The Rain-Girl/Chapter 11
CHAPTER XI
THE MEETING WITH THE RAIN-GIRL
I
AS Beresford entered the dining-room of the Imperial at Folkestone, he was conscious that for him the whole world had changed. To-night he would meet the Rain-Girl again. His heart was hammering against his ribs, his throat seemed to contract and his muscles relax. There was a curious buzzing in his ears. Did people feel like that when they were about to faint? What a sensation it would create if he were suddenly to collapse. Tallis had warned him against excitement.
The approach of the maître d'hôtel steadied him a little. Beresford murmured his name and was led to a small table laid for one—he had stipulated for a table to himself. With a supreme effort he took himself in hand and looked round the room. Heavens! what luck. There she was sitting at the next table, alone. He was thankful that her back was towards him.
He ordered a cocktail to steady his nerves, conscious that his hands were trembling with excitement. He noticed that the other diners had almost finished their meal. The train had been late, and he had taken his time to dress. It was nearly nine o'clock.
He wished the buzzing in his ears would stop, and that his heart would not behave quite so ridiculously. That bout of pneumonia had obviously taken it out of him. Would the cocktail never come?
With thankfulness he saw the waiter approaching. Suddenly the man started to whirl round, three or four tables seemed to join in. Had the lights gone mad, the buzzing in his ears, the
Beresford opened his eyes wearily and looked about him. "The Rain-Girl," he murmured and, closing them again, he sighed his content.
"He's delirious, poor fellow," some one murmured.
"Shall I have him taken to his room, madam?" enquired the maître d'hôtel.
"No," said the Rain-Girl decisively. "Let him remain here, and ask the others to go to their places."
Reluctantly the crowd of diners retreated to the background. Some returned to their tables, others, too curious to be denied, stood watching Beresford's recumbent form as he lay on the dining-room floor, his head pillowed on a hassock, the Rain-Girl kneeling beside him.
Presently he opened his eyes again and smiled up at her. She returned the smile.
"What have they been doing?" he asked faintly, as he caught sight of the ends of his tie, which had been undone.
"You fainted," said the girl gently. "Now lie quite still and you'll feel better presently."
"I remember," he said, "I"
"You mustn't talk," she said with a business-like air of authority.
"I shall be all right in a minute," he said. "Tallis said I mustn't get excited. You know, I got pneumonia that day and—and I was ill for a long time. That is why I didn't turn up to breakfast," and his voice trailed off faintly.
"Will you please stand back there?" he heard the Rain-Girl say to several people who had approached; then as he opened his eyes again she bent down and whispered, "Will you tell me your name? It's—it's a little awkward."
"Yes, isn't it?" he said quizzically. "Beresford, Richard Beresford."
She nodded. "And now," she said, "I think you might have a little of this brandy," and with that she lifted a glass to his lips.
He drank and a few seconds later, with a deep sigh, raised himself to a sitting posture.
"I'm—I'm most awfully sorry," he said, looking from the girl to a little group of guests a few yards away.
"You had better not talk," she said as she beckoned to two of the waiters. "Lift Mr. Beresford on to his chair," she said; then she added, turning to him, "What a strange meeting. I had no idea you were staying here."
Several of the other guests now approached.
"I only arrived to-night," he said, quick to grasp her meaning. "I'm just getting over pneumonia," he added for the benefit of the other guests. "When did you come?"
He was rapidly regaining control of his faculties.
"This morning," she replied.
It was obvious that the little group of guests and waiters were drinking in this short conversation, quite unconscious that it was for their especial benefit.
"And now," said the girl, "I should advise you to go to bed. I will order something to be sent to your room."
"But" began Beresford weakly.
"When the nurse commands obedience is best," she smiled.
With murmured thanks Beresford rose and, assisted by the maître d'hôtel, walked slowly from the dining-room out into the vestibule, where several groups of guests were standing discussing the incident.
That night he spent in wakefulness. For hours he lay tossing restlessly. Hitherto his one object had been the finding of the Rain-Girl. He had been like Japheth in search of a father. Had Japheth ever thought that the success of his undertaking might involve him in embarrassment? What had he done with his father when he found him? Did he actually find him?
In spite of the feeling of exhilaration at the successful issue of his quest, he was conscious that he had come to a mile-stone, and that there was no sign-post to indicate his future course. Hitherto he had given no thought to the future, had never seemed to be able to see beyond the second meeting with the Rain-Girl. Now he found his mind a seething whirl of questions. Where was it all going to end, and what was he to do when his money was exhausted? He reproached himself as an impulsive fool for—for—oh, everything. What was his object? The whole thing was nothing short of a midsummer-madness. What would Tallis say? What would Aunt Caroline think, or say, if she knew? They were not imbued with the same reticence as Drewitt. They would comment, the one laughingly, the other with the caustic worldliness of a Mrs. Grundy.
Still he had met the Rain-Girl, and she had seemed to pick up the thread where they had left it in the smoking-room of "The Two Dragons." At least he had before him further meetings. There was that compensation, unless What if she were to leave early in the morning? What if he should be ill again? What a fool he had been not to give instructions as to when he was to be called. Surely she would not go without assuring herself that he was better.
Then with a strange revulsion of feeling he cursed himself for being such a fool as to faint. He had never fainted before. It was all her fault.
This girl seemed fated to upset everything he planned. What right had she to come into his life at so psychological a moment as the first day of his freedom? He had given months to the thought of cutting himself adrift from old ties and restraints. Then in a flash she had destroyed everything—she and the weather. The open road and the wayside hedge no longer beckoned to him. The thought of hour after idle hour spent lying on his back listening to the lark had now passed like an opium vision. The smell of the earth, the heat of the sun and the lazily drifting clouds, all seemed to belong to something beyond him, something far away. He was—yes, he must be light-headed.
It was nearly five o'clock when eventually he fell asleep and dreamed that he had just arrived at Folkestone and discovered Lord Drewitt and the Rain-Girl paddling.
2
The next morning Beresford was awakened by a feeling that some one was looking at him. He opened his eyes to find the chambermaid gazing sympathetically down upon him.
"Are you feeling better, sir?" she enquired solicitously as he opened his eyes.
"Yes, thank you," he replied, then memory flooding back upon him: "What's the time?" he demanded.
"It's just past eleven, sir."
"What?" cried Beresford, starting up in bed, only restrained from throwing his legs out by the girl's presence.
"Just past eleven, sir," repeated the girl, gazing at him with all the tenderness of a woman for an invalid, especially a good-looking man invalid.
"Good heavens! Here, clear out, my good girl," he cried. "I must get up."
"You'll find the bath-room the second door on the right, sir," she said. "I've brought your shaving water," and with that she disappeared. Beresford threw himself out of bed, tore on his bath-robe and, snatching up his sponge and towels, made a dash for the corridor. Never had he bathed with such expedition as on that morning.
Returning to his own room he found waiting at the door a little dark man in a black frock-coat.
"I hope you're feeling better this morning, sir," he said, with a smile that radiated tact and understanding. "I'm the manager."
"Oh! I'm all right again now, thank you," said Beresford, with a laugh as he entered the room. "Come in," and the manager followed him. "It's very kind of you to enquire," he continued, "and I feel I owe you an apology for the disturbance I created last night in the dining-room."
"Not at all, sir," said the manager sympathetically, "we were all very sorry indeed that you should be ill."
"I shan't do it again," said Beresford confidently. "I had pneumonia some time back, and the doctor told me to take care, and—and—well, I had rather a strenuous day yesterday."
"If you would like your meals served in your room" began the manager.
"No, thanks, I'm all right now," and with that the manager took his bowing departure, leaving Beresford greatly impressed by the courteous methods adopted by the management of the Imperial.
With swift decisive strokes he shaved, all the time the razor seeming to keep time to the unending question, "Has she gone?" He prayed that he might not cut himself. He preferred to meet her unadorned by sticking-plaster.
He was engaged in brushing his hair when a knock sounded at the door.
"Come in," he cried.
A moment after a waiter entered with a breakfast-tray. Beresford stared at him.
"I didn't order breakfast in my room," he said.
The man looked at him surprised.
"No, sir?" he interrogated. "I was instructed to bring it up."
"By whom?"
"By Mr. Byles, sir, the maître d'hôtel."
"I didn't order it," said Beresford. "Anyhow, it's rather a good idea," he added, conscious that he was feeling very hungry; he had eaten nothing since the previous morning's breakfast, except a lightly boiled sole that the Rain-Girl had caused to be sent to his room.
By Jove, that was why he had fainted! Suddenly he remembered that he had gone the whole day without food. With a nod he dismissed the man and, a moment later, lifted the covers from the two dishes and gazed down at them. In one were boiled fillets of sole and in the other an omelette.
"It's the Rain-Girl for a dollar," he cried joyfully and, drawing up a chair, he proceeded to eat with the appetite of a man who has eaten practically nothing for twenty-four hours.
The food was good, the tea was stimulating, and once more life had become a thing of crimson and of gold. It was strange, he argued, how a good meal changed one's mental outlook, and now—what? He paused as he lighted a cigarette. What was he to say when he met her? With a shrug of his shoulders he walked towards the lift.
"Are you better?"
Beresford turned swiftly on his heel. It was the Rain-Girl in a white linen frock and a panama hat. He was just crossing the hall wondering where he should begin his search, when she had appeared from apparently nowhere.
"Thanks to you; I am quite well again." Then with inspiration he added, "I'm as right as rain." She smiled. "Did" he hesitated for a moment, "did you order my breakfast?"
She nodded.
"I knew it must be you," he said. "Thank you so much for all you have done," then he added hastily, "I'm better; but I don't think I'm quite well enough to dispense with the services of a nurse."
She flashed him a look from under her lashes, then she laughed, that same gurgling little laugh that had so fascinated him in the smoking-room of "The Two Dragons."
"Do you think I'm strong enough to be taken for a walk?" he asked, "or had I better have a bath-chair? Of course, I should gain more sympathy in a bath-chair, with you walking beside it," he added whimsically.
"But I'm not going to walk beside your bath-chair," she said, obviously a little puzzled at his mood.
"Then I'm afraid it will have to be a walk. Please continue your good work," he added as he saw her hesitate. "I want to explain things to you and—and I promise I won't be a nuisance if you will give me half an hour."
"I wasn't thinking of your being a nuisance," she said, "only that" she hesitated.
"But you do," said Beresford.
"Do what?" she enquired, looking up at him in surprise.
"Know me."
"How clever of you to anticipate my thoughts."
"That's always a woman's thought when she hesitates on the brink of the unconventional."
"Well, you may come into the garden and sit down," she said leading the way.
Beresford followed, conscious that every head in sight, male and female, was turned as she passed. Entering the hotel gardens, she led the way to a seat shaded by a large elm. For several minutes they sat silent. At the other side of the lawn two girls and a man were playing an indolent game of croquet. The tap-tap of the balls seemed to add to the languor of the day. Beresford sighed his content. Of course it was all a dream; but even from a dream it was possible to extract a passing pleasure.
"You know I got pneumonia," he said casually, conscious that as a conversational opening it bordered on the abrupt.
"Please tell me," she said, turning towards him. "I'm so sorry."
He then explained how his stay at "The Two Dragons" had been protracted from a single night into six weeks. He told of Tallis and the landlord, touched on the grim irony of fate and finally added—
"But what worried me most was that you should think I had" then he stopped suddenly, conscious of his tactlessness in referring to the implied appointment made that evening in the smoking-room.
"I wondered what had happened," she said, looking straight in front of her. "I never thought—that you might be ill."
"Then you must have thought I had forgotten."
"But why not?"
"I'm sorry," he said regretfully.
"It does seem rather horrid of me—now," she admitted, slightly stressing the word "now," "but I didn't leave 'The Two Dragons' till nearly eleven and"
"Thank you," said Beresford simply.
"Why did you give up your tramp?" she enquired irrelevantly.
"Why did you give up yours?" he countered.
"I had to go to London."
"So did I."
"But I thought you had left London for good," she persisted.
"So did I."
"Yet" she paused.
"I was tramping exactly one day," he said, filling in the blank.
She nodded; but her eyes continued to interrogate him.
"Then I had to return to London," he repeated.
"I had arranged to be in London on May 5th," she volunteered.
"And I had arranged never to be in London again." He smiled at her obvious bewilderment.
"But if you had arranged never to be in London again, why?"
"Did I return?" he finished the sentence for her.
Again she nodded.
"Have you never done anything that you cannot explain to yourself?" he questioned.
"I'm afraid I'm always doing those sort of things," she admitted with a laugh.
"Well, that's why I came to London, something drew me back again."
"How strange," she said seriously.
"Not at all. Some day perhaps I'll tell you what it was."
He longed to enquire why she was in Folkestone alone, instead he asked—
"How did you find the Ritz-Carlton?"
"Oh, at the last moment auntie decided that she liked the Belle Vue better, so we went there."
Beresford felt that he wanted to laugh. The grim humour of the situation appealed to him. Here had he been living expensively at the Ritz-Carlton for the sole purpose of meeting the Rain-Girl, while she had gone to another hotel not a hundred yards distant. He had considerably curtailed the period of his adventure by the reckless expenditure of his limited resources, and all in vain. Surely Fate was a mistress of irony.
"It—it was a little embarrassing last night," she said hesitatingly.
"I've never fainted before," he said a little shamefacedly. "I'm so sorry, and you were most awfully kind."
"You see I've been a nurse, a V.A.D."
"If you had not been there they would probably have poured the soup tureen over me, or cut off my trousers at the knee, or some such thing as that. People have a tendency to do the most insane things on such occasions."
"I didn't know what had happened," she said, "until I felt my chair being pulled from under me."
"Pulled from under you!"
"Yes, you'd got hold of the leg of my chair, and seemed determined to pull me down on top of you." Then suddenly she laughed. "It was really very funny. One man brought a soda-water syphon, and somebody suggested burning feathers under your nose, as if everybody carried a bunch of feathers about with them to—to" and again she laughed.
"Don't you think we might have a little walk," he suggested. "Gentle exercise is good for the debilitated. I'll promise not to faint."
She turned and looked at him critically.
"And," he continued, "if I do, I won't bring you to earth with me."
"Very well," she said rising; "on those conditions I'll agree."
They turned out on to the Leas and walked slowly in the direction of Sandgate. Beresford inhaled deeply the warm air, fresh with the scent of the sea. Never in his life had he felt so at peace with the world as on this dream-morning; for, of course, it was all a dream. Was the Rain-Girl really walking with him, even in a dream? He turned to assure himself of the fact, and found her looking up at him. Involuntarily he smiled and saw the answering smile in her eyes.
"I was thinking," she said.
"So was I."
"I was thinking," she continued, "that you are either the most indifferent or the most incurious man I have ever met."
"Am I? Perhaps I am," he added, "indifferent to all except the present, incurious as to everything beyond the range of my vision."
"The proper thing," she said after a further period of silence, "was to ask why. When a woman accuses a man of not being curious, it always means that she wants to tell him something."
"Does it?"
She nodded. Her nod seemed to establish an intimacy between them.
"Then will you please tell me something?"
"You make things so—so difficult," she said crinkling her brows and looking straight before her. "You don't avail yourself of conversational openings." She turned and smiled up at him.
"Please why am I the most commonplace and ordinary of men?" he enquired.
"I didn't say that," she laughed. "I said you were either the most indifferent or most incurious of men."
"Please tell me why?"
"Well," she replied, "you have never expressed the least curiosity as to who I am."
"But you're the Rain-Girl." He held his breath, wondering how she would receive the reference to the name he had given her.
A little gurgling laugh reassured him.
"But my godfathers and godmothers do not know me as" she hesitated slightly, "as the Rain-Girl."
"Thanks to the beneficent decrees of Providence, our godfathers and godmothers never know us as we are."
She nodded agreement.
"If you choose that I shall know who you are you will tell me."
"Then you don't know my name?" She looked up straight into his eyes.
"Not the G.G. name."
"The G.G. name?"
"The godfathers' and godmothers'," he explained.
Again she laughed, seemingly amused at the contraction.
"Well, my name is" she began, then hesitated.
"Yes," said Beresford.
"Lola Craven."
"Lola Craven!" He stopped abruptly and stood looking down at her, the picture of blank astonishment. "Good Lord!" he ejaculated.
"Why, what's the matter?" she enquired, looking at him in wide-eyed surprise.
Then he laughed, knowing now beyond all doubt that it was a dream.
"Shall we sit down?" he said at length.
They walked a few steps to a seat overlooking the sea and sat down. Surely this was the craziest of crazy worlds, he decided. Here was the Rain-Girl turning into Lola Craven. An heiress on a gate. What would Drewitt say? Of all the weird, fantastical, incomprehensible
"I beg your pardon." Suddenly he became conscious that she was looking at him as if waiting for some explanation. "You see I've heard a lot about you."
"About me?"
"Yes. Lady Drewitt is my aunt, and Drew, that is, Lord Drewitt, is my cousin."
"Ooooooh!" she said slowly, surprised in turn.
"I wonder if that is why the manager came up to ask how I was," he said half to himself.
"You wonder if what was why?" she asked, apparently unconscious of any violence to syntax.
"Well, he certainly wouldn't have been interested in me for my own sake; but as a fr an acquaintance," he corrected, "of Miss Craven, he might" He stopped suddenly as if conscious of a change in his companion. A shadow seemed to pass over her face.
"I wish"
"Please just go on being the Rain-Girl, will you?" he asked simply.
She looked up, smiled a little sadly, and then nodded.
"I think we had better be getting back," she said, and there was something in her tone that caused Beresford to curse wealth, heiresses, convention and all that went to build up the fabric of civilisation and progress.