Miss Viner seemed cheered at the prospect of his company, and sustained by his offer to telegraph to Charing Cross for the missing trunk; and he left her to wait in the fly while he hastened back to the telegraph office. The enquiry despatched, he was turning away from the desk when another thought struck him and he went back and indited a message to his servant in London: “If any letters with French post-mark received since departure forward immediately to Terminus Hotel Gare du Nord Paris.”
Then he rejoined Miss Viner, and they drove off through the rain to the pier.
Chapter III
Almost as soon as the train left Calais her head had dropped back into the corner, and she had fallen asleep.
Sitting opposite, in the compartment from which he had contrived to have other travellers excluded, Darrow looked at her curiously. He had never seen a face that changed so quickly. A moment since it had danced like a field of daisies in a summer breeze; now, under the pallid oscillating light of the lamp overhead, it wore the hard stamp of experience, as of a soft thing chilled into shape before its curves had rounded: and it moved him to see that care already stole upon her when she slept.
The story she had imparted to him in the wheezing shaking cabin, and at the Calais buffet–where he had insisted on offering her the dinner she had missed at Mrs. Murrett’s– had given a distincter outline to her figure. From the moment of entering the New York boarding-school to which a preoccupied guardian had hastily consigned her after the death of her parents, she had found herself alone in a busy and indifferent world. Her youthful history might, in fact, have been summed up in the statement that everybody had been too busy to look after her. Her guardian, a drudge in a big banking house, was absorbed by “the office”; the guardian’s wife, by her health and her religion; and an elder sister, Laura, married, unmarried, remarried, and pursuing, through all these alternating phases, some vaguely “artistic” ideal on which the guardian and his wife looked askance, had (as Darrow conjectured) taken their disapproval as a pretext for not troubling herself about poor Sophy, to whom–perhaps for this reason–she had remained the incarnation of remote romantic possibilities.
In the course of time a sudden “stroke” of the guardian’s had thrown his personal affairs into a state of confusion from which–after his widely lamented death–it became evident that it would not be possible to extricate his ward’s inheritance. No one deplored this more sincerely than his widow, who saw in it one more proof of her husband’s life having been sacrificed to the innumerable duties imposed on him, and who could hardly–but for the counsels of religion–have brought herself to pardon the young girl for her indirect share in hastening his end. Sophy did not resent this point of view. She was really much sorrier for her guardian’s death than for the loss of her insignificant fortune. The latter had represented only the means of holding her in bondage, and its disappearance was the occasion of her immediate plunge into the wide bright sea of life surrounding the island-of her captivity. She had first landed–thanks to the intervention of the ladies who had directed her education–in a Fifth Avenue school-room where, for a few months, she acted as a buffer between three autocratic infants and their bodyguard of nurses and teachers. The too-pressing attentions of their father’s valet had caused her to fly this sheltered spot, against the express advice of her educational superiors, who implied that, in their own case, refinement and self-respect had always sufficed to keep the most ungovernable passions at bay. The experience of the guardian’s widow having been precisely similar, and the deplorable precedent of Laura’s career being present to all their minds, none of these ladies felt any obligation to intervene farther in Sophy’s affairs; and she was accordingly left to her own resources.
A schoolmate from the Rocky Mountains, who was taking her father and mother to Europe, had suggested Sophy’s accompanying them, and “going round” with her while her progenitors, in the care of the courier, nursed their ailments at a fashionable bath. Darrow gathered that the “going round” with Mamie Hoke was a varied and diverting process; but this relatively brilliant phase of Sophy’s career was cut short by the elopement of the inconsiderate Mamie with a “matinee idol” who had followed her from New York, and by the precipitate return of her parents to negotiate for the repurchase of their child.