Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey (continued 5)

“Good afternoon!”

She turned gasping; he was standing before her, holding out his hand. He had left his companions and come back to join her. His face looked flushed, as though he had rushed back at express speed. He had seemed interested and content, and the girl was pretty, yet he had come back to her! He seated himself on the chair by her side, and looked at her with eager eyes.

“I haven’t seen you for six months!”

“I was just—” Claire began impulsively, drew herself up, and finished demurely—“I suppose it is.”

“You haven’t been at either of Mrs Willoughby’s ‘At Homes.’”

“No; but I’ve seen a good deal of them all the same. They have been so kind.”

“Don’t you care for the ‘At Homes’? I asked Mrs Willoughby about you, and she seemed to imply that you preferred not to go.”

“Oh, no! Oh, no! That was quite wrong. I did enjoy that evening. It was a—a misunderstanding, I think,” said Claire, much exercised to find an explanation of what could really not be explained. Of the third “At Home” she had heard nothing until this moment, and a pang of retrospective disappointment mingled with her present content. “I have been to the house several times when they were alone,” she continued eagerly. “They even asked me on Christmas Day.”

“I know,” he said shortly. “I was in Saint Moritz, skating in the sunshine, when I heard how you were spending your Christmas holidays.” His face looked suddenly grim and set. “A man feels pretty helpless at a time like that. I didn’t exactly enjoy myself for the rest of that afternoon.”

“That was stupid of you, but—but very nice all the same,” Claire said softly. “It wouldn’t have made things easier for me if other people had been dull, and, after all, I came off better than I expected.”

“You were all alone—in your Grand Hotel?”

“Only for a week.” Claire resolutely ignored the hit. “Then my friend came back, and we made some little excursions together, and enjoyed being lazy, and getting up late, and reading lots of nice books. I had made all sorts of good resolutions about the work I was going to get through in the holidays, but I never did one thing.”

“Do you often come to the Park?”

Claire felt a pang of regret. Was it possible that even this simple pleasure was to be denied her? She knew too well that if she said “yes,” Captain Fanshawe would look out for her again, would come with the express intention of meeting her. To say “yes” would be virtually to consent to such meetings. It was a temptation which took all her strength to reject, but rejected it must be. She would not stoop to the making of a rendez-vous.

“I have been several times, but I shan’t be able to come any more. We get busier towards the end of the term. Examinations—”

Captain Fanshawe straightened himself, and said in a very stiff voice—

“I also, unfortunately, am extremely busy, so I shall not be able to see the rhododendrons in their full beauty. I had hoped you might be more fortunate.”

Claire stared at a passing motor, of which she saw nothing but a moving mass; when she turned back it was to find her companion’s eyes fixed on her face, with an expression half guilty, half appealing, altogether ingratiating. At the sight her lips twitched, and suddenly they were laughing together with a delicious consciousness of understanding.

“Well!” he cried, “it’s true! I mean it! There’s no need to stay away because of me; but as I am here to-day, and it’s my last chance, won’t you let me give you tea? If we walk along to Victoria Gate—”

Claire thought with a spasm of longing of the little tables under the awning; of the pretty animated scene; but no, it might not be. Her acquaintance with this man was too casual to allow her to accept his hospitality in a public place.

“Thank you very much, but I think not. I would rather stay here.”

“Well, at any rate,” he said defiantly, “I’ve paid for my chair, and you can’t turn me out. Of course, you can move yourself.”

“But I don’t want to move. I like being here. I’m very glad to see you. I should like very much to have tea, too. Oh, if you don’t understand I can’t explain!” cried poor Claire helplessly; and instantly the man’s expression altered to one of sympathy and contrition.

“I do understand! Don’t mind what I say. Naturally it’s annoying, but you’re right, I suppose—you’re perfectly right. I am glad, at any rate, that you allow me to talk to you for a few minutes. You are looking very well!” His eyes took her in in one rapid comprehensive sweep, and Claire thanked Providence that she had put on her prettiest dress. “I am glad that you are keeping fit. Did you enjoy your holiday in Belgium?”

“How did you know I was in Belgium?”

He laughed easily, but ignored the question.

“You have good news of your mother, I hope?”

“Very good. She loves the life, and is very happy and interested, and my stepfather writes that his friends refuse to believe in the existence of a grown-up daughter. He is so proud of her youthful looks.”

“How much did you tell her about your Christmas holidays?”

“All the nice bits! I don’t approve of burdening other people!”

“Evidently not. Then there have been burdens? You’ve implied that! Nothing by any chance, in which a man—fairly intelligent, and, in this instance, keen after work—could possibly be of some use?”

The two pairs of eyes met, gazed, held one another steadily for a long eloquent moment.

“Yes,” said Claire.

Captain Fanshawe bent forward quickly, holding his stick between his knees. The side of his neck had flushed a dull red colour. For several moments he did not speak. Claire had a curious feeling that he could not trust his voice.

“Good!” he said shortly at last. “Now may I hear?”

“I should like very much to ask you some questions about—about a man whom I think you may know.”

The grey eyes came back to her face, keen and surprised.

“Yes! Who is he?”

“A Major Carew. His Christian name is Frank. He belongs to your Club.”

“I know the fellow. Yes! What do you want to know about him?”

“Everything, I think; everything you can tell me!”

“You know him personally, then? You’ve met him somewhere?”

“Yes,” Claire answered to the last question, “and I’m anxious—I’m interested to know more. Do you know his people, or anything about him?”

“I don’t know them personally. I know Carew very slightly. Good family, I believe. Fine old place in Surrey.”

The Elizabethan manor house was true, then! Claire felt relieved, but not yet satisfied. Her suspicion was so deep-rooted that it was not easily dispelled. She sat silent for a moment, considering her next question.

“Is he the eldest son?”

“I believe he is. I’ve always understood so.”

The eldest son of a good family possessing a fine old place! Claire summoned before her the picture of the coarse florid-faced man who had tried to flirt with her in the presence of the woman to whom he was engaged; a man who stooped to borrow money from a girl who worked for her own living. What excuse could there be for such a man? She drew her brows together in puzzled fashion, and said slowly—

“Then surely, if he is the heir, he ought to be rich!”

“It doesn’t necessarily follow. I should say Carew was not at all flush. Landed property is an expensive luxury in these days. I’ve heard, too, that the father is a bit of a miser. He may not be generous in the matter of allowance!”

Claire sat staring ahead, buried in thought, and Captain Fanshawe stared at her in his turn, and wondered once more why this particular girl was different from every other girl, and why in her presence he felt a fullness of happiness and content. She was very pretty; but pretty girls were no novelty in his life; he knew them by the score. It was not her beauty which attracted him, but a mysterious affinity which made her seem nearer to him than he had hitherto believed it possible for any human creature to be. He had recognised this mysterious quality at their first meeting; he had felt it more strongly at Mrs Willoughby’s “At Home”; six months’ absence had not diminished his interest. Just now, when he had caught sight of her flushed upturned face, his heart had leapt with a violence which startled him out of his ordinary calm. Something had happened to him. When he had time he must think the thing out and discover its meaning. But how did she come to be so uncommonly interested in Carew? He met Claire’s eyes, and she asked falteringly—

“I wish you would tell me what you think of him personally! Do you think he is—nice?”

“Tell me first what you think yourself.”

“Honestly? You won’t mind?”

“Not one single little bit! I told you he is a mere acquaintance.”

“Then,” said Claire deliberately, “I think he is the most horrible, detestable, insufferable, altogether despicable creature I have ever met in the whole of my life!”

“What! What! I say, you are down on him!” Captain Fanshawe stared, beamed with an obvious relief, then hastened to defend an absent man. “You’re wrong, you know; really you’re wrong! I don’t call Carew the most attractive fellow you can meet; rather rough manners, don’t you know, but he’s all right—Carew’s all right. You mustn’t judge by appearances, Miss Gifford. Some of the most decent fellows in the Club are in his set. Upon my word, I think he is quite a good sort.” Captain Fanshawe waxed the more eloquent as Claire preserved her expression of incredulous dislike. He looked at her curiously, and said, “I suppose I mustn’t ask—I suppose you couldn’t tell me exactly why you are so interested in Carew?”

“I’m afraid not. No; I’m afraid I can’t,” Claire said regretfully. Then suddenly there flashed through her mind a remembrance of the many tangles and misunderstandings which take place in books for want of a little sensible out-speaking. She looked into Captain Fanshawe’s face with her pretty dark-lashed eyes and said honestly, “I wanted to know about him for the sake of—another person? Nothing to do with myself! I have only met him twice. I hope I shall never meet him again!”

“Thank you,” said the man simply, and at the time neither of the two realised the full significance of those quiet words. It was only on living over the interview on her return home that Claire remembered and understood!

For the next quarter of an hour they abandoned the personal note, and discussed the various topics of the hour. They did not always agree, and neither was of the type to be easily swayed from a preconceived opinion, but always they were interested, always they felt a sympathy for the other view, never once was there a fraction of a pause. They had so much to say that they could have talked for hours.

Gradually the Park began to empty, the string of motors grew less, the crowd on the footpath no longer lounged, but walked quickly with a definite purpose; the green chairs stood in rows without a single occupant. Claire looked round, realised her isolation, drew an involuntary sigh, and rose in her turn.

“It’s getting late. I must be hurrying home. I go to the Marble Arch and take a motor-’bus. Please don’t let me take you out of your way!”

He looked at her straightly but did not reply, and they paced together down the broad roadway, past the sunken beds of rhododendrons with the fountain playing in the centre, towards the archway which seemed to both so unnecessarily near! Claire thought of the six months which lay behind, saw before her a vision of months ahead unenlightened by another meeting, and felt suddenly tired and chill. Captain Fanshawe frowned and bit at his lower lip.

“I am going away to-morrow. We shall be in camp. In August I am taking part of my leave to run up to Scotland, but I can always come to town if I’m needed, or if there’s a special inducement. I came up for both the Willoughbys’ ‘At Homes.’”

“Did you?” Claire said feebly, and fell a-thinking. The inference was too plain to be misunderstood. The “special inducement” in this instance had been the hope of meeting herself. Actually it would appear that he had travelled some distance to ensure this chance, but the chance had been deliberately denied. Kind Mrs Willoughby would have welcomed her with open arms; it was Janet who had laid the ban. Janet was friendly, almost affectionate. As spring progressed she had repeatedly called at Saint Cuthbert’s after afternoon school and carried Claire off for refreshing country drives. Quite evidently she enjoyed Claire’s society, quite evidently also she preferred to enjoy it when other visitors were not present. Claire was not offended, for she knew that there was no taint of snobbishness in this decision; she was just sorry, and, in a curious fashion, remorseful into the bargain. She did not argue out the point, but instinctively she felt that Janet, not herself, was the one to be pitied!

They reached the end of the footpath: in another minute they would be in the noise and bustle of Oxford Street. Erskine Fanshawe came to an abrupt halt, faced Claire and cried impulsively—

“Miss Gifford!”

“Yes?”

Claire shrank instinctively. She knew that she was about to be asked a question which it would be difficult to answer.

Erskine planted his stick on the ground, and stared straight into her eyes.

“Why are you so determined to give me no chance of meeting you again?”

“I—I’m not determined! I hope we shall meet. Perhaps next winter—at Mrs Willoughby’s.”

He laughed grimly.

“But if I were not content to wait for ‘perhaps next winter—at Mrs Willoughby’s.’ ... What then?”

Claire looked at him gravely.

“What would you suggest? I have no home in London, and no relations, and your mother, Captain Fanshawe, would not introduce me to you when she had the chance!”

He made a gesture of impatience.

“Oh, my mother is the most charming of women—and the most indiscreet. She acts always on the impulse of the moment. She introduced you to Mrs Willoughby, or asked Mrs Willoughby to introduce herself, which comes to the same thing. Surely that proves that she—she—”

He broke off, finding a difficulty in expressing what he wanted to say; but Claire understood, and emphatically disagreed. To enlist a friend’s sympathy was a very different thing from running the risk of entangling the affections of an only son! Obviously, however, she could not advance this argument, so they stood, the man and the girl, looking at one another, helpless, irresolute, while the clock opposite ticked remorselessly on. Then, with an abruptness which lent added weight to his words, Erskine said boldly—

“I want to meet you again! I am not content to wait upon chance.”

Claire did not blush; on the contrary, the colour faded from her cheeks. Most certainly she also was not content, but she did not waver in her resolution.

“I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it. It’s one of the hardships of a working girl’s life that she can’t entertain or make plans. It seems more impossible to me, perhaps, from having lived abroad where conventions are so strict. English girls have had more freedom. I don’t see what I can do. I’m sorry!”—she held out her hand in farewell. “I hope some day I shall see you again!”

Quite suddenly Captain Fanshawe’s mood seemed to change. The set look left his face; he smiled—a bright confident smile.

“There’s not much fear about that! I shall take very good care that we do!”

Chapter Seventeen.

God’s opportunity.

After the meeting with Captain Fanshawe in the Park, Claire’s relationship with Mary Rhodes sensibly improved. In the first place, her own happiness made her softer and more lenient in her judgment, for she was deeply, intensely happy, with a happiness which all her reasonings were powerless to destroy.

“My dear, what nonsense!” she preached to herself in elderly remonstrating fashion. “You met the man, and he was pleased to see you—he seemed quite anxious to meet you again. Perfectly natural! Pray don’t imagine any special meaning in that! You looked quite an attractive little girl in your pretty blue dress, and men like to talk to attractive little girls. I dare say he says just the same to dozens of girls!” So spake the inner voice, but spoke in vain. The best things of life are beyond reasoning. As in religion reason leads us, as it were, to the very edge of the rock of proven fact, then faith takes wing, and soars above the things of earth into the great silence where the soul communes with God, so in love there comes to the heart a sweetness, a certainty, which no reasoning can shake. As Erskine’s eyes had looked into hers in those moments of farewell, Claire had realised that between this man and herself there existed a bond which was stronger than spoken word.

So far as she could foresee, they were hopelessly divided by the circumstances of life, but in the first dawn of love no lover troubles himself about what the future may bring; the sweetness of the present is all-sufficient. Claire was happy, and longed for every one else to be as happy as herself. Moreover, her suspicions concerning Major Carew had been lulled to rest by Erskine’s favourable pronouncement. Personally she did not like him, but this was, after all, a matter of taste; she could not approve his actions, but conceivably there might be explanations of which she was unaware. Her manner to Cecil regained its old spontaneous friendliness, and Cecil responded with almost pathetic readiness. In her ungracious way she had grown fond of her pretty, kindly companion, and had missed the atmosphere of home which her presence had given to the saffron parlour. As they sat over their simple supper, she would study Claire’s face with a questioning glance, and one night the question found vent in words.

“You look mightily pleased with yourself, young woman! Your eyes are sparkling as if you were having a firework exhibition on your own account. I never saw a school-mistress look so perky at the end of the summer term! Look as if you’d come into a fortune!”

“Wish I had!” sighed Claire, thankful to switch the conversation on to a safe topic. “It would come in most usefully at the moment. What are you going to do for the summer hols, Cecil? Is there any possibility of—”

“No,” Cecil said shortly. “And the regiment is going into camp, so he will be out of town. I’m not bothering my head about holidays—quite enough to do with this wretched Matric. The Head is keen to make a good show this year, for the Dulwich School beat us last year, and, as usual, all the responsibility and all the blame is put on the poor mistresses. You can’t make girls work if they don’t want, you can’t cram their brains when they’ve no brains to cram; but those wretched examiners send a record of all the marks, so you can see exactly where they fall short. Woe betide the mistress who is responsible for that branch! I wouldn’t mind prophesying that if the German doesn’t come out better than last year, Fräulein will be packed off. I wouldn’t be too sure of myself. I’ve done all right so far, but the Head is not as devoted to me as she might be. I don’t think she’d be sorry to have an excuse for getting rid of me. That’s one of the delightful aspects of our position—we are absolutely at the mercy of a woman who, from sheer force of circumstances, becomes more of an autocrat every year. The Committee listen to her, and accept every word she says; the staff know better than to dispute a single order. We’d stand on our head in rows if she made it a rule! The pupils scuttle like rabbits when they see her coming, and cheer themselves hoarse every time she speaks. No human woman can live in that atmosphere for years and keep a cool head!”

“She’s rather a dear, though, all the same!” Claire said loyally. She had been hurt by the lack of personal interest which Miss Farnborough showed in the different members of her staff, but she was unwilling to brand her as a heartless tyrant. “Anyway,” she added hastily, “you are not satisfied here. If you were going on teaching I should have thought you’d be glad of a change. It would be easy to get another school.”

Mary Rhodes looked at her; a long eloquent glance.

“With a good testimonial—yes! Without a good testimonial—no! A testimonial for twelve years’ work depends on one woman, remember—on her prejudice or good nature, on the mood in which she happens to be on one particular day. It might read quite differently because she happened to have a chill on her liver.”

“My dear! there is a sense of justice! There is such a thing as honesty.”

“My dear, I agree. Even so, would you dare to say that the wording of a testimonial would be unaffected by the writer’s mood?”

“Surely twelve years in one school—”

“No, it wouldn’t! Not necessarily. ‘Miss Rhodes has been English Mistress at Saint Cuthbert’s for twelve years. Of late has been erratic in temper. Health uncertain. Examination records less satisfactory.’ Well! If you represented another school, would you engage Miss Rhodes?”

Claire was silent. For the first time she realised the danger of this single-handed power. It meant—what might it not mean? It might mean that the mistress who was unfortunate enough to incur the dislike of her chief, might never be able to procure another post! She might be efficient, she might be hard-working; given congenial surroundings she might develop into a treasure untold, yet just because of a depreciating phrase in the wording of a testimonial, no chance would be vouchsafed. No doubt the vast majority of head mistresses were women of judgment, possessing a keen sense of justice and responsibility, yet the fact remained that a hasty impulse, a little access of temper in penning those all-important lines, might mean the end of a career, might mean poverty, might mean ruin!

Claire shivered, looked across the table at the thin, fretted face and made a hesitating appeal—

“Cecil dear, I know you are a good teacher. I just love to hear you talking over your lessons, but you are irritable! One of my girls was crying the other day. You had given so much homework, and she didn’t understand what was to be done, and said she daren’t ask. You had been ‘so cross!’ I made a guess at what you wanted, and by good chance I was right; but if I’d been wrong, the poor thing would have been in disgrace, and honestly it wasn’t her fault! She was willing enough.”

“Oh, that imbecile Gladys Brown! I know what you mean. I’d explained it a hundred times. If she’d the brains of a cow she’d have understood. No wonder I was cross. I should have been a saint if I wasn’t, and no one can be a saint in the summer term. Did—did any one else see her cry?”

“I think not. No, I managed to comfort her; but if Miss Farnborough had happened to come in just at that moment—”

Cecil shrugged and turned the subject, but she took the hint, to the benefit of her pupils during the next few weeks.

July came in, and with it a spell of unbearable heat. In country places and by the seashore there was space and air, and clean fragrant surroundings; but over London hung a misty pall, and not a branch of the dusty trees quivered to the movement of a passing breeze. It was a thunderous, unnatural heat which sapped every scrap of vitality, and made every movement a dread.

Claire was horrified at the effect of this heat wave on Sophie Blake. In superficial fashion she had always believed that rheumatism must be better in hot weather; but, according to the specialist, such heat as this was more trying than damp or cold, and Sophie’s stiffness increased with alarming suddenness.

There came a day when by no effort of will could she get through her classes, when sheer necessity drove her to do the thing she had dreaded most of all—inform the Head that she could not go on with her work.

Miss Farnborough was seated in her private room, and listened with grave attention to what the Games mistress had to say. Her forehead puckered in surprise as she noted Sophie’s halting gait, and the while she listened, her keen brain was diving back into the past, collecting impressions. She had seen less than usual of Miss Blake during the term; once or twice she had received the impression that Miss Blake avoided her approach; Miss Blake had been looking pale. She waited until Sophie had finished speaking, her hands folded on her knee, her penetrating eye fixed on the girl’s face. Then she spoke—

“I am sorry to hear this, Miss Blake. Your work has been excellent hitherto, but rheumatism is a serious handicap. You say that this heat is responsible for the present attack? Am I to understand that it is a first attack—that you have had no threatening before?”

“I have been rheumatic all winter, more or less. Before the Easter holidays it was pretty bad. I began to feel stiff.”

Miss Farnborough repeated the word gravely.

“Stiff! That was bad; that was very bad! How could you take your classes if you were feeling stiff?”

“I managed somehow!” Sophie said.

For a moment she had imagined that the Head Mistress’s concern had been on her account; she believed it no longer when she saw the flash of indignation which lighted the grey eyes.

“Managed—somehow? And you went on in that fashion—you were content to go on!”

“No. I was not content. I was very far from content. I suffered horrible pain. I went to a specialist and paid him two guineas for his advice. Since then I have paid twenty pounds for treatment.”

On Miss Farnborough’s face the disapproval grew more and more pronounced.

“Miss Blake, I am afraid you have not been quite straightforward in this matter. It appears that you have been ill for months, with an illness which must necessarily have interfered with your work, and this is the first time I hear about it. I am Head Mistress of this school; if anything is wrong with a member of the staff, it is her first duty to come to me. You tell me now that you have been ill for three months, since before the last holidays, and acknowledge that you can go on no longer.”

“In ten days we break up. I ask you to allow me ten extra days. The weather is so hot that the girls would be thankful to escape the exercises. By the end of the holidays I hope to be quite better.”

“The Easter holidays do not seem to have done you much good,” Miss Farnborough said cruelly. Then, seeing the girl flush, she added, “Of course you shall have your ten days. I can see that you are unfit for work, and we must manage without you till the end of the term. I am very sorry for you, Miss Blake; very sorry, indeed. It is very trying and upsetting and—and expensive into the bargain. Twenty pounds, did you say? That is surely a great deal! Have you tried the shilling bottles of gout and rheumatic pills? I have been told they are quite excellent. But I must repeat that you have been wrong in not coming to me sooner. As a pure matter of honesty, do you think that you were justified in continuing to take classes for which you were unfit?”

The tears started to Sophie’s eyes; she lowered her lids to hide them from sight.

“The girls did not suffer,” she said deeply. “I did the suffering!”

Miss Farnborough moved impatiently. She was intensely practical and matter-of-fact, and with all her heart hated any approach to sentiment.

“You suffered because you were unfit,” she repeated coldly, “and your obvious duty was to come to me. You must have known that under the circumstances I should not have wished you to continue the classes!”

Sophie was silent for a moment, then she said very quietly, very deliberately—

“Yes, I did know; but I also knew that if I could nerve myself to bear the pain and the fatigue, I could train the girls as well as ever, and I knew, too, that if you sent me away in the middle of term you would be less likely to take me back. It means everything to me, you see. What would happen to me if I were permanently invalided—without a pension—at thirty-one?”

“You have been paid a good salary, Miss Blake—an exceptionally good salary—because it is realised that your work is especially wearing. You ought to have saved—”

“If I had had no home claims I might have been able to save one or two hundred pounds—not a very big life provision! As it happens, however, I have given thirty pounds a year towards the education of a young sister, and it has been impossible to save at all.”

“But now, of course, your sister will help you,” Miss Farnborough said, and turned briskly to another topic. “You said that you have been to a specialist? Will you give me his address? I should like to communicate with him direct. You understand, Miss Blake, that if this stiffness continues, it will be impossible for you to continue your duties here?”

“Quite impossible,” faltered Sophie, in low tones.

Miss Farnborough pushed back her chair, and rose to her feet.

“But one hopes, of course, that all may go well. I have never had any complaint to make with respect to your work. You have been very successful, very popular with the girls. I should be sorry to lose you. Be sure to let me know how you go on. Perhaps I had better be guided by Dr Blank. I should try the pills, I think; they are worth trying. And avoid the sea; sea air is bad for rheumatism. Try some high inland place. We had better say good-bye, now, I suppose, as you will not come back after to-night. Good-bye, my dear. Let me hear soon. All good wishes for your recovery.”

Sophie left the room, and made her way upstairs to the Staff-Room. She moved very slowly, partly because every movement was an effort, partly because the familiar objects on which her eyes rested became suddenly instinct with new interest. For ten long working years she had passed them daily with indifference, but this afternoon it was borne in upon her that she would never see them again, and the conviction brought with it a bitter pang. After all, they had been happy years, spent in a bustle of youthful life and energy, in an atmosphere of affection, too, for the girls were warm-hearted, and the “Gym. mistress” had been universally popular. Even as the thought passed through Sophie’s mind, one of her special adorers appeared suddenly at the far end of the corridor and hurried forward to meet her.

“Miss Blake! Darling! You look so white. Are you faint? Take my arm; lean on me. Were you going to lie down?”

“I’m going to the Staff-Room. I can manage myself; but, Gladys, find Miss Gifford, and ask her to come to me as soon as she is free. Tell her I’m not well. You’re a dear girl, Gladys. Thank you for being so kind to me all these years.”

Gladys rolled adoring blue eyes, and sped on her mission. The next morning she realised that those thanks had been darling Miss Blake’s farewell, and shed bitter tears; but for the moment she was filled with complaisance.

Claire appeared in due time, heard what had happened, and helped Sophie to collect her various small belongings. The other teachers had already dispersed, so the ordeal of leave-taking was avoided.

“You can explain when you meet them next term!” said Claire.

“I can write my good-byes,” corrected Sophie. She blinked away a few tears and said piteously, “Not much chance for me if she consults Dr Blank! He’s as much discouraged as I am myself. What do you suppose he will advise now? I suppose I’ll have to see him to-morrow.”

“And lie awake all to-night, wondering what he will say! We’ll do better than that—we’ll call this very afternoon. If he is in, I’m sure he will see us, and a day saved is a day gained. I’ll get a taxi.”

“Another taxi! I’m ruining you, Claire. How I do hate sponging on other people!”

“Wouldn’t you do it for me, if things were reversed?”

“Of course I should, but it’s so much more agreeable to help than to be helped. It’s ignoble, I suppose, but I do hate to feel grateful!”

“Well! No one could by any possibility call you gracious, my dear. Is that any consolation?” cried Claire mischievously, and Sophie was surprised into the travesty of a smile.

Dr Blank was at home, and listened to what Sophie had to tell him with grave attention. He expressed satisfaction to hear that her holidays had begun, but when questioned as to his probable report to Miss Farnborough, had no consolation to offer.

“I am afraid I must tell you honestly that you are not fit for the work. Of course, it is quite possible that there may be a great improvement by September, but, even so, you would be retarding your recovery by going on with such exhausting work. You must try to find something lighter.”

Sophie laughed, and her laugh was not good to hear.

Claire said firmly—

“She shall find it! I will find it for her. There’s no need to worry about September. What we want to know is what she is to do now?—to-morrow—for the rest of the holidays?”

“I can’t afford any more injections! They’ve done me no good, and they cost too much. I can’t afford any more treatments. I can only take medicines. If you will give me some medicines—”

Dr Blank sat silent; tapping his desk with noiseless fingers; staring thoughtfully across the room. It was evident that he had a proposition to make; evident also that he doubted its reception.

“The best thing under the circumstances—the wisest thing,” he said slowly at last, “would be for you to go into hospital as an ordinary patient. I could get you a bed in one of my own wards, where I could look after you myself, in consultation with the first men in town. You could have massage, electricity, radium, heat baths, every appliance that could possibly be of use, and you could stay on long enough to give them a chance. It would be an ordinary ward, remember, an ordinary bed in an ordinary ward, and your neighbours would not be up to Newnham standard! You would be awakened at five in the morning, and settled for the night at eight. You would have to obey rules, which would seem to you unnecessary and tiresome. You would be, I am afraid, profoundly bored. On the other hand, you would have every attention that skill and science can devise. You would not have to pay a penny, and you would have a better chance than a duchess in a ducal palace. Think it over, and let me know! If you decide to go, I’ll manage the rest. Take a day—a couple of days.”

“I won’t take two minutes, thank you! I’ll decide now. I’ll go, of course, and thank you very much!”

Dr Blank beamed with satisfaction.

“Sensible girl! Sensible girl! That’s right! That’s right! That’s very good! You are doing the right thing, and we’ll all do our best for you, and your friend here will come to see you and help to make the time pass. Interesting study, you know; valuable opportunity of studying character if you look at it in that light! Why not turn it into literary capital? ‘Sketches from a Hospital Bed,’ ‘My Neighbours in B Ward,’ might make an uncommonly good series. Who knows? We may have you turning out quite a literary star!”

Sophie smiled faintly, being one of the people who would rather walk five miles than write the shortest letter. Many unexpected things happen in this world, but it was certain that her own rise to literary eminence would never swell the number! But she knew that Dr Blank was trying to cheer her, so she kept that certainty to herself.

The two girls made their way back to Sophie’s lodgings, and discussed the situation over the ever-comforting tea.

“I shall have to give my landlady notice,” Sophie said, looking wistfully round the little room which had been so truly a home. “If I’m to be in hospital for many weeks, it’s folly to go on paying the rent; and in any case I can’t afford so much now. One can’t have doctor’s bills, and other luxuries as well. What shall I have to take into hospital? Will they allow me to wear my own things? I don’t think I could get better in a calico night-dress! Pretty frills and a blue ribbon bow are as good as a tonic, but will the authorities permit? Have you ever seen ribbon bows in a hospital bed?”

“I haven’t had much experience, but I should think they would be encouraged, as a ward decoration! I hope so, I’m sure, for I mean to present you with a duck of a dressing-jacket!”

“Oh, nothing more, Claire; don’t give me anything more. I shall never be able to pay you back,” cried Sophie; then, in a voice of poignant suffering, she cried sharply, “Oh, Claire, my little sister! What is to become of my little sister? If I am not able to help, if I need to be helped myself, her education will be interrupted, for it will be impossible to go on paying. Oh, it’s too hard—too dreadful! Everything seems so hopeless and black!”

“Yes, it does. The way seems blocked. One can’t see a step ahead. Man’s extremity, Sophie!” cried Claire deeply—“Man’s extremity;” and at that a gleam of light came into Sophie’s eyes.

“Yes, yes! That’s just what it is. Thanks for reminding me. God’s opportunity!” Sophie leant back in her chair, staring dreamily into space, till presently something of the old bright look came back to her face. “And that,” she said softly, “that’s the kind of help it is sweet to accept!”

Chapter Eighteen.

An Invitation.

With Sophie in hospital, pathetically anxious for visits, with the rent of the Laburnum Road lodgings to pay whether one lived in them or not, Claire nerved herself to spend August in town, with the prospect of a September holiday to cheer her spirits. Through one of the other mistresses she had heard of an ideal farmhouse near the sea where the kindly housewife “mothered” her guests with affectionate care, where food was abundant, and cream appeared upon the table at every meal—thick, yellow, country cream in which a spoon would stand upright. There was also a hammock swung between two apple-trees in the orchard, a balcony outside the bedroom window, and a shabby pony-cart, with a pony who could really go. What could one wish for more?

Claire planned a lazy month, lying in that hammock, reading stories about other people, and dreaming still more thrilling romances about herself; driving the pony along country lanes, going out on to the balcony in the early morning to breathe the scent of honeysuckle, and sweetbriar, and lemon thyme, and all the dear, old-world treasures to be found in the gardens of well-conducted farmhouses. She had a craving for flowers in these hot summer days; not the meagre sixpennyworth which adorned the saffron parlour, but a wealth of blossom, bought without consideration of cost. And one day, with the unexpectedness of a fairy gift, her wish was fulfilled.

It lay on the table when she returned from school—a long cardboard box bearing the name of a celebrated West End florist, the word “fragile” marked on the lid, and inside were roses, magnificent, half-opened roses with the dew still on their leaves, the fat green stalks nearly a yard in length—dozens of roses of every colour and shade, from the lustrous whiteness of Frau Carl to the purple blackness of Prince Camille. Claire gathered them in her arms, unconscious of the charming picture which she made, in her simple blue lawn dress, with her glowing face rising over the riot of colour, gathered them in a great handful, and ran swiftly upstairs.

There was no card inside the box, no message of any kind, but her heart knew no doubt as to the sender, and she dare not face the fire of Mary Rhodes’ cross-examination. In the days of daffodils she had treated herself to a high green column of a vase, which was an ideal receptacle for the present treasures. When it was filled there were still nearly half the number waiting for a home, so these were plunged deep into the ewer until the morrow, when they would be taken to Sophie in hospital. The little room was filled with beauty and fragrance, and Claire knew moments of unclouded happiness as she looked around.

Presently she extracted two roses from the rest, ran downstairs to collect box, paper and string, and handed rubbish and roses together to Lizzie at the top of the kitchen stairs. Lizzie received her share of the treasures with dignity, cut off the giant stems, which she considered straggly and out of place, and crammed the two heads into a brown cream-jug, the which she deposited on a sunny window-ledge. Claire saw them as she next left the house and shrugged resignedly, for she was beginning to learn the lesson which many of us take a lifetime to master, the wisdom of allowing people to enjoy themselves in their own fashion!

The Willoughbys were leaving town in mid July, en route for Switzerland, and later on for a Scottish shooting-box. Claire received an invitation to tea on their last Saturday afternoon, and arrived to find the drawing-room full of visitors.

Malcolm Heward was assisting Janet at the tea-table, but with this exception she recognised no one in the room, and was thankful for the attentions of Master Reginald, who hailed her as an old acquaintance, and reproached her loudly for not turning up at “Lord’s.”

“I looked out for you, you know!” he said impressively, and Claire was the more gratified by his remembrance because Malcolm Heward had required a second introduction to awaken his recollection. It is no doubt gratifying to the object of his devotion when a man remains blind to every other member of her sex, but the other members may feel a natural objection to be so ignored! Claire was annoyed by the necessity of that second introduction, and as a consequence made herself so fascinating to the boy who had remembered, that he hugged the sweet delusion that she considered him a man, and was seriously smitten by his charms. He waited upon her with assiduity, gave her exclusive tips as to her choice of cakes, and recited the latest funny stories which were already stale in his own circles, but which came to her ears with agreeable freshness.

It was while the two were laughing together over an unexpected dénouement that the departure of two guests left a space across which Claire could see a far corner of the room, and perceived that a lady seated on a sofa had raised a tortoiseshell-bound lorgnon, to stare across at herself. She was an elderly lady, and at first sight her appearance awoke no recollection. She was just a grey-haired woman, attired in handsome black, in no way differentiated from one or two other visitors of the same age: even when the lorgnon dropped to her side, disclosing a pair of very bright, very quizzical grey eyes, it was a full moment before Claire realised that this was her acquaintance of that first eventful journey to London, none other than Mrs Fanshawe herself. There she sat, smiling, complacent, grande dame as ever, nodding with an air of mingled friendliness and patronage, laying one hand on the vacant place by her side, with an action which was obviously significant. Claire chose, however, to ignore the invitation, and after a grave bow of acknowledgment, turned back to Reginald, keeping her eyes resolutely averted from that far corner. It was Mrs Fanshawe herself who was finally compelled to cross the room to make her greetings.

“Miss Gifford! Surely it is Miss Gifford? Mrs Willoughby told me she expected you this afternoon. And how are you, my dear, after this long time?”

The tone was all that was cordial and friendly.

Claire stood up, tall and stately, and extended a perfectly gloved hand. It was not in human nature to be perfectly natural at that moment. Sub-consciously she was aware that, as the Americans would express it, she was “putting on frills”; sub-consciously she was amused at the artificiality of her own voice.

“Quite well, thank you. Exceedingly flourishing!”

“You look it,” Mrs Fanshawe said, and seated herself ruthlessly in Reginald’s chair. “Tell me all about it! You were going to work, weren’t you? Some new-fangled idea of being independent. So ridiculous for a pretty girl! And you’ve had—how long—nearly a year? Haven’t got tired of it yet, by any chance?”

“Oh, yes; quite often I feel very tired, but I should have felt the same about pleasuring, and work is more worth while. It has been very interesting. I have learnt a great deal.”

“More than the pupils—hey?” chuckled Mrs Fanshawe shrewdly. “Don’t try to pretend that you are a model school-mistress. I know better! I knew you were not the type when I saw you on that journey, and after a year’s trial you are less the type than ever.” She screwed up her eyes and looked Claire over with deliberate criticism up and down, down and up. “No, my dear! Nature did not intend you to be shut up in a girls’ school!” Suddenly she swerved to another topic. “What a journey that was! I nearly expired. If it hadn’t been for you, I should never have survived. I told my son you had saved my life. That was my son who met me on the platform!”

Was it fancy that an expression of watchfulness had come into the gay eyes? Claire imagined that she recognised such an expression, but, being prepared for some such reference, had herself well in command. Not a nicker of embarrassment passed over her face as she said quietly—

“Yes, I knew it was your son. I met Captain Fanshawe here one evening last winter, so I have been introduced.”

Mrs Fanshawe waved her lorgnon, and murmured some vague words which might, or might not, have been intended as an apology.

“Oh, yes. So nice! Naturally, that morning I was worn-out. I did not know what I was doing. I crawled into bed. Erskine told me about meeting you, and of your pretty performance. Quite a professional siffleuse! More amusing than school teaching, I should say. And more profitable. You ought to think of it as a profession. Erskine was quite pleased. He comes here a great deal. Of course—”

Mrs Fanshawe’s smile deepened in meaning fashion, then suddenly she sighed. “Very delightful for them, of course; but I see nothing of him. We mothers of modern children have a lonely time. I used to wish for a daughter, but perhaps, if I’d had one, she would have developed a fancy to fly off to India!”

That was a hit at Claire, but she received it in silence, being a little touched by the unaffected note of wistfulness in the other’s voice as she regretted her lonely estate. It was hard to be a widow, and to see so little of an only child, especially if that only child happened to be so altogether charming and attractive!

Mrs Fanshawe glanced across at the tea-table where Janet and her cavalier were still busy ministering to the needs of fresh arrivals.

“I asked Janet Willoughby to take pity on me for a few weeks this summer, but she’s too full up with her own plans. Says so, at least; but I dare say it would have been different if— Well, well! I have been young myself, and I dare say I shouldn’t have been too keen to accept an invitation to stay in the country with only an old woman as companion. Enjoy yourself while you are young, my dear. It gets more and more difficult with every year you live.”

Claire made a protesting grimace.

“Does it? That’s discouraging. I’ve always flattered myself that it would grow easier. When one is young, everything is vague and unsettled, and naturally one feels anxious about what is to happen next. It is almost impossible to be philosophical about the unknown, but when your life has shaped itself, it ought to be easy to settle down and make the best of it, and cultivate an easy mind.”

Mrs Fanshawe laughed.

“Well reasoned, my dear, well reasoned! Most logical and sound. And just as futile in practice as logical things usually are! You wouldn’t believe me if I told you that it is the very uncertainty which makes the charm of youth, or that being certain is the bane of old age, but it’s the truth, all the same, and when you are sixty you will have discovered it for yourself. Well! so my letter to Mrs Willoughby was of some use after all? She did send you a card!”

Claire looked across the room to where Mrs Willoughby sat. Hero-worship is an instinct in hearts which are still fired with youth’s enthusiasm, and this stout, middle-aged woman was Claire’s heroine par excellence. She was kind, and to be kind is in good truth the fulfilment of Christ’s law. Among Claire’s favourite books was Professor Drummond’s “The Greatest Thing in the World,” with its wonderful exposition of the thirteenth chapter of 1st Corinthians. When she read its pages, her thoughts flew instinctively to this rich woman of society, who was not puffed up, thought no evil, was not easily provoked, suffered long, and was kind.

The girl’s eyes were eloquent with love and admiration as they rested on the plain, elderly face, and the woman who was watching felt a stab of envy at the sight. The old crave for the love of the young, and cherish it, when found, as one of their dearest possessions, and despite the natural gaiety of her disposition there were moments when Mrs Fanshawe felt the burden of loneliness press heavily upon her.

“She has done much more than send me a card!” Claire said deeply. “She has been a friend. She has taken away the terrible feeling of loneliness. If I were in trouble, or needed any help, I know that she would give it!”

“Oh, yes, yes, naturally she would. So would any one, my dear, who had the chance. But she’s a good creature, of course; a dear creature. I’m devoted to her, and to Janet. Janet and I are the best of friends!”

Again the meaning look, the meaning tone, and again in Claire’s heart the same sweet sense of certainty mingled with a tender compassion for Janet, who was less fortunate than herself. It was a help to look across at the tea-table, and to realise that consolation was waiting for Janet if she chose to take it.

Suddenly Mrs Fanshawe switched off on to yet another topic.

“And where are you going to spend your summer holidays, my dear?”

“In September I am probably going to a farmhouse near the sea.”

“And in August?”

“In town, I think. I have an invalid friend—”

Mrs Fanshawe swept aside the suggestion with an imperious hand.

“Nonsense! Utter nonsense! Nobody stays in town in August, my good child. The thing’s impossible. I’ve passed through once or twice, en route for country visits, and it’s an unknown place. The wierdest people walking up and down! Where they come from I can’t conceive; but you never saw anything more impossible. And the shops! I knew a poor girl who became engaged at the end of July, and had to get her trousseau at once, as they sailed in September. She was in despair. Nothing to be had. She was positively in tears.”

“I shall get engaged in June,” Claire said firmly, “and take advantage of the summer sales. I call it most thoughtless of him to have waited till the end of July.”

But Mrs Fanshawe was not attending; her eyes had brightened with a sudden thought; she was saying to herself, “Why not? I should be alone. There would be no danger of complications, and the child would be a delightful companion, good to look at, plenty to say for herself, and a mind of her own. Quite useful in entertaining, too. I could play off some of my duty debts, and she could whistle to us after dinner. Quite a novelty in the country. It would be quite a draw... A capital idea! I’ll say a week, and if it works she can stay on—”

“No, my dear, you cannot possibly endure town in August, at least not the entire month. Run down to me for a break. Quite a short journey; an hour and a half from Waterloo, and the air is delightfully fresh. I shall be alone, so I can’t offer you any excitement, but if you are fond of motoring—”

The blood rushed into Claire’s face. She was so intensely, overpoweringly surprised, that, for the moment, all other feelings were in abeyance. The last thing in the world which she had expected was that Erskine’s mother should invite her to visit her home.

“I don’t know if you care for gardening. I’m mad about it myself. My garden is a child to me. I stand no interference. The gardeners are paid to obey me, and carry out my instructions. If they get upsetting, off they go. You’d like my garden. It is not cut out to a regulation pattern; it has a personality of its own. I have all my meals on the verandah in summer. We could get you some tennis, too. You wouldn’t be buried alive. Well? What do you say? Is it worth while?”

“It’s exceedingly kind. It’s awfully good of you. I—I am so completely taken by surprise that I hardly know—I shall have to think.”

“Nonsense, my dear; what is there to think about? You have no other engagement, and you need a change. Incidentally also I want a companion. You would be doing me a good turn as well as yourself. I’m sure your mother would wish it!”

No doubt about that! Claire smiled to herself as she realised how Mrs Judge would rejoice over the visit; turning one swallow into a summer, and in imagination beholding her daughter plunged into a very vortex of gaiety. She was still smiling, still considering, when Janet came strolling across the room, and laid her hand affectionately on Mrs Fanshawe’s shoulder.

“I haven’t had a word with you all afternoon! Such a rush of people. You had tea comfortably, I hope: and you, too—Claire!” There was just a suspicion of hesitation before the Christian name.

“I have just been asking Miss Gifford to take pity on my loneliness for part of August. She is not knee-deep in engagements, as you are, my dear, and that precious son of mine; so we are going to amuse each other, and see how much entertainment we can squeeze out of the countryside!”

“But I haven’t—I didn’t—I’m not sure,” stammered Claire, acutely conscious of the hardening of Janet’s face, but once again Mrs Fanshawe waved aside her objections.

“But I am sure! It’s all settled, my dear—all but the day. Put your address on this silly little tablet, and I’ll write as soon as I’ve looked over my dates. Now, Janet, I’m ready for a chat. Take me out to the balcony, away from this crowd.”

“And I must go, I think. I’ll say good-bye.” Claire held out her hand to the daughter of the house. “I hope you may have a delightful summer.”

“Oh, thanks so much. Oh, yes, yes, I’m quite sure I will,” Janet answered mechanically. She touched Claire’s hand with her fingers, and turned hastily aside.

Chapter Nineteen.

Erskine Fanshawe’s Home.

Claire dreaded Mary Rhodes’ curiosity on the subject of her proposed visit, but in effect there was none forthcoming. Cecil was too much engrossed in her own affairs to feel anything but a passing interest.

“Some one you met at the Willoughbys’? Only the old lady? Rather you than me! Nice house though, I suppose; gardens, motors, that kind of thing. Dull, but luxurious. Perhaps you’ll stay on permanently as her companion.”

“That,” Claire said emphatically, “will never happen! I was thinking of clothes... I am quite well-off for evenings, and I can manage for afternoons, but I do think I ought to indulge in one or two ‘drastic bargains’ for morning wear. I saw some particularly drastic specimens in Knightsbridge this week. Cecil ... could you—I hate asking, but could you pay me back?”

Cecil’s stare of amazement was almost comical under the circumstances.

“My—good—girl! I was really pondering whether I dare, I’m horribly hard up, and that’s the truth. I’ve had calls...”

“Not Major Carew again? I can’t understand it, Cecil. You know I inquired about him, you told me to ask if I had a chance, and his father is rich. He might fly into a rage if he were asked for money, but he would give it in the end. Major Carew might have a bad half-hour, but what is that compared with borrowing from you! And from a man’s point of view it’s so little, such very small sums!” She caught a change of expression on the other’s face, and leapt at its meaning. “Cecil! You have been giving more! Your savings!”

“And if I have, Claire Gifford, what business is it of yours? What was I saving for? To provide for my old age, wasn’t it? and now that the need has gone, why shouldn’t I lend it, if I chose? Frank happens to be hard up for a few months, and besides, there’s a reason! ... We are getting tired of waiting... You must never, never breathe a word to a soul, but he wants me ... he thinks it might be better...”

Claire stared with wide eyes, Cecil frowned, and finished the sentence in reckless tones—

“We shall probably get married this autumn, and tell his father afterwards.”

“Oh, Cecil, no! Don’t do it! It’s madness. It’s folly. He ought not to ask you. It will make things fifty times more difficult.”

“It would make things sure!” Mary Rhodes said.

The words were such an unconscious revelation of her inner attitude towards her lover, that Claire was smitten with a very passion of pity. She stretched out her hand, and cried ardently. “Cecil, I am thinking of your happiness: I long for you to be sure, but a private marriage is an insult to a girl. It puts her into a wrong position, and no man has the right to suggest it. Where is your pride?”

“Oh, my dear,” interrupted Cecil wearily, “I’m past worrying about pride. I’m thirty-three, and look older, and feel sixty at the least. I’m tired out in body and soul. I’m sick of this empty life. I want a home. I want rest. I want some one to care for me, and take an interest in what I do. Frank isn’t perfect, I don’t pretend that he is. I wish to goodness he would own up, and face the racket once for all, but it’s no use, he won’t! Between ourselves I believe he thinks the old man won’t live much longer, and there will be no need to worry him at all. Any way there it is, he won’t tell at present, however much I may beg, but he will marry me; he wants to be married in September, and that proves that he does care! He is looking out for a flat, and picking up furniture. We are picking up furniture,” Cecil corrected herself hastily. “I go in and ask the prices, and he sends his servants the next week to do the bargaining. And there will be my clothes, too... I’ll pay you back in time, Claire, with ten per cent, interest into the bargain, and perhaps when I’m a rich woman the time may come when you will be glad to borrow from me!”

The prospect was not cheering, but the intention was good, and as such had to be suitably acknowledged. Claire adjourned upstairs to consult her cheque-book, and decided bravely that the drastic bargains could not be afforded. Then, being a very human, and feminine young woman she told herself that there could be no harm in going to look at the dresses once more, just to convince herself that they were not so very drastic after all, and lo! close inspection proved them even more drastic than she had believed, and by the evening’s delivery a choice specimen was speeding by motor van to Laburnum Road.

On visiting days Claire went regularly to visit Sophie, who, by her own account, was being treated to seventeen different cures at the same time, and was too busy being rubbed, and boiled, and electrified, and dosed, and put to bed in the middle of the afternoon, and awakened in the middle of the night, to have any time to feel bored. She took a keen interest also in her fellow patients, and was the confidante of many tragic stories which made her own lot seem light in comparison. Altogether she was more cheerful and hopeful than for months back, but the nurses looked dubious, and could not be induced to speak of her recovery with any certitude.

On the tenth of August, Claire packed her boxes with the aid of a very mountain of tissue paper, and set forth on her journey. The train deposited her at Hazlemere station, outside which Mrs Fanshawe was waiting in a big cream car, smiling her gay, quizzical smile. She was one of the fortunate women who possess the happy knack of making a guest feel comfortable, and at home, and her welcome sent Claire’s spirits racing upwards.

Many times during the last fortnight had she debated the wisdom of visiting Erskine Fanshawe’s home, but the temptation was so strong that at every conflict prudence went to the wall. It was not in girl nature to resist the longing to see his home and renew her acquaintance with his mother; and as it had been repeatedly stated that he himself was to spend most of August in Scotland, she was absolved from any ulterior design. Janet Willoughby had obviously looked upon the visit with disfavour, but Claire was too level-headed to be willing to victimise herself for such a prejudice. Janet would have a fair field in Scotland. She could not hold the whole kingdom as a preserve!

“You are looking charming, my dear,” Mrs Fanshawe said. “I always say it is one of the tests of a lady to know how to dress for a journey. A little pale, perhaps, but we shall soon change that. This high air is better than any tonic. I laze about during the heat of the day, and have a two hours’ spin after tea; I never appear until eleven, and I rest in my own room between lunch and tea, so you won’t have too much of my society, but I’ve a big box of new books from Mudie’s for you to read, and there’s a pony-cart at your disposal, so I dare say you can amuse yourself. I love companionship, but I couldn’t talk to the cleverest woman in Europe for twelve hours at a stretch.”

“Nor I!” agreed Claire, who to tell the truth was more elated at the prospect of so much time to herself than she felt it discreet to betray. She was enchanted with her first view of the beautiful Surrey landscape, and each turn of the road as they sped uphill seemed to open out more lovely vistas. They drove past spinneys of pine trees, past picturesque villages, consisting of an old inn, a few scattered cottages, a pond and a green, along high roads below which the great plain of thickly-treed country lay simmering in a misty haze. Then presently the road took a sudden air of cultivation, and Claire staring curiously discovered that the broad margin of grass below the hedge on either side, was mown and rolled to a lawn-like smoothness, the edges also being clipped in as accurate a line as within the most carefully tended garden. For several hundred yards the margin stretched ahead, smooth as the softest velvet, a sight so rare and refreshing to the eye that Claire could not restrain her delight.

“But how charming! How unexpected! I never saw a lane so swept and garnished. It has a wonderful effect, those two long lines of sward. It is sward! grass is too common a word. But what an amount of work! Twenty maids with twenty mops sweeping for half a year.—I think the whole neighbourhood ought to be grateful to the owner of this land.”

Mrs Fanshawe beamed, complacently.

“I’m glad you think so. I am the owner! This is my property, mine for my lifetime, and my son’s after me. It’s one of my hobbies to keep the lane mown. I like to be tidy, outside as well as in. Erskine began by thinking it a ridiculous waste of work, but his friends are so enthusiastic about the result, that he is now complacently convinced that it was entirely his own idea. That’s a man, my dear! Illogical, self-satisfied, the best of ’em, and you’ll never change them till the end of time... What’s your opinion of men?”

“I rather—like them!” replied Claire with a naïvété which kept her listener chuckling with amusement until the lodge gates were reached, and the car turned into the drive.

The house was less imposing than the grounds, just a large comfortable English country house, handsome and dignified, but not venerable in any way. The hall was good, running the entire length of the house, and opening by tall double doors on to the grounds at the rear. In summer these doors were kept open, and allowed a visitor a charming vista of rose pergolas and the blue-green foliage of an old cedar. All the walls of the house from top to bottom were painted a creamy white, and there was noticeable a prevailing touch of red in Turkey carpets, cushion-covers, and rose-flecked chintzes.

Tea was served on a verandah, and after it was over Mrs Fanshawe escorted her visitor round the flower gardens, and finally upstairs to her own bedroom, where she was left with the announcement that dinner would be served at eight o’clock. After dinner the ladies played patience, drank two glasses of hot-water, and retired to bed at ten o’clock. It was not exciting, but on the other hand it was certainly not dull, for Mrs Fanshawe’s personality was so keen, so youthful in its appreciation, that it was impossible not to be infected, and share in her enjoyment.

The next week passed quickly and pleasantly. The weather was good, allowing long drives over the lovely country, a tennis party at home, and another at a neighbouring house introduced a little variety into the programme, and best of all Mrs Fanshawe grew daily more friendly, even affectionate in manner. She was a woman of little depth of character, whose main object in life was to amuse herself and avoid trouble, but she had humour and intelligence, and made an agreeable companion for a summer holiday. As her intimacy with her guest increased she spoke continually of her son, referring to his marriage with Janet Willoughby with an air of complacent certitude.

“Of course he will marry Janet. They’ve been attached for years, but the young men of to-day are so deliberate. They are not in a hurry to give up their freedom. Janet will be just the right wife for Erskine, good tempered and yielding. He is a dear person, but obstinate. When he once makes up his mind, nothing will move him. It would never do for him to have a high-spirited wife.”

“I disapprove of pandering to men,” snapped Claire in her most High School manner, whereupon the conversation branched off to a discussion on Women’s Rights, which was just what she had intended and desired.

On the seventh afternoon of her visit, Claire was in her room writing a letter to Sophie when she heard a sudden tumult below, and felt her heart bound at the sound of a familiar voice. The pen dropped from her hand, and she sat transfixed, her cheeks burning with excitement. It could not be! It was preposterous, impossible. He was in Scotland. Only that morning there had been a letter.—It was impossible, impossible, and then again came the sound of that voice, that laugh, and she was on her feet, running across the floor, opening the door, listening with straining ears.

A voice rose clear and distinct from the hall beneath, the deep, strong voice about which there could be no mistake.

“A perfect flood! The last five days have been hopeless. I was tired of being soaked to the skin, and having to change my clothes every two hours, so I cut it, picked up Humphreys in town, and came along home. And how have you been getting on, mater? You look uncommonly fit!”

“I’m quite well. I am perfectly well. You need not have come home on my account,” Mrs Fanshawe’s voice had a decided edge. “I suppose this is just a flying visit. You will be going on to pay another visit. I have a friend with me—a Miss Gifford. You met her at the Willoughbys’.”

“So I did! Yes. That’s all right. I’m glad you had company. I suppose I shall be moving on one of these days. I say, mother, what about tea?”

Claire shut the door softly, and turned back into the room. Erskine’s voice had sounded absolutely normal and unmoved: judging by it no one could have imagined that Miss Gifford’s presence or absence afforded him the slightest interest, and yet, and yet, the mysterious inner voice was speaking again, declaring that it was not the wet weather which had driven him back ... that he had hurried home because he knew, he knew—

In ten minutes’ time tea would be served. Claire did not change her dress or make any alteration in her simple attire, her energies during those few minutes were chiefly devoted to cooling her flushed cheeks, and when the gong sounded she ran downstairs, letters in hand, and evinced a politely impersonal surprise at the sight of Captain Erskine and his friend.

Mrs Fanshawe’s eyes followed the girl’s movements with a keen scrutiny. It seemed to her that Claire’s indifference was a trifle overdone: Erskine also was unnaturally composed. Under ordinary circumstances such a meeting would have called forth a frank, natural pleasure. She set her lips, and determined to leave nothing to chance.

Chapter Twenty.

The Flowery Way.

Only a few hours before her son’s unexpected arrival, Mrs Fanshawe had warmly pressed Claire to extend her visit to a fortnight at least, and Claire had happily agreed. Mrs Fanshawe recalled the incident as she poured out tea, and rated herself for her imprudence, but the deed was done; there was the girl, looking pretty enough to turn any young man’s head, and there, alas! was Erskine, who should, by all the laws of what was right and proper, be even now making love to Janet Willoughby in Scotland! Janet was rich, Janet was well born, Janet was amiable and easily led, for years past Mrs Fanshawe had set her heart on Janet as a daughter-in-law, and she was not easily turned from her purpose. Throughout that first afternoon her thoughts were busily engaged planning ahead, striving to arrange the days to the hindrance of dangerous tête-à-têtes, Erskine appeared to have returned in ignorance of Miss Gifford’s presence. Mrs Fanshawe had been careful to avoid all reference to the girl in her letters, and was unable to think how the information could have leaked out, nevertheless the choice of Major Humphreys as a companion filled her with suspicion. Never before had such an invitation been given on Erskine’s initiative; on more than one occasion, indeed, he had confessed that he found the Major a bore, and had expressed surprise at his mother’s liking for so dull a man.

Mrs Fanshawe had never found the Major dull, since he shared with enthusiasm her own passion for gardening, and was a most valuable adviser and assistant. Together they had planned the flagged path winding low between the high banks of the rock garden, together they had planted the feathery white arenaria calearica in the crevices of the steps leading upward to the pergola, together they had planned the effect of clusters of forget-me-not, and red tulips among the long grasses in the orchard. There was never any dearth of conversation between Major Humphreys and Mrs Fanshawe, and a stroll round the rose garden might easily prolong itself into a discussion lasting a couple of hours. Hence came the suspicion, or Erskine knew as much, and had deliberately invited this man before any one of his own friends. Despite all appearance to the contrary, Mrs Fanshawe felt convinced that “the bore” had been brought down to engage her own attention, and so leave her son free to follow his own devices. She set her lips, and determined on a counter move.

A partie carrée was dangerous under the circumstances; safety lay in a crowd. That evening when Mrs Fanshawe retired to dress for dinner, the telephone in her boudoir was used to ring up all the big houses in the neighbourhood, invitations were given galore for tennis, for dinner, for lunch; and return invitations were accepted without consultation with her son. At the end of half an hour she hung up the receiver, satisfied that Erskine’s opportunities for tête-à-têtes would be few. Perhaps also time would suggest some excuse for shortening the girl’s visit to the ten days originally planned. She must think it out, put her wits to work. Claire was a pretty creature and a delightful companion, but a nobody, and poor into the bargain. She could not be allowed to upset a cherished plan!

During dinner Mrs Fanshawe alluded casually to the coming gaieties, and mentally paid a tribute of admiration to the aplomb with which Claire listened, and smiled, betraying not a flicker of surprise at the sudden change of programme. The good lady was so pleased with the result of her own scheming, that when later on the Major proposed a game of patience, she accepted at once, and viewed with equanimity the sight of the two young people strolling down the garden path. It would be the last night when such an escape would be possible!

It was an exquisite moonlight night, clear enough to show the colour of the flowers in the beds and borders. Claire’s white dress took on a ghostly hue against the deep background of the trees, her cheeks were pale, too, and the long line of eyelash showed dark against her cheeks. She felt very happy, very content, just the least little bit in the world, afraid! Captain Fanshawe was smoking a cigarette, and in the intervals drawing deep sighs of enjoyment.

“There’s only one thing that worries me—why didn’t I come back last week? To think of rain, and mist, and smoky fires, and then—This! I feel like a man who has been transported into fairyland!”

Claire felt as if she also was in fairyland, but she did not say so. There are things that a girl does not say. They paced up and down the winding paths, and came to the flight of steps leading to the pergola, “The Flowery Way” as Mrs Fanshawe loved to call it, where the arenaria calearica shone starry white in the moonlight. Erskine stopped short, and said urgently—

“Would you mind walking on alone for a few yards? I’ll stand here ... while you go up the steps. Please!”

Claire stared in surprise, but there seemed no reason to deny so simple a request.

“And what am I to do when I get there?”

“Just stand still for a moment, and then walk on... I’ll come after!”

Claire laughed, shrugged, and went slowly forward along the flagged path, up the flower-sprinkled stair, to pause beneath an arch of pink roses and look back with an inquiring smile. Erskine was standing where she had left him, but he did not smile in response, while one might have counted twenty, he remained motionless, his look grave and intent, then he came quickly forward, leapt up the shallow steps and stood by her side.

“Thank you!” he said tersely, but that was all. Neither then or later came any explanation of the strange request.

For a few moments there was silence, then Erskine harked back to his former subject.

“Scottish scenery is very fine, but for restful loveliness, Surrey is hard to beat. You haven’t told me yet how you like our little place, Miss Gifford! It’s on a very modest scale, but I’m fond of it. There’s a homey feeling about it that one misses in bigger places, and the mater is a genius at gardening, and gets the maximum of effect out of the space. Are you fond of a garden?”

“I’ve never had one!” Claire said, and sighed at the thought. “That’s one of the Joys that does not go with a roving life! I’ve never been able to have as many flowers as I wanted, or to choose the right foliage to go with them, or to pick them with the dew on their leaves.” She paused, smitten with a sudden recollection. “One day this year, a close, smouldering oven-ey day, I came in from school and found—a box full of roses! There were dewdrops on the leaves, or what looked like dewdrops. They were as fresh as if they had been gathered an hour before. Dozens of roses, with great long stems. They made my room into a bower.”

“Really! Did they? How very jolly,” was Erskine’s comment.

His voice sounded cool and unperturbed, and Claire did not venture to look at his face. She thought with a pang, that perhaps after all she had been mistaken. Perhaps Mrs Willoughby had been the real donor ... perhaps he had never thought... She hurried on terrified lest her thoughts might be suspected.

“Mrs Fanshawe has been so kind, allowing me to send boxes of fruit and flowers to a friend in hospital. One of our mistresses, who is being treated for rheumatism.”

“Poor creature!” said the Captain with careless sympathy. “Dull work being in hospital in this weather. How have you been getting on with my mother, Miss Gifford? I’m awfully glad to find you down here, though I should have enjoyed showing you round myself. I’m a bit jealous of the mater there! She’s a delightful companion, isn’t she? So keen and alert. I don’t know any woman of her age who is so young in spirit. It’s a great gift, but—” he paused, drew another cigarette from his case, and stared at it reflectively, “it has its drawbacks!”

“Yes. I can understand that. It must be hard to feel young, to be young in heart and mind, and to be handicapped by a body that persists in growing old. I’ve often thought how trying it must be.”

“I suppose so. Yes. I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking about it in that light. I was not discussing the position from my mother’s point of view, but from—her son’s! It would be easier sometimes to deal with a placid old lady who was content with her knitting, and cherished an old-fashioned belief in the superiority of man! Well! let us say the equality. But the mater won’t even grant that. By virtue of her superior years she is under the impression that she can still manage my affairs better than I can myself, which, of course, is a profound delusion!”

Looking at the firmly cut profile it seemed ridiculous to think of any one managing this man if it were not his will to be managed. Mother and son were alike in possessing an obstinate self-will. A conflict between them would be no light thing. Woman-like, Claire’s sympathies leant to the woman’s side.

“It must be very difficult for a mother to realise that her son is really past her control. And when she does, it must be a painful feeling. It isn’t painful for the son; it’s only annoying. The mother fares worst!”

Captain Fanshawe laughed, and looked down at the girl’s face with admiring eyes.

“What a faculty you have of seeing the other side! Do you always take the part of the person who isn’t here? If so, all the better for me this last week, when the mater has been spinning stories of my obstinacy, and pig-headedness, and general contradictiveness. I thought I had better hurry home at once, before you learnt to put me down as a hopeless bad lot!”

Claire stood still, staring with widened eyes.

“Hurry home—hurry home before—” She stopped short, furious with herself for having taken any notice of the slip, and Erskine gave a short embarrassed laugh, and cried hastily—

“Oh, I knew; of course I knew! The rain was only an excuse. The real reason was that as soon as I knew you were staying here, I hadn’t patience to stay on. I stood it for exactly three hours, thinking of you in this garden, imagining walking about as we are walking now, and then—I bolted for the afternoon train!”

Claire felt her cheeks flame, and affected dignity to hide her deep, uncontrollable joy.

“If I had been your hostess—”

“But you weren’t, you see... You weren’t! For goodness’ sake don’t put yourself in her place next. Be Claire Gifford for once, and say you are glad to see me!” His eyes met hers and twinkled with humour as he added solemnly. “There’s not a single solitary convention that could possibly be broken by being civil to a man in his own home! Even your ultra sensitive conscience—”

“Never mind my sensitive conscience. What I want to know is, how did you know? Who told you that I was here?”

It was significant that the possibility that Mrs Fanshawe had written of her guest never occurred to Claire’s mind; that Erskine like herself discounted such a possibility. He replied with a matter-of-fact simplicity which left Claire marvelling at the obtuseness of mankind—

“Janet, of course. Janet Willoughby. We were staying in the same house. We were talking of you yesterday morning, and comparing notes generally. She said you were—oh! quite a number of agreeable things—and I agreed with her, with just one exception. She considered that you were responsive. I said I had never found any one less so. She said you were always so ready to meet her halfway. I complained that you refused to meet me at all. I ... er ... told her how I felt about it, and she said my chance was waiting if I choose to take it—that you were staying here keeping the mater company. So—”

Claire said nothing. She was thinking deeply. For how many days had Janet been staying in the same house with Erskine? Perhaps a week, certainly several days, yet it had been only yesterday morning that she had given the news. Yesterday morning; and in three hours he had flown! How was Janet faring now, while Claire was walking in fairyland?

“You are not angry? Why do you look so serious? Tell me you are not sorry that I came?” said a deep voice close to her ear, but before she had time to answer, footsteps approached, and Mrs Fanshawe’s voice was heard calling in raised accents—

“Erskine! are you there? Give me your arm, dear; I am so tired. It’s such a perfect night, that it seemed a shame to stay indoors. The Major has been admiring ‘The Flowery Way.’ It certainly looks its best to-night.” She turned towards Major Humphreys with her light, cynical laugh. “My son declares that it is profanation to allow ordinary, commonplace mortals to walk up those steps! He always escorts my visitors round by another way. He is ungallant enough to say that he has never yet seen a girl whom he would care to watch walk up those steps in the moonlight. She would have to be quite ideal in every respect to fit into the picture. We’ll go round by the lily garden, Erskine, and then I think Miss Gifford and I will be off to bed. You men will enjoy a smoke.”

For the next ten minutes Mrs Fanshawe kept tight hold of her son’s arm, and Claire talked assiduously to Major Humphreys. She knew now why Erskine had asked her to walk ahead up “The Flowery Way!”

Chapter Twenty One.

All in a garden fair.

The next afternoon a party of friends had been bidden for tennis. For the morning no plans had been made, but throughout its length Mrs Fanshawe fought a gallant fight against overwhelming odds, and was hopelessly beaten for her pains. It was her strong determination that her son should be prevented from holding another tête-à-tête with Claire Gifford. Erskine actively, and Claire passively, desired and intended to bring about just that very consummation, while Major Humphreys, shrewdly aware of the purpose for which he had been invited, aided and abetted their efforts by the development of a veritable frenzy of gardening enthusiasm. He questioned, he disputed, he meekly acknowledged his mistakes; he propounded schemes for fresh developments, the scenes of which lay invariably at the opposite end of the grounds from that in which the young people were ensconced.

Mrs Fanshawe struggled valiantly, but the Triple Entente won the day, and for a good two hours before lunch, Erskine and Claire remained happily lost to sight in the farthest recesses of the grounds. They had left behind the region of formal seats and benches, and sat on the grass at the foot of a great chestnut, whose dark green foliage made a haven of shade in the midst of the noonday glare. Claire wore her bargain frock, and felt thankful for the extravagant impulse of that January morn. Erskine was in flannels, cool and becoming as a man’s négligé invariably is; both had discarded hats, and sat bareheaded in the blessed shade, and Erskine asked questions, dozens of questions, a very viva voce examination, the subject being the life, history, thoughts, hopes, ambitions, and dreams of the girl by his side.

“You were an only child. So was I. Were you a lonely little kiddie?”

“No, I don’t think I was. My mother was a child with me. We were blissfully happy manufacturing a doll’s house out of a packing chest, and furnishing it with beds made out of cardboard boxes, and sofas made out of pin-cushions. I used to feel other children a bore because they distracted her attention.”

“That would be when you were—how old? Six or seven? And you are now—what is it? Twenty-two? I must have been a schoolboy of seventeen at that time, imagining myself a man. Ten years makes a lot of difference at that age. It doesn’t count so much later on. At least I should think not. Do I appear to you very old?”

“Hoary!”

“No, but I say... Honestly!”

“Don’t be conceited. You know perfectly well—”

“But I wanted to make sure! And then you went to school. Did you have a bad time at first among the other girls?”

“No. I’m afraid the other girls had a bad time with me. I was very uppish and British, and insisted on getting my own way. Did you have a bad time?”

“Yes, I did,” he said simply. “Small boys have a pretty stiff time of it during their first term, and my time happened to be stiffer than most. I may be as miserable again. I hope I never may be! But I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to be more miserable than I was at nine years old, bullied on every side, breaking my heart with home sickness, and too proud to show a sign.”

“Poor little lad!” sighed Claire softly, and for a long minute the two pairs of eyes met, and exchanged a message. “But afterwards? It grew better after that?”

“Oh, yes. I learnt to stand up for myself, and moved up in the school, and began to bully on my own... Did you make many real friends in your school days?”

“No real lasting friends. They were French girls, you see, and there was the difference of race, and religion, to divide us as we grew up. And we were birds of passage, mother and I; always moving about.”

“You felt the need of companionship?”

“No. I had mother, and we were like girls together.” The twin dimples showed in a mischievous smile. “You seem very anxious to hear that I was lonely!”

“Well!” said Erskine, and hesitated as though he found it impossible to deny the accusation. “I wanted to feel that you could sympathise with me! I’ve been more or less lonely all my life, but I have always felt that a time would come when it would be all right—when I’d meet some one who’d understand. I was great chums with my father, but he died when I was twelve, and my school chum went off to China, and comes home for a few months every three years, when it has usually happened that I’ve been abroad. There are nice enough fellows in the regiment, but I suppose I’m not quick at making friends—”

Strive as she would Claire could not resist a twinkle of amusement, their eyes met, and both went off into a peal of laughter.

“Oh, well, there are exceptions! That’s different. I felt that I knew you at once, without any preliminary stages. It must always be like that when people really fit.” And then after a short pause he added in boyish, ingenuous tones, “Did you feel that you knew me?”

“I—I think I did!” Claire acknowledged. To both it seemed the most wonderful, the most absorbing of conversations. They were blissfully unconscious that it was old as the hills themselves, and had been repeated with ceaseless reiteration from prehistoric periods. Only once was there an interruption of the deep mutual happiness and that came without warning. Claire was smiling in blissful contentment, unconscious of a care, when suddenly a knife-like pain stabbed her heart. Imagination had wafted her back to Staff-Room. She saw the faces of the fifteen women seated around the table, women who were with but one exception past their youth, approaching nearer and nearer to dreaded age, and an inward voice whispered that to each in her turn had come this golden hour, the hour of dreams, of sweet, illuminative hope. The hour had come, and the hour had passed, leaving behind nothing but a memory and a regret. Why should she herself be more blessed than others? She looked forward and saw a vision of herself ten years hence still hurrying along the well-known street looking up at the clock in the church tower to assure herself that she was in time, still mounting the same bare staircase, still hanging up her hat on the same peg. The prose of it in contradistinction with the poetry of the present was terrifying to Claire’s youthful mind, and her look was so white, so strained, that Erskine took instant alarm.

“What is it? What is it? Are you ill? Have I said anything to upset you? I say, what is the matter!”

“Nothing. Nothing! I had a—thought! Talk hard, please, and make me forget!”

The end of the two hours found the cross-questioning still in full force; the man and the girl alike still feeling that the half was not yet told. They resented the quick passage of time, resented the disturbance of the afternoon hours.

“What on earth do we want with a tennis party?” grumbled the Captain. “Wish to goodness we could be left alone. I suppose the mater wanted them to amuse you before I came back.”

Claire murmured incoherently. She knew better, but she was not going to say so! They turned unwillingly towards the house.

In the afternoon the guests arrived. They came early, for the Fanshawe tennis courts were in fine condition, and the prospect of meeting a new man and a new girl, plus the son of the house, was a treat in itself in the quiet countryside where the members of the same set met regularly at every function of the year. One of the courts was reserved for men’s fours, for Mrs Fanshawe believed in giving her guests what they liked, and there is no doubt that men as a rule are ungallant enough to prefer their own sex in outdoor games.

In the second court the younger girls took part in mixed fours, while others sat about, or took part in lengthy croquet contests on the furthest of the three lawns. Claire as a member of the house-party had a good deal of time on her hands, and helped Mrs Fanshawe with the entertainment of the older guests, who one and all eyed her with speculative interest.

One thin, faded woman had spent a few years in Bombay and was roused to interest by hearing that Claire’s mother was now settled in that city. Yes! she had met a Mr Judge. Robert Judge, was it not? Her husband knew him quite well. He had dined at their house. Quite a dear man. She had heard of his marriage, “but”—here came a look of mystification—“to a young wife; very pretty, very charming—”

Claire laughed, and held out a little coloured photograph in a round glass frame which hung by a chain round her neck.

“That is my mother. She is thirty-nine, and looks thirty. And she is prettier than that.”