Wanted, an English Girl

by Moore, Dorothea

  Gillian heard it all as in a dream, and it was in a dream that she let the thought, which would come into her mind, take words.

  “It’s the eighth time that the British Forces have been totally annihilated since the war began; for I’ve kept count.”

  Directly she had said it Gill knew that it was a dangerous thing to say; not at all in accordance with the character of the shy, stupid schoolgirl, which had been so useful to her hitherto—only Rupert-George was there now to take care of Carina. She saw, though, that Fräulein von Dimme looked up from her embroidery, as though the remark were actually more interesting than her work.

  By and by—an interminable time after—the scene had shifted to Carina’s bedroom, and that at least brought Rupert-George and the chapel perceptibly nearer.

  Carina’s toilette had never seemed so lengthy an affair; Fräulein von Dimme appeared to Gillian to be insisting upon all sorts of unnecessary ritual on purpose; and then a cold horror came over her that the German knew—that she had guessed where Gill had been, and that Rupert-George had been trapped and taken down in the secret passages.

  That was a nightmare thought, but Gill would not let herself give way to it; after all she could have done nothing yet to put Fräulein von Dimme on the scent—the chief danger lay in showing any unusual impatience to be alone with the Grand-Duchess. She knew afterwards that she had really fought hard for an ordinary demeanour; for that was just the one thing that she could do for Carina now.

  She had gone up to Mademoiselle Pipignon’s room to hear the last report of the dear old governess. Pipchen was asleep when she looked into her severely tidy bedroom: her rather large and austere face, looking fallen away and shrunken, as she lay among her pillows.

  The nurse whispered that there was a slight, a very slight improvement in her pulse, but that she was terribly weak, and took no notice of anything.

  “I suppose I must tell the Grand-Duchess that,” Gill sighed; “but I do wish it were a better report—she is so awfully fond of Mademoiselle Pipignon.”

  A voice that was considerably fainter even than the nurse’s careful whisper had been, spoke from the bed.

  “Don’t talk absurdities. Of course I notice when I choose. Go out, please, for a minute. I want to speak to this child.”

  The nurse looked a little frightened, Gillian thought; but she spoke quite cheerfully and steadily.

  “I am so sorry; I did not know you were awake. You will have your beef-tea, won’t you? before you think of talking to Miss Courtney?”

  “If you will go and fetch the beef-tea without any more words, I will do all the talking that is required while you are gone,” Pipchen said, with her old grimness not in the least abated by the fact that her voice was no more than a thread of sound.

  The nurse formed the words, “Be careful. Don’t excite her,” with her lips, and went out as desired to fetch the beef-tea.

  “Shut the door after her,” directed Pipchen. “An excellent young woman, though opinionated; but this isn’t for her.”

  Her voice failed, in spite of the terrific effort she was evidently making to force it out. Gillian bent over her.

  “Dear Mademoiselle Pipignon, don’t try so hard to tell me things,” she begged. “I can wait as long as you like—the Grand-Duchess won’t be ready for ages yet; and I can hear if you just whisper.”

  Mademoiselle Pipignon was silent for a moment, as though to gather up her strength. But only for a moment—then her indomitable will-power got the better of her weakness.

  “You are a good girl. … Glad I met the wrong one …” she fought out painfully, and then she seemed to find the strength she needed. “He is the right man … don’t let her be foolish when she knows. … It was a silly child’s game, and so I always told Gabrielle de Monti … but these young people! … He must be sent for, Gillian, my dear; tell Monsieur Dellotte so, and he will see to it. … Not at all suited to a young lady in the schoolroom. … He must be sent for at once, I tell you. …”

  The nurse was coming back, with a reproachful look at Gillian, as though she had let the patient talk too much. Gillian bent closer towards Mademoiselle Pipignon. “Who must be sent for, dear Mademoiselle?”

  Pipchen’s answer was almost testy, as far as it had the power to be anything at all.

  “Why, child, where is your sense? Prince Alexander!”

  Gillian went back to Carina’s room in a much perturbed condition. She couldn’t understand at all to what Pipchen referred when she talked of a “child’s game,” that somehow had Mademoiselle de Monti mixed up in it, and was something about which Carina might be foolish when she knew. But one thing was clear, and that was that Pipchen had no idea of Captain Cartaret marrying the Grand-Duchess; she had ordered that the suitable Prince Alexander should be sent for. It was a dreadful puzzle, and Gill felt quite hopeless of being able to unravel it; only she hoped that it would not be horribly unfair to her friend Rupert-George to tell Carina what Mademoiselle Pipignon said about the Prince. She felt she ought in honour to do that, before Carina heard what Rupert-George had to say in the chapel at midnight.

  Carina’s pretty French maid had just finished the brushing of her beautiful hair when Gillian came back. She turned her head.

  “How is my dear old Pipchen to-night, Gillian?”

  Gill gave as cheering an account as she could do with truth, but the consciousness of that difficult thing which it would be needful to say so soon to Carina made it exceedingly hard to answer naturally.

  She saw Fräulein von Dimme slowly lift her eyes to look at her, as though she had noticed something unusual in her manner, and knew that she was not playing her part as it should be played. She had never longed so fervently to have Mademoiselle de Monti back; it was terrible to have so much responsibility upon her very inefficient shoulders. Still Rupert-George was in the secret passages—that knowledge was a wonderful comfort.

  Carina dismissed her maid almost immediately after the English girl had come in, and, a few minutes later, informed Fräulein von Dimme that Miss Courtney would put away her jewels this evening and she need not detain anybody else. The German went out with her usual toneless decorum, and at last Gill was alone with Carina. It was then after eleven o’clock.

  “Go into my dressing-room and get ready for bed, dear,” said Carina. “When you are ready, come and tell me all about dear old Pipchen, for you have something more to tell me, haven’t you?”

  “I’ll tell you everything first if you don’t mind,” Gill said, kneeling down by Carina, as she sat in her low chair by the fire. “It’s—it’s important.”

  A sort of shyness made her pause a moment before beginning, and she was never more thankful for anything in all her life. For, even as she paused, there crept into the intense silence, in which Carina received her announcement, a curious little sound from outside, a sound which neither would have noticed if they had been talking, or if the room had not been so startlingly quiet.

  Carina listened to it for a second; then a wave of indignant colour swept her delicate face.

  “Come in, Fräulein von Dimme,” she said, and the door opened and Fräulein von Dimme sidled into the room.

  Carina sat very still in her chair, her hands folded in her lap. She spoke without raising her voice.

  “I thought I heard you knock, meine Fräulein. Will you be so good, Gillian, as to ascertain whether I also heard the Baroness at the door of my dressing-room?”

  Fräulein von Dimme made a movement as though to stop her, but Gillian was on her feet and at the dressing-room door in two seconds to find the Baroness just turning from it, with a haste somewhat at variance with the usual dignity of her demeanour.

  Carina smiled, a little scornful smile. “I am indeed well taken care of! You, Fräulein, fancied, I believe, that you heard me ring, and, in the kindness of your heart, came to see if I had all I needed. You, Baroness, I think, were doubtful about the safety of my jewellery—both excellent good reasons for your conduct, I have n
o doubt; but, I have no further need of your presence about my court.”

  With secret joy Gillian observed that the spies were for once dumfounded; they actually appeared to have nothing to say. Carina righteously angry was a rather terrifying person, for all that she was practically a prisoner in her own castle. The Germans, both people of twice her age or more, retired, defeated for the moment. Gillian held the door open for them, and they went.

  “Gillian!” Carina said when they had gone, “I don’t care what desperate thing I do; I will not be driven into a marriage with Prince Waldemar!”

  It must be confessed that Gillian showed neither finesse nor diplomacy in the handling of the situation; partly, perhaps, because there was no time for anything when Carina’s voice sounded so desperate as all that.

  “Well,” she observed, “there’s Captain Cartaret waiting to see you in the chapel at twelve.”

  *

  That last three-quarters of an hour was not as long as might have been expected, considering what the earlier part of the evening had been like.

  To begin with Gillian spent a good deal of it on outpost duty, investigating doors, for fear one or another of Prince Waldemar’s spies should be occupying their time in more eavesdropping. In the intervals Carina told her something—something that possessed a good many gaps which she seemed to think that Gill could fill by instinct—about the beginning of her acquaintanceship with Captain Cartaret.

  “Gabrielle knew him in England,” she said, “and Gabrielle is always all right about people. The beginning was a mountain expedition. I was stupid enough to slip and twist my ankle, and he was shooting round about and living in one of the mountain huts.”

  Gillian gathered that Rupert-George had come to the rescue of the Grand-Duchess very opportunely, and that the acquaintance thus romantically begun had progressed apace.

  “Pipchen did not approve at first,” Carina explained, “but then, you know, she never wanted me to be too friendly with anybody, not even Dick, whom I had played with all my life. She thought any ordinary friendship took away a little from ‘the delicate correctness’ expected from one in my position; I am afraid, dear old thing! that she thought I ought to sit up in my best clothes with my hands folded in front of me until the suitable Prince (how I always hated that expression!) came along and condescended to discover an equal suitability on my part. But I would rather die an old maid like your Queen Elizabeth; I would rather go into a convent—though I should make a very bad sister, I know—than marry just because a man is suitable, without caring.”

  Gillian thought of Pipchen’s orders—but she also thought about the tone in which the Grand-Duchess spoke of Captain Cartaret, and the minute and eager questions that she put about his looks, what he had said, how he had said it.

  She took a sudden resolution. “I know we are real friends,” she said, “in spite of your being,—well, you know,—and I being just nobody. So I am going to be disgustedly impertinent, and I hope you won’t mind. Do you—do you care for Captain Cartaret?”

  Carina’s mouth trembled a little, and she looked away from Gillian into the glowing red heart of the fire. After a minute she spoke very simply. “Yes, Gillian, I do.”

  “Well, then, bother Prince Alexander!” Gill said recklessly, and decided then and there to take the responsibility of disregarding Pipchen’s orders altogether, and never breathing one word about them to Carina.

  At about twenty minutes to twelve Carina slipped into her clothes; a coat and skirt by Gill’s advice on account of the chilliness of the chapel. She covered the coat and skirt with a dressing-gown in case she should meet anyone—not the dressing-gown she had been wearing, but a wonderful Paris creation which had come home just before the war. If the moment had been less intensely thrilling Gill might have noticed that indication and smiled a little over it, but just then small things did not count.

  At five minutes to twelve, having slipped a fur-lined coat of Carina’s over her own evening frock, she prepared to go downstairs.

  “I’ll just see if the coast is clear before you come,” she whispered. “Although of course it is quite natural for you to go and say your prayers in the chapel when you’re having such an awful time—one doesn’t want those Germans to see you.”

  “Gill, you are a heroine! You are sure you don’t mind going first!”

  “Rather not! and it’s quite time I went too. I don’t somehow fancy that Captain Cartaret will be late.”

  Carina flushed up.

  “There! you couldn’t look lovelier than you do if you were in full dress, with your Norwegian pearls on,” Gill said. “Good gracious! I never put them away, after all. I must just do that; I’m sure Captain Cartaret won’t mind waiting a minute. And just supposing one or other of those German cats should come in and see them left out.”

  “Oh, never mind! Don’t wait!” Carina urged. “Suppose anyone should go into the chapel and find Captain Cartaret there. …”

  It was Gillian’s private opinion that the situation would be considerably worse for Rupert-George if he were discovered with Carina than without her; but she did not say so, and only slipped the pearls over their owner’s head.

  “You must take care of them, then, if you won’t let me do it.”

  She was off before Carina could raise any objection, feeling her way down a back staircase towards the chapel with as much haste as caution would allow.

  Not that it would have mattered if she had made a good deal more noise, she thought, for the noises outside were enough to deafen far heavier footsteps within. The wind had risen considerably since she had first observed it during the dressing of Carina’s hair, and was blowing great guns, that might have been an echo of the desperate fighting on the road to Calais. It sounded as though all the world were at war to-night.

  Those of the Palace clocks which kept time began to strike the hour of midnight as Gill opened the heavy door of the chapel, whispering softly: “Are you there?”

  There was no moon, and the faint gleam from the tiny silver lamps before their shrine gave the only light in all the chapel. Gill could not see more of Rupert-George than a shadowy outline which moved at her voice.

  “Yes. Is that Gillian?”

  His tone asked another question. “She is coming,” Gill assured him, in a whisper.

  “She mustn’t. I’ll come to her in any place she chooses. This is watched.”

  Several cold chills ran down the girl’s spine. “What?”

  “A face looked in at the window about a quarter of an hour ago. She mustn’t come here!”

  “I’ll go and ask her where I’m to bring you, if you like,” Gill said. “But I’m afraid it’s horribly dangerous for you to come right into the Palace.”

  “We’ll risk that,” said Rupert-George; and Gill was out of the chapel and on her way back to Carina’s room, before the clocks had half finished answering one another in their announcement of the midnight hour.

  Carina was waiting for her at the door of her bedroom, the firelight gleaming upon the wonderful pearls that hung loosely over the rose-pink brocade of her dressing-gown.

  Gill explained the situation in a hurried whisper. “What about the old billiard-room at the back, the one with the table that Prince Waldemar says is only good enough for other people?” she suggested breathlessly.

  “Gill! do you think that I would risk bringing Captain Cartaret through all those passages?” Carina demanded; “when Waldemar was so bitter against that poor English prisoner, against whom he had no personal grudge. No, we will go to him, whatever he may be pleased to say. I am not afraid.”

  They went down together, into the dark well of the back staircase; Gill shading the candle carefully with her hand, for the old castle was distinctly draughty on a night like this.

  They reached the door of the chapel, and, as Gill opened it for Carina, a sudden gust put the candle out.

  The last line of the midnight carillon sounded as the door shut behind them, and in the silen
ce that followed Gill had a horrible fancy that some one gave vent to a queer animal grunt of satisfaction.

  CHAPTER XXVI

  Gillian Plays the Spy

  In the dimness of the chapel Gillian saw Captain Cartaret move quickly forward.

  “Carina!” he cried, though almost beneath his breath; and then, as she held out both hands to him with one of her quick impulsive movements, he dropped upon one knee and raised them to his lips.

  “My little Princess!”

  “No! no! don’t call me that,” she said quickly, with her voice upon the edge of a sob. “I am so tired—so very tired of it all—and we are just a man and a girl who …”

  He finished for her, so low that Gill, retreating discreetly to the door, hardly caught the words.

  “Who love each other. Oh, my dear! my dear!”

  It was an odd betrothal there in the dark old chapel, with just the two circles of yellow light from those silver lamps, each before its shrine. A little gleam caught their faces as they stood together in front of the high altar—Rupert-George’s very calm and steady about the eyes; Carina’s white, but with an expression of absolute peace and trust. It seemed to Gill, flattened against the door in a desire to efface herself as far as possible, that the two had forgotten for the moment the gloom which still enveloped their prospects almost as completely as it did themselves.

  And then she felt the door against which she was leaning stir ever so little, and, before she had time to think what that meant, the key turned in the lock. She gave a startled exclamation, which brought Rupert-George, at least, out of heaven for the moment.

  “What is it?” he asked quickly.

  “Some one locked the door.”

  He came to it in two strides, and tried it, very gently. “Oh yes, it is locked all right,” he said, in the tone of one offering an observation on the weather.

  “The private door!”

  That was locked too. Gill went to Carina and held her hand tightly.

  “Some one knows that we are here, then,” Carina said.

  “Fräulein von Dimme. I heard her grunt as we came in.” That was Gill’s contribution.