# The Rain-Girl/Chapter 5

CHAPTER V
THE SEARCH BEGINS
AS he stood hesitating at the entrance to the dining-room of the Ritz-Carlton, there flashed across Beresford's mind the memory of the rain-soddened assembly-trench packed with men in whose hearts there was a great curiosity, and in whose eyes there was something of fear. All were striving to disguise from each other their real feelings, and were determined to go over the top as if accustomed to it from childhood.
Beresford recalled his own sensations, the feeling of emptiness at the pit of his stomach, the rather unreasonable behaviour of his knees, and an almost childish desire to strike matches in order to light a cigarette that was already burning cheerfully. Eliminating the cigarette episode, he experienced all the other sensations during the momentary pause on the threshold of the dining-room of the Ritz-Carlton. Then he took the plunge and entered. The maître d'hôtel conducted him to his table and, with a feeling of genuine relief and thankfulness, Beresford sank into the chair held back for him, and proceeded to study the menu as if his life depended upon it.
​Now that he was actually on the eve of what he had looked forward to for the last six weeks, he felt an unaccountable nervousness and hesitation. For some reason he could not understand, he kept his eyes straight in front of him instead of singling out the Rain-Girl from the other guests. She was there, he knew, because she had told him that her stay would last the Season. What was he to say to her? Would she recognize him and, if so, would she acknowledge him?
He was so absorbed in his own thoughts as to be unconscious of the arrival of the hors d'œuvres. A discreet cough on the part of the waiter, bending solicitously towards him, brought back his wandering attention to the business of the moment.
As he helped himself he swiftly envisaged the guests on his left. She was not there. For some minutes his gaze did not wander from that part of the room. Now that he was on the eve of finding her, he seemed almost afraid to do so. He wanted to retain as long as possible the delicious feeling of suspense. It was only by a supreme effort of will that he controlled himself sufficiently to scrutinise his fellow-guests, first quickly, then slowly and with method.
By the time he was half through the fish, it was becoming increasingly clear to him that the Rain-Girl was not in the dining-room. In spite of the growing conviction that she was not there, he now became almost feverish in his anxiety to discover her beneath some disguising hat.
​When at length he was satisfied that not even the most fantastical effort of the modiste was capable of concealing the head of the Rain-Girl, Beresford was conscious of a feeling of intense disappointment, almost of despair. What if she had gone away? She might be ill, or possibly her aunt was ill and they had been forced to go abroad. What a fool he had been to build so confidently on that one hint, the name of the hotel at which she was to stay.
Suddenly his eyes fell on the untasted glass of burgundy before him and, remembering Tallis' advice, he drank it at a draught.
Of course she was lunching somewhere with friends. He would in all probability see her at dinner. People could not be expected to take all their meals in their hotels, as if they were staying en pension at Margate or Southend. Really he was becoming a little suburban, not to say provincial, in his ideas.
As the meal progressed the cloud of depression lightened, and by the time that he had finished the second glass of burgundy, he had explained to his entire satisfaction the absence of the Rain-Girl from lunch.
After the meal, he took a short walk around Bond Street, Regent Street and Piccadilly. He then spent half an hour in the Park, placing himself behind a tree lest he should be recognised by some of his acquaintance, who would carry the news of his return to his family. What a splendid thing it must be not to have a family. Then he walked slowly up ​Piccadilly, determined to take tea at the Ritz-Carlton, in fact he had already decided never to be absent from any meal.
In the lounge he went through the same process as at lunch, striving to penetrate the creations and camouflages of Paquin and Louise.
No, she was not there. He would wait until dinner-time when, unmodified by millinery, Nature might more easily be studied.
After tea he strolled once more down to the Park, loitering about by the Stanhope Gate until nearly seven o'clock. As he drove back to the hotel, he was conscious of a great weariness both physical and mental.
Dressing leisurely, it was half-past eight before he entered the dining-room, feeling in a modified form the same thrill he had experienced at lunch-time. On this occasion he immediately proceeded to investigate his fellow guests; but although he scanned the women at every table in the room, there was no one he could even for a moment mistake for the Rain-Girl.
This time burgundy, although the same as he had drunk at lunch, failed to dissipate the cloud of depression that descended upon him. Something had obviously happened. She was not staying at the Ritz-Carlton. In all probability he would never see her again. No doubt the aunt, of whom she had spoken, had developed nerves. Damn aunts! What possible use were aunts in the economy of things? There was his own Aunt Caroline, for instance. She ​had been about as useful to him as a mastodon harnessed to a brougham. Possibly she had gone for another tramp, the Rain-Girl, not Aunt Caroline.
Possibly—— he sat up suddenly at the thought. She might be ill. He had got pneumonia, perhaps she had got it on the following day. Perhaps the symptoms took longer to manifest themselves in women than in men. How was he to find out? First, how was he to find out whether she were in the hotel or not? He could not very well go to the manager, or one of the clerks, give a description of her, and ask if she were staying there. They would in all probability look upon him with suspicion as an undesirable. It was all very tantalising and tormenting.
As the meal progressed, Beresford began to find a hundred reasons why the Rain-Girl had not been present at lunch, tea or dinner. She might be spending the day on the river, or motoring. Possibly she had been away for the week-end, and had not returned in time to come down to dinner. After all breakfast would prove whether or no she were in the hotel. People did not generally go out to breakfast, unless they happened to be friends of the Prime Minister. He would wait until breakfast.
Yes, that burgundy was undoubtedly a good, sound wine, the second half-bottle seemed to be even better than the first.
That night Beresford slept soundly. In his dreams he covered what appeared to him to be the whole range of sub-conscious absurdity. Everything ​he saw or encountered seemed to turn into the Rain-Girl, or from the Rain-Girl into something else. The camel from "Chu Chin Chow," which he had encountered in the streets, suddenly dissolved into the Rain-Girl. The next thing he knew was that he was endeavouring to ride the camel through the revolving doors of the Ritz-Carlton, with the hall-porter striving to bar the way, and a policeman trying to pull it out by the tail. Then in the Park it was the Rain-Girl who came up and asked for his penny and, instead of a ticket, she gave him a cup of coffee. Again, he was riding on an omnibus when he saw the Rain-Girl in a taxi beside him. Dropping over the side of the 'bus, he threw his arms round her, only to find that it was his Aunt Caroline, who was telling him not to be a fool.
Beresford awakened with a dazed feeling, conscious that something had happened, something disappointing; but unable to determine just what it was. Suddenly he remembered the incidents of the previous day, and his failure to find the Rain-Girl. Once more he was conscious of an acute feeling of depression; but after his bath, and as he proceeded to dress, the clouds again seemed to lift, and he became hopeful.
At breakfast, however, another disappointment awaited him. There was no sign of the Rain-Girl. He lingered over his meal as long as possible in the hope that she were breakfasting late. He became conscious even that the waiters were regarding him a ​little curiously. It was not usual for the guests to remain at the breakfast-table for two hours.
When at length Beresford rose, it was with the firm conviction that the Rain-Girl was not staying at the Ritz-Carlton. In spite of this he loitered about the hotel until noon, when he took another stroll up Piccadilly and along Bond Street, and through the most frequented thoroughfares of the West-End.
Perhaps she was away for a long week-end, he told himself, and would be back to lunch. She might even be confined to her room with a chill. At this thought he smiled. The warm, mellow sunshine seemed to negative all possibility of any one contracting a chill.
As he wandered through the streets thinking of all the things that could possibly have prevented her from being at three consecutive meals, he found himself becoming more hopeful, and looking forward to lunch-time as presenting another chance of a possible meeting.
Suddenly a thought struck him, so forcibly in fact as to bring him to a standstill. Had she and her aunt a private suite of rooms in which their meals were served? That was it. Therein lay the explanation of why he had not seen her. She was just the type of girl who would dislike a hotel dining-room, he told himself, in fact she had implied as much when speaking of the London Season. Had she not said how much she disliked it, and how she ​yearned for the quiet of the country? What a fool he had been not to think of it before.
He returned to the hotel with a feeling of exhilaration. A new optimism had taken possession of him. He was no longer entirely dependent upon the dining-room, in fact that was least likely to bring about a meeting with the Rain-Girl. At the same time its possibilities must not be under-estimated. No doubt occasionally she would lunch or dine there for the sake of variety, possibly when entertaining friends, to whose preferences she would naturally defer. Yes, he must continue his search. It would not do to be discouraged during the first twenty-four hours. She was spending the Season in London; about this she had been quite definite. She was also going to stay at the Ritz-Carlton; here again she had left no room for doubt.
The chances of anything having intervened to prevent this arrangement being carried out were comparatively remote, certainly not sufficiently tangible to discourage him in the prosecution of his search. He would leave nothing to chance, he would go to all the public social functions he could, walk in the Park, stroll about the streets. He would go to Westminster Abbey on Sunday—a good idea that; she was just the sort of girl who would love the Abbey, attend first nights, in short do the very things from which a few weeks ago he had precipitately fled. The one thing he would not do was to renew old friendships. If he did his time would no longer ​be his own, and he was determined to devote every minute of the day to his search.
The days he continued to spend in aimless wandering along Piccadilly, Pall Mall, the Haymarket, and the Park, looking into every face he met, now quickening his pace to overtake some likely girl, now slowing down to allow another to pass. He felt sure that the police had him under observation. It must, he decided, appear all so obvious.
Several times he jumped into a taxi and instructed the driver to follow some other taxi or car. The first time he did this he was conscious of a feeling of embarrassment; but the man's sang-froid convinced Beresford that there was nothing unusual in the procedure. Once he found himself at Richmond before discovering that his quarry was not the Rain-Girl. On another occasion he stopped the man when half-way to Beckenham. It was a curious thing, he decided, that every girl in a car or taxi who bore a sufficiently striking resemblance to the Rain-Girl to mislead him, seemed to be bound for a far-distant destination.
On one occasion, as he was standing at the corner of Bond Street, preparatory to crossing, a taxi darted out into the stream of Piccadilly traffic. He caught a momentary glimpse of the occupant, which sent his heart racing. Tumbling into an empty taxi he gave the man his instructions. The next moment his vehicle had come to a standstill with a grinding of tyres. The other taxi had stopped ten yards down ​Piccadilly, and the girl was paying the driver. It was not the Rain-Girl.
For his own satisfaction Beresford measured the distance of that drive, which had cost him half a crown. It consisted of exactly thirty-eight paces, thirty-one and four-fifth yards. This, he decided, must be the shortest drive on record.
It was fatiguing work, both mentally and physically, this eternal and uncertain pursuit, and he was always glad to get back to the Ritz-Carlton for lunch, tea or dinner. Every time he entered the dining-room, it was with a slight thrill of anticipation. Some day he would perhaps see her sitting there, and know that the search was ended.
His hopes would wane with the day, and when night came and dinner was over, he would tell himself what a fool he was, how hopeless was the quest upon which he, like some modern knight-errant, had set out; yet each morning found him eager and determined to pursue what he had now come almost to regard as his destiny.
Not only was there his search for the Rain-Girl; but he had always to be on the look out to avoid possible friends and acquaintance. Once he had caught sight of Lady Drewitt in her carriage, on another occasion he had avoided Lord Peter Bowen only by dashing precipitately into an A.B.C. shop. How he escaped he could never be quite sure. He had a vague idea that he pretended to have mistaken the place for an office of the boy-messengers, or boy scouts, he could not remember which; but ​judging from the look on the faces of two young women behind the counter, he rather thought it must have been the boy scouts.
It was during the evening of the day of this last adventure that he asked himself whether or no he were altogether wise in neglecting his acquaintance. Possibly the Rain-Girl knew some one he knew. Why not put a bold face on things and let people know that he was back in town? Tell them frankly that the country was too episodic for a man unprovided with a long line of bucolic ancestors. They would laugh, the men would indulge in superficial jokes at his expense, and the women would look at him a little pityingly, as they always looked at Edward Seymour. Why any one should want to pity Edward Seymour seemed difficult to understand. Those who merited pity were the poor unfortunates who had to live or associate with him.
Yes, in future he would look out for old friends rather than avoid them. He would run round and see his cousin, Lord Drewitt. The one thing he would not do, however, was to call upon Aunt Caroline. That would be like firing at a water-spout, a deliberate invitation to trouble.