, when she made the arrangements about my reading literature with you, you know—and I thought she said you were the same age, and I had hated it so before, you know.”

  Gillian felt her hand held a little more firmly, as though Berta were feeling sorry for her. Then Berta said:

  “Please don’t look so unhappy,
Gillian—there is nothing to be unhappy about. It is just that my dear Mademoiselle Pipignon must have made a mistake at the station, and met you in place of Miss Berkley, of Somerville College, whom I was expecting.”

  One cannot think of everything at once, especially when one has had a great shock. Gill was only conscious just then of a dreadful disappointment.

  “Then you are not Berta Von Traume after all?” she said, and for all her pluck she could not keep a quaver from her voice.

  The girl’s eyes laughed, though her face was grave. “I’m afraid I am not. And do you know I am rather pleased to hear that your voice sounds disappointed.”

  She withdrew her hand from Gill’s and laid both upon her shoulders in a very friendly way.

  “Finish washing your face and hands, and then come with me,” she said. “I will have word sent to the Baroness Von Traume, and presently you shall make acquaintance with the real Berta.”

  “But who—who are—?” Gill began, and then broke off confusedly.

  The pretty girl smiled.

  “I am called Carina.”

  The Grand-Duchess!

  CHAPTER IV

  Gillian Plights Her Troth

  The Grand-Duchess! Gill did not know whether something said the words inside her, or whether she spoke them aloud.

  As a matter of fact, she had very little time for either thought or speech just then, for hard on the young Duchess’s announcement there was a hasty knock at the door, and the lady who had met Gillian at the station came into the room.

  She entered in a way very unlike her usual dignified progress; one might almost have said she hurried in, if anyone so portly and so stately could do so.

  “Ma’am, I regret to inform you that an extraordinary contretemps has occurred, for which I blame myself. Another Miss Berkley has arrived from England, and one of them—”

  The Grand-Duchess put an arm round Gillian and drew her a little forward.

  “One of them, my dear Mademoiselle, is not Miss Berkley at all, but a little girl who is going to stay with the Baroness Von Traume and her daughter. … Gillian, I must introduce you to Mademoiselle Pipignon, who has been for many years my kindest friend and my governess. Pipchen, dear, this is Miss Gillian Courtney, who has come to Chardille to—which is it, Gillian—to learn German of Berta Von Traume or to impart English to her?”

  Gillian explained, even to Frances’ suggestion that Berta would take Shakespeare from the English!

  “Germans are grasping people, are they not? But we must not let them take anything from England. I am partly English myself, Gillian, and am proud of the fact,” the Duchess remarked gravely.

  Mademoiselle Pipignon took Gillian’s hand quite kindly, though she shook her head at her royal pupil.

  “Welcome to Chardille, Miss Courtney,” she said. She looked again at the Grand-Duchess rather helplessly. “Miss Berkley?”

  “Dearest, you will be good to her and not too stately—I am sure you terrified this child—and bring her up here, and present her to me presently,” the Duchess said. “I am going to take Gillian to my rooms and give her some tea before she goes to the Baroness Von Traume. Please see that the Baroness knows she is with me.”

  Did the Grand-Duchess realise that Gillian’s knees felt desperately shaky, and that the thought of her blunder, for all that it was more Mademoiselle Pipignon’s than hers, was making a dreadful ache come into her throat in her effort to repress tears?

  Gillian never really did know how much Carina understood or guessed on that first dreadful evening. All she did know was that she was, as it were, swept away, with no volition of her own, from the alarming presence of Carina’s governess, and landed in a wonderful bedroom, where the bed, huge as it was, seemed almost lost, and great mirrors reaching to the ground showed her a woebegone, grimed, dusty, shabby figure, which seemed as though it ought not to be within a mile of the beautiful Grand-Duchess.

  She summoned up her courage and spoke then.

  “I say, please, do forgive me. I’ve been fearfully stupid, I know, and it’s ever so good of you—of your Grand-ducal Highness, not to be wild about it.” (Gill felt as though she were acting in a play, and acting very badly, as she stammered out the title, which was the only one she could think of on the spur of the moment. The governess had said “Ma’am,” but Gill did not somehow feel she could say that.) “I’m awfully sorry about it, and I should think I had better go along now to the Baroness and not bother you any more, if you don’t mind.”

  Gillian tried to speak in a confident and assured tone of voice, suited to an English girl among foreigners, who must not bring discredit on her country however inwardly wretched she might feel. But the cheerfulness would not be quite natural, somehow, and the voice sounded as though she had not found the rolls and cups of coffee quite took the place of the regular meals at home. Gillian felt fiercely ashamed of that voice, even more ashamed than she was of the stupidity which had never asked a single question that would have shown her her mistake in time.

  She wished, too, that she knew what was the proper way to say good-bye to a Grand-Duchess. Must she wait to be dismissed in so many words, or did one say, “May I retire?” or was it wrapped up in finer words than that, and did one curtsy and walk backwards?

  Really, it was only for a minute that she had time for these thoughts. Then Carina put an arm round her and kissed her.

  “Poor Gillian, you are quite tired out. Please do not look unhappy. For me, I am pleased at the accident which has made us known to each other, and you must try to be pleased, too, in politeness. And do not be troubled about the Baroness. Dear old Pipchen has so much tact, and will make all right with her, I promise you. … Take off your coat and smooth your hair—here are brushes. And I will ring for hot water, since I interrupted you in the very act of washing your hands, didn’t I? And then we will have tea, just you and I, in my own little private room, where no one ever disturbs me.”

  “I say, you are good!” Gill said with conviction.

  She performed some hasty but fairly effective tidying with a warm glow of gratitude in her heart. The Grand-Duchess had taken away all the sting from her blunder in making it seem as though she were really pleased that it had brought the English schoolgirl into the Grand-ducal palace; she had kissed Gill, and, best of all, she had understood. Gill felt, though she could not put it into words even to Elys at home, as though she quite realised the devotion that made knights of the olden time ready to do and dare anything for the sake of imprisoned or persecuted princesses. In her heart she knew that she would be thankful for the opportunity of doing something difficult or even dangerous for Carina’s sake.

  They had a delicious tea together in Carina’s special little room, which Gill was surprised to find not at all unlike the den of a High School friend with whom she went to tea occasionally at Huntford.

  Marcia was an only daughter, and though her people were by no means rich, Marcia herself had a good deal of taste and ingenuity. The chintz covers that made her rather heterogeneous collection of chairs a perfect match were made by herself; the pretty table cover that hid a rather scratched old table, had once been part of an opera coat. Probably the Grand-Duchess’s chairs were odd because she liked them odd, and her room had needed considerably less contrivance: but the general effect of the two was very much the same: despite the splendour reigning in that part of the Grand-ducal palace that Gillian had seen first, Carina’s own special little domain was rich only in such girlish treasures as might have been owned by Marcia Conway.

  There was a violin beside the little cottage piano; there was a bookcase, filled chiefly with books—some well worn—whose gay colours and gilding suggested the term “juveniles.” There was a little work-table, not quite tidy, with an embroidery frame on it; there were a great many photographs on the mantelpiece—on a little side table—hanging on the walls.

  Gillian’s eyes travelled round the cosy little room with interest, as she drank delicious tea, “English tea
” her hostess assured her, and she caught one familiar face among the many strange ones gazing at her from the chimney piece. It was a good-looking face enough, but it was the honest kindly look in the straight-forward eyes that caught her attention just then. Surely they were the same eyes which had looked kindly at her in the train, when she was in such difficulties.

  “Oh, isn’t that Rupert-George?” she burst out before she could stop herself.

  Carina put down the quaint, chased silver teapot, with which she was about to pour out a second cup for her guest.

  “Why, Gillian, have you met him?” she asked.

  Gillian got up and went across to the mantelpiece. Yes, there was no doubt about it; the photo of the young man in the mess-jacket of an English cavalry regiment was certainly her friend of the train.

  “Yes, at least I don’t know him properly, in the way of being introduced,” she explained. “He was very good to me in the train, when I couldn’t find my ticket, and everything would drop about, and the ticket-collector was getting wild and shouting. … I really don’t know what I should have done if he hadn’t asked what was the matter and helped me out.”

  Carina did not answer this for a moment, and Gillian had a horrid panicky feeling that the Grand-Duchess thought her conduct improper.

  “Of course I saw he was English,” she jerked. “It’s always O.K. when a person’s English, isn’t it?”

  And then poor Gillian realised that in her desire to free herself from a charge of being indiscreet, she had succeeded in saying something that might easily be considered quite insulting to the Grand-Duchess, who had been so very good to her.

  She felt herself growing scarlet—face, neck, ears and all; how could she have said it? But to her amazement and relief she heard her hostess laugh, a little low laugh that was somehow very comforting.

  “But it seems that you and I are like-minded upon many points, Gillian. I am sure that you were right in feeling that you could trust this Englishman.”