Chloe began to shake with inward laughter. She bit the corners of her lips to keep them steady.
“Do you mean bicycle with him?”
“Oh, no! Certainly not! How could you think of such a thing? My precious Toto! No, no, you must walk your bicycle of course, and have Toto in the basket in front with his own eiderdown—my precious, darling angel, do hush, just for a minute.”
Chloe felt that, if she stood there any longer, she would say or do something outrageous. She therefore murmured, “All right,” and submitted to endless instructions as to the proper preparation of Toto’s tea, whilst the chauffeur lined her bicycle basket with a purple satin eiderdown. Toto, snarling and screaming, was tucked in and secured with a strap.
“Tell Lady Gresson that I rely on her,” said the old lady. “She’s expecting me—Mrs. Merston Howard. Tell her that I rely on her, and that the tea must be freshly made, and China, not Indian—on no account Indian.”
Chloe had gone about half a dozen yards, when Mrs. Howard called her back.
“Foster, go after her. Tell her to come here. She can back her bicycle. No, a message won’t do.” Then, as Chloe reluctantly backed, “Tell Lady Gresson that a Petit Beurre biscuit will do if she hasn’t a Marie—but Toto likes Maries better. And oh, tell her, on no account more than one lump of sugar—and not a large one.”
Chloe quickened her pace, and breathed more freely when she had turned another corner. As I soon as she was out of sight she gave Toto a smart slap, mounted her bicycle, and rode on briskly. Toto, after one enraged yelp, fixed her with green, malignant eyes, and subsided.
Chapter III
The music-room at Ranbourne was full of the rather raucous strains of the latest fox-trot and the sound of dancing feet. Chloe stood on the threshold with Toto under one arm, and saw Monica Gresson detach herself from her very good-looking partner and come forward a shade reluctantly. Even before she spoke, Chloe was aware that this was not one of the days when Monica was going to be “all over her.”
“Good gracious, Chloe! A dog?” Her tone implied that Toto was an offence.
“He’s not a dog; he’s a horror,” said Chloe. “And thank goodness, he isn’t mine. An old lady who says she’s coming to stay with you pressed him into my hand by the roadside. She said that I was to save his precious life by bringing him here and seeing that he had China tea at once, with one lump of sugar in it, and a Marie biscuit. She said her name was Mrs. Merston Howard.”
“What can I do with him?” said Monica, looking helpless.
“Housekeeper’s room,” said Chloe. “And if we’re going to dance, I want to take off my coat and change my shoes.”
They disposed of Toto, and Chloe slipped out of her coat and patted her hair.
“Who is Mrs. Merston Howard?” she asked.
“My godmother. She’s frightfully rich, and hasn’t any relations. Mother thinks she’ll leave me her money; but she won’t.”
“She’ll probably leave it to Toto. Who’s here?”
“Joyce Langholm and the brother from India; and the two Renton boys—you know them; and—and Mr. Fossetter who’s staying with us.”
Monica’s manner became a trifle conscious. She had the largest blue eyes in the County; on the strength of them she considered herself a beauty. For the rest, Chloe’s description of her as bun-faced was apt enough.
“Who is Mr. Fossetter?” said Chloe, laughing.
“We met him at Danesborough.” Monica became flushed and eager. “He knows simply everyone and goes everywhere. I believe he’s one of the best dancers in London—and quite too frightfully good-looking. Chloe, you won’t flirt with him, will you?”
“I never flirt,” said Chloe. “And as long as a man can dance, I don’t care twopence how hideous he is, or how handsome.”
Martin Fossetter was dancing with Joyce Langholm when the door opened. He looked across the room and saw Chloe Dane in a thin orange jumper and a short skirt that showed very pretty feet and ankles.
“Who’s that?” he asked.
Miss Langholm froze a little.
“A girl Monica used to be at school with. She’s in a shop or something now. It’s awfully decent of Monica to have her here, of course; but I think it’s silly myself—unsettling for the girl, yon know.”
Martin Fossetter had a most sympathetic voice. He smiled at Joyce and said:
“Yes, I know.” Then, after a little pause, “What’s her name?”
“Dane—Chloe Dane,” said Miss Langholm.
Mr. Fossetter began to talk of other things. He had the knack of being personal without impertinence, and his very handsome eyes assured the woman on whom they rested of a most particular and poignant interest. One of the most courted women in England once said of him: “Martin Fossetter makes you feel that you are the heroine of some thrilling romance. I’m never quite sure though whether he’s the hero or the villain.” Miss Langholm was not so acute as this; she was merely rather better pleased with herself than usual.
Presently Mr. Fossetter asked Monica to introduce him to Chloe. They danced, and Chloe found him the partner of her dreams, with a step that suited hers to a marvel.
“How beautifully you dance,” said Martin Fossetter.
Chloe nodded.
“It’s about the only thing I can do decently. I do love it.”
Martin’s dark eyes rested on her with admiration—and something else. So this was Chloe Dane, the girl that old Mitchell Dane was coming to Maxton to have a look at. One might gamble on his being satisfied.
“Do you know, I’ve just been staying at Danesborough,” he said.
“Have you?” Chloe’s tone was indifferent.
“Yes, that’s why I was so interested to meet you. They still remember you there, you know, and talk about you.”
Chloe said nothing. She did not care to speak of Danesborough to a stranger. Even to Rose she hardly ever spoke of her old home—twice, or three times perhaps in their two years together; and to a stranger—no, Chloe had nothing to say about Danesborough to this stranger. He was aware at once of her withdrawal.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I thought you might like to hear about it—to know that Mr. Dane hasn’t spoilt the place. It’s beautiful and—” The sympathy in his voice altered Chloe’s mood. She looked up at him suddenly, and he saw that her eyes were not really black after all, but a very, very dark brown. They could look soft too, as well as bright; they looked soft now.
“I was only nine,” she said—her voice was like a child’s voice—“I was only nine. I did love it. There was a lily pond, and there were peacocks. I remember there was a white peacock that mewed like a cat; and I called him Henry—I don’t know why, but I did.” She laughed a little, and looked away. The sympathy in Martin Fossetter’s eyes had brought a mist to her own. Chloe was not used to sympathy, and it touched something in her warm young heart.
“The lily pond is still there,” he said. “I saw it in the summer. There was a crimson lily among the white ones. You ought to go there and see it in the spring.”
“I shall never go there again,” said Chloe.
Martin smiled.
“That’s like saying to the fountain, ‘Je ne boirai jamais de ton eau,’—you know the proverb. I think you’re tempting fate when you say that you will never go back to Danesborough any more.”
Chloe laughed, suddenly, frankly. Her eyes were black again, and very bright.
“It’s a fate I don’t mind tempting,” she said, and dropped his arm.
Chapter IV
Chloe went to tea with Miss Tankerville the next day.
“She always asks one such ages beforehand,” she complained to Rose; “and then it’s ten to one she forgets you’re coming. I’m bored stiff at having to go. I wonder if it’s true that she’s going to give the school up soon. I believe there are only about hal
f a dozen girls left, so she might just as well.”
There was certainly an air of genteel decay about the house and grounds. Chloe remembered them, if not well kept, at least in decent order. Now the whole place had an under-staffed, neglected look, and the big house echoed emptily to the feet of Miss Tankerville’s few remaining pupils.
Chloe waited in the drawing-room, and thought how dreary the conservatory looked. Last winter there were still chrysanthemums there, but now a half-drawn curtain failed to conceal bare, discoloured staging, rusty pipes, and broken flower pots.
The door opened, and Miss Tankerville came in, rather flustered. She still wore the tight curled fringe and tight boned waist of the nineties and affected a pince-nez on a thin gold chain which was always getting entangled in the old-fashioned watch-chain that clanked round her neck like a fetter.
“Chloe! Dear girl!” she exclaimed, and pecked at Chloe’s cheek. The pince-nez fell off, and had to be retrieved. “Dear girl, I’m always pleased to see you; but this afternoon it just happens—yes, it just happens—now, let me see, did I ask you for this afternoon?”
“You did,” said Chloe. “But it doesn’t matter a bit—if you were going out or anything of that sort—I can quite easily go home again.”
“Then I did ask you.” Miss Tankerville looked round vaguely, as if she expected some sort of corroborative evidence to fall from the ceiling, “I did ask you then. Dear girl, I begin to remember. I met you in the High Street, and I asked you to come and have tea with me—but surely, surely it was for last Sunday.”
“It doesn’t matter a bit,” Chloe repeated. She would have been quite pleased to go home. She wished very much that Miss Tankerville would stop holding her hand in the limp grasp that was so difficult to get away from.
“Last Sunday surely. I know I was expecting you then, for I know I was just a little bit hurt when you didn’t come. And this afternoon now, this afternoon—”
“It really doesn’t matter, if you want to go out,” said Chloe for the third time.
Miss Tankerville pressed the hand which she still held.
“No, no, I’m not going out, dear girl. It’s just a little—just the least little bit awkward, that’s all. You see, a chauffeur is a chauffeur. And though, of course, he isn’t one really, I’m not even sure whether he’ll come here in plain clothes or not. And I thought that if I were on the look-out for him, I might just let him in myself—on account of Susan, you know. You see, he’d be sure to leave his cap in the hall, wouldn’t he? And I thought that perhaps, without his cap on, Susan would hardly notice anything when she brought in the tea. And if you don’t mind, dear girl, will you just come over to the window so that I can keep my eye on the drive? Maids do gossip so dreadfully—and I can’t explain to Susan that his mother is really Lady Enniston, can I?”
Chloe got her hand away at last, and said, “No, I suppose not.” Then she sat down on the window seat, looked with dancing eyes at Miss Tankerville’s harassed profile, and made an inward vow not to stir from the spot until she had seen the mysterious visitor who was going to make the tea-party “a little bit awkward.”
“If you can’t tell Susan, I think you might tell me,” she said. “Who is it that isn’t really a chauffeur?—and why is he coming to tea?—and do you really want me to go away? It all sounds most exciting.”
Miss Tankerville adjusted her pince-nez and peered into the mist. Chloe was a dear girl, a very dear girl; but of course she was working at Miss Allardyce’s; and would Maud Enniston really like dear Michael to be introduced to a girl as pretty as Chloe who was only a dressmaker’s hand? Then, conversely, Michael, dear Michael, might at any moment arrive in a chauffeur’s uniform and wearing that terrible cap. Chloe Dane was the grand-daughter of old Mr. Dane of Danesborough, such a very proud old man, and a regular patrician—a regular patrician. Now, how could one introduce a chauffeur in uniform to Miss Chloe Dane of Danesborough? Miss Tankerville turned from the window with nervous perplexity large on every feature.
“You see, dear girl,” she began in her most flustered voice, “your grandfather—perhaps you don’t remember him as I do, but I can never help feeling just a little bit responsible to him. And dear Michael—you see, it’s so awkward, and I find some difficulty in explaining. And course, dear girl, if you had done as I wished and had remained with me as one of the staff it would certainly have made a difference to your position—not, of course, that I have the slightest wish to hurt your feelings or to reflect upon your present employment; but I feel a—a—well, certain responsibility to Michael’s mother who was one of my earliest pupils—one of my very earliest pupils, and a most sweet girl. And, thou I don’t as a rule approve of second marriages, she was, of course, very young indeed when Michael’s father died, and her marriage to Lord Enniston has been most satisfactory, most satisfactory. She was Maud Ashley-Hill, a daughter of Sir Condor Ashley-Hill’s,” concluded Miss Tankerville with the air of one who has now explained everything.
Chloe had begun to enjoy herself.
“Yes, that makes it quite clear, doesn’t it?” she said. “I mean all the fathers and mothers and grandfathers and people. There’s only one thing, dear Miss Tankerville, and that is, who is it?”
“Didn’t I explain? Dear girl, surely I did. I met him this morning after church; and when I asked him to come to tea, he seemed so grateful, and said he had the day off because the car was out of order. And I never thought of your coming; and indeed, dear girl, if you didn’t mind,—the position seems to me delicate—yes, delicate, and a little awkward. I am not used to these unconventional situations. But I feel responsible to his mother, and—and also, of course, to your grandfather.”
Chloe’s laugh rippled out, suddenly, irrepressibly.
“Dear Miss Tankerville, don’t worry. It’s quite easy, really. You can introduce the chauffeur to the dressmaker, and Lady Enniston’s son to my grandfather’s grand-daughter. There’s nothing unconventional about that. It’s only worrying when you get them mixed—I mean when I’m Miss Dane and he’s the chauffeur, or the proper way round. Don’t send me away—I don’t want to go a bit. And by the bye, you’ve never told me his name.”
“Mr. Foster,” said Susan, opening the door.
Michael Foster came into the room, a big young man in the most ordinary blue serge in the world, Miss Tankerville heaved a sigh of relief as she shook hands and ordered tea.
“And Susan—the lights. Michael, dear boy, I’m pleased to see you, I’m very pleased to see you.” Then, as the room sprang suddenly into light, she turned fussily towards Chloe with a hurried, “Dear girl, this is Mr. Foster.— Michael let me introduce you to Miss Dane, an old pupil of mine.”
“We have met before,” said Chloe. She put out her hand, and felt that Michael Foster’s hand was large and strong.
“Before! Dear girl, you never said. I didn’t know—I had no idea. Are you sure?”
“Well, it was hardly a meeting”—Chloe was perhaps a little sorry that she had spoken—“I just saw Mr. Foster yesterday when his car had broken down on the way to Ranbourne. Is she all right now?”
Michael Foster shook his head.
“I got her to Ranbourne, but she’s not right yet.”
Miss Tankerville broke in with a flood of questions about “Your dear mother.” A little later on, when they had had tea, she remembered a photograph album “with a charming picture of dear Maud in a group,” and departed to find it. Michael Foster turned to Chloe.
“Did Toto bite you?” he inquired with much interest.
“He tried to. As soon as I got round the first corner I slapped him; then he didn’t try any more. He’s a little horror, but I give him full marks for brains. As a matter of fact, I wouldn’t mind having Toto and training him, I believe he’d be rather fascinating if he wasn’t so insufferably spoilt. I prefer him to his mistress anyhow.”
Michael made
a face.
“Pretty steep, isn’t she? I’ve never been called such names in my life. Thank goodness, I’ve only got another week of it.”
“Have you given notice?” asked Chloe demurely. “Or—or is it the other way round?” His eyes twinkled. He had rather nice little creases round them. Chloe liked the way they wrinkled up when he laughed.
“Oh, I don’t belong to her,” he said. “I’m driving my own car for a firm—just to get the hang of things whilst I’m marking time,—and she came in the other day, and said she’d got an impertinent nincompoop of a chauffeur who’d smashed her car and gone off at a moment’s notice. She wanted us to put it right and give her another car and ‘a really reliable man’ meanwhile, because she was just going off to pay a round of visits. I’m the really reliable man, worse luck. I don’t wonder the other poor chap got desperate and smashed the car.”
Miss Tankerville swept back into the room, bearing a heavy Victorian album with gilt clasps. She laid it on Michael’s knees, and sat down beside him.
“Dearest Maud at fourteen,” she said, breathlessly. “No, not that one: that’s Fanny Latimer who made that very sad marriage—but there, we won’t talk about it; it’s better not. And this is Judith Elliott who was your mother’s great friend. She went to Hong Kong, and married an American—a very accomplished girl, though too fond of reading novels. And this—now this is a really good photograph, a most excellent group of our croquet team, taken in the summer of 1897. No, your mother’s not in it, I’m afraid; but that girl in the middle is Emily Longwood who used to be quite a friend of hers; and the one next to her is Daisy Anderson—or is it Milly? Now, that’s really very stupid of me.” She turned the page to the light, and the pince-nez fell with a clatter. “Very stupid of me,” she murmured as she disentangled them from the watch-chain and replaced them on her nose, “very stupid indeed; but, d’you know, I can’t be sure which of the Anderson twins played in that croquet tournament. I think it was Daisy; but, on the other hand, it may have been Milly, because I think she really was the better player of the two.” She turned another page.
The Black Cabinet Page 2
