A SHORT STORY.

Waikato Times, Volume 100, Issue 16780, 24 April 1926, Page 4

A SHORT STORY.

THE CANFORD CASE,

(By A. W. Bird.),

"What a lovely young man!" said Myra. ~ "Yes, but wonderfully shy," said Jane. ... "He would have avoided us if he could have done so without Jumping over the hedge. Fancy being shy when you look like that!" Thev were walking on the lower road between Henley and Wargrave—a very pleasant road, even when, as now, the floods are out and the River Thames one vast lake doited with forlorn tops of trees and ridiculous fences with their feet in the water. Harrington Stacey, the subject of their conversation, had met them by chance, and had just departed up the hill - . • ~ "It is odd," said Jane, pursuing the subject of the lovely young man's shyness. "I think we shock him a little."

"I expect we should shock him a lot," said Myra, with a smile. But it was a wry smile. Shocking people may be fun up to a point; the point, for instance, beyond which Jane and her sisters would not be found. Myra Canford's household was in a different category.

Three years before she had married the penniless Dob Canford. Heaven knew why, or so the optimists said. Perhaps because he was penniless. Then the money had come so unexpectedly and so much. Then the racing. Around a man who owns racehorses a queer crowd, if he is not careful, will collect. And Bob Canford was not, by nature, a careful man.

"It's marvellous that Harrington should have accepted when I rsked him to dinner," said Jane. "He scarcely ever accepts anything. He must have fallen in love with you at first sight." Myra laughed. "He nearly refused this time," she said. "I saw him feeling for an excuse. Then he suddenly took his courage in both hands and accepted."' "Perhaps his first thought was. of our cook—he knows we still have the same one. His second thought must certainly have been' that you were staying with us. I shall tell him you are married as soon as he arrives tonight. I won't have his shy hea.t tampered with."

Myra certainly discovered many things that evening about Harrington' Stacey that Jane and her sisters had not discovered in years of acquaintance. That he had climbed most of the high mountains of Switzerland, and had designs upon the Himalayas. That he was fond of books and pictures and china. That his mother had called him Harrington because "Sir Harrington Stacey" would sound so well, but that she bad at length resigned herself to the certainty that he would never either inherit or acquire a title. That he knew the habits of the birds and beasts of England tolerably well,, but never killed them. That he knew nothing at all about racing. That he liked beer, but not cocktails. That he played the piano and rackets, hut not the saxophone or lawn tennis. At the end of the evening he said in is shy way, "I hope we shall meet again." She answered, "I hope so." To herself she said, "I don't suppose we ever shall." "You have certainly captured your lovely young man's heart," said Jane when he had gone.

Myra considered a moment. "I shall not keep it if I have," she said. "I am humane, like himself." In her dreams that night she saw ridiculous fences protruding from the floods and heroically marking the bounds of invisible fields; and among them Harrington Stacey, ridiculous and heroic too. Now Bob Canford was never ridiculous; nor, by the way, heroic.

At 8 p.m. in the Gare de Lyon in Paris Myra was explaining for the third lime to a singularly obtuse porter that she had another portmanteau in the cloakroom. The root of the trouble lay in our curious habit of designating as "Cloakroom" a store in which cloaks are but a side issue. Thus Myra, translating literally, called it Garde robes instead of Consigne, and the porter remained courteous but mystified. Myra turned from him in despair, and as she did so a strangely vivid memory of the Henley road and the flooded Thames with its ridiculous fences rose before her. For a moment she did not know why; then she became aware that Harrington Stacey was moving through the crowd in his quiet unobtrusive way. Once more Myra, always acutely conscious of "atmosphere," felt that he had seen her, but, at the first moment of recognition, was instinctively trying to avoid her. Then he turned and came towards hei\ "Can I help you at all?" he asked.

"Indeed you can. This porter is very kind, but his French must be very indifferent, I think, for he can't understand me." Harrington laughed.

"I will sec what I can do. My French was picked up around the docks of Cherbourg and such phi res, and though It would not impress princes it, is usually successful with porters."

The trouble with the luggage was quickly adjusted. "Are you going down to Vallorhc?" asked Harrington. "I am going on to Lausanne. It will be the same train. You have a sleeper, I expect?" "Yes. Have you?" "No. I'm taking my chance of n seat. I usually travel third class, but as it's so hot I've run to a first." "You are very economical."

"It's not only that. If you want lo understand anything at all about the people or a country, it's no use travelling first class." The train extended out beyond the platform, as French trains will, and they were below the "sleepers" now. "I'll climb up and haul you in," said Harrington. "You have to be something of a gymnast lo get in and out of French trains."

He found Myra's compartment, one with an upper and lower hunk.

"You'll have it to yourself," said Harrington, "I'll wait and see this porter brings your things along." "Thank you for all the trouble you've taken. 1 know you've bribed the conductor fabulously to keep this cabin for me alone—l saw you doing it."

"I think you are very observant." "Or perhaps you are rather transparent. I should certainly say that you are lacking in low cunning." The porter was slow in arriving with the band luggage. When Ibis was slowed away .

"You have been good. AVhal, a pity you can't slay and have supper with mo," said Myra. "1 should love to, but 1 don't think the two parts communicate. 1 must go and find myself a seal." "You have no seal, sail', in zo train?" asked the conductor, who came up at that moment. "No, I'll go and find one."

"Oh, but there is no seat left. I know it." "I shall And something," said Harrington, preparing to swing down. Myra, in the door of her cabin, called to him. "You must stay here now, or you'll miss the train. I expect the conductor—" "I have no sleeper left," said the conductor. "But I could put Monsieur a little chair in the corridor later, perhaps." "It doesn't sound very comfortable," said Myra, laughing. "But do stay. You'll miss the train, and it, will be all my fault. And we can have a supper 'party, after all." Harrington stayed. The supper party in Myra's cabin could be voted a great success. Myra's contributions were the tea, the biscuits and the chocolate. Harrington's contributions were the' liqueur of brandy from his flask and the cigarettes. "They talked of many tilings. "What were you doing about the docks of Cherbourg?" asked Myra, presently. "When I left school 1 was sent to learn French with a family at St. Germans. I detested it, and after three weeks'of 'society' I fled,, much to the consternation of my people. I have always had a penchant for sea-ports, and I drifted to Cherbourg, where I learnt a little of what it is to be a dockyard 'hand, and, incidentally, how to speak French like one." "I think you have always preferred the company of another class from your own," said Myra. "Yes, I suppose so. I like the tough working men of Lancashire — I did two years in ' engineering works up there —and keepers I like, and poachers too —" "I believe poaching would be your ideal occupation. You would he in the open air, which you would like, and there is the excitement of risk about it which you would like, and you could be as horribly unsociable as lever you liked —in fact, you would i have to be. But you know this avoidance of intercourse with your own class is rather an unpleasant trait in your character." Harrington considered. "Yes. I expect you are right," he "Hasn't anyone ever told you before?" "No." "There you are. Through your habit of isolating yourself you never get at'the truth. I am sorry lor you, 1 but I sec " Myra was going to say, | "but I see that I must take you thoroughly in hand," but changed it at the last moment to— "but I sec that someone must take you thoroughly in hand." And Harrington, who would have liked to answer, "I wish you I would," said lamely, "Yes." I After a while—though a longer j while than either of them had realised—Harrington rose to go. "I do hope you won't bo too uncomfortable—and all through helping me," said Myra. They looked out into the corridor. A very small seat of the camp-stool variety had been placed there. "You can't sit on that all night," cried Myra. "It's too , ridiculuous. You'll simply have to occupy the upper berth here." Harrington shook his head. "No, I shan't do that. I shall be perfectly all right." "I never in my life heard of anything so absurd as leaving a perfectly good bunk empty, and sitting on a camp stool outside all night merely from ridiculous conventionality." There are few things that sling more than the charge of conventionality.

Harrington hesitated. "We'll leave the door open, if you like," said Myra, provokingly. He laughed. "You needn't do that. But if you make such a point of it, I'll go up in the bunk." "It would bo too stupid not to," she said. "I am changing at Vallorbc, to meet my husband at Le Pont, and as you arc going on I needn't disturb you when I get out," "Unless I am asleep I expect I shall come down and look after you," said Harrington. He clambered up.

Harrington lay long awake, feeling as if an earthquake had engulfed the old Harrington, and at the same time deposited a completely new one on the face of the earth.

"I am meeting my husband at Le Pont," she had said. It was the only mention she had made of her husband, and it had left with him for the moment a s f nsc of extreme discomfort. He wondered what was this husband like. Her reticence about him did not suggest that she was very fond of him. He was glad she was n 0 l —and then, with a more generous impulse, tried to be sorry, and found it difficult, and then clenched his teeth and cursed silently lo himself that there was a husband. At long length he slept uneasily.

Harrington awoke to find that Myra was standing below him, cloaked and hatted.

"We arc just running into Y'allorbe," she said. "You have another half hour, so you need not disturb yourself."

"I certainly shall," said Harrington. He swung his legs out of the bunk and sal. on the edge, doing ifp his collar. "I hope you had a good night," "Very, thanks," said Myra. "Arc you sorry now that you didn't sleep on the camp-stool, or glad?"

"I should have been as stiff as a poker. I'm eternally indebted—for that and everything." He slid down on lo the floor, and as he did so the train slowed, and then drew up. Looking lack afterwards at that momenl, •Harrington had a confused memory of the sound or voices in the corridor —of one particularly objectionable voice to which he took a strong dislike on the spot—of the conductor's voice saying "Nuinero, dix, Monsieur" —of a man, youngish, but fat and pale, the owner of the objectionable voice, who stood in the doorway. "The devil!" said the man.

"Bob!" said Myra, and then turned. "My husband—-Mr Stacey. Mr Stacey lias been awfully kind looking after me. We met by chance in " The sentence trailed off. "Well, I'm damned," said Bob Cranford. And then to Myra, roughly, "Come on I" and Harrington haled him as only shy reserved people can hate. "Mr SLacoy, eh?" The, pale face was sneering, leering at him now, out Myra's shoulder. ".Mr Stacey, eh'.' You'll hear from me again, Mr Stacey."

i The pale face disappeared. Myra : turned lo Harrington, and the look in her eyes seemed lo strike him across I the heart. "You'll think I did this on purpose," I she said, quickly, "that t knew he'd I be here. 1' didn't. I'm sorry "

If was, perhaps, the great'moment lof Harrington's life. To his eternal I credit, lie said, "1 wouldn't care in I the least what happened if only you | would slop looking troubled like thai," | lie had his reward. Half the trouble j went out of her eyes. She passed 1 out and along the corridor— : — ;