A CALL AND A DINNER PARTY.
It is not to be supposed that Bram had forgotten all about Claire
Biron, or that he had not been tempted to break through the command
she had imposed upon him. At first he had intended to present himself
as usual at the farm on the evening after his summary dismissal, and
to brave her possible displeasure. He felt so sure of her kind feeling
toward himself that he had very little doubt of overcoming her scruples
from whatever cause they arose.
On the very next morning, however, he had come suddenly upon her as he
went down the hill towards the town; and Claire had cut him, actually
cut him, passing him with her eyes on the ground, at a rapid pace.
Bram was so utterly overwhelmed by this action on her part that he
stood stupidly staring at her figure as it went quickly upwards,
uncertain what to do, until she turned into the farmyard and
disappeared.
He went on to the office with a dull weight at his heart, hoping
against hope that she would relent, that she would smile at him with
her old friendliness when next they met, but unable to stifle the fear
that the pleasant friendship which had been so much to him was now over.
As to her reasons for this new course of treatment he could make no
guess which seemed to him at all likely to be the right one. She had
heard something about him, that was her excuse, something not to his
discredit, but which was, nevertheless, the cause of her sending him
away. Now, Bram could think of nobody who was likely to be able to
tell Claire the one fact which might have brought about his banishment
conceivably, the fact that he loved her. He had kept his secret so well
that he might well feel sure it was in his own power, so well that he
sometimes honestly doubted whether it was a fact at all.
Besides, even if it had been possible for her to find this out, she
would not have dismissed him in this curt, almost brutal, fashion.
The more Bram thought about his banishment, the farther he seemed
to get from a sane conclusion; but he could not rest. He could not
dismiss the matter from his mind. Full as his new life was of work, of
interest, of ambitions, of hopes, the thought of Claire haunted him. He
wondered how she was getting on without him, knowing that he had made
himself useful to her in a hundred ways, and that if she did not miss
him, she must at least miss the work he did for her.
And Christian--he had told Bram in so many words that he meant to marry
his cousin; yet his visits had fallen off in frequency, and Bram had an
idea that Claire looked unhappy and anxious.
Bram knew very well that he could get an invitation back to the farm at
any moment by putting himself in the way of Theodore. But he would not
do this; he would not go back without the invitation, or at least the
consent of Claire herself.
So he avoided Theodore, and went up and down the hill with an outward
air of placid unconcern until the evening before the day when he was
to dine at Mr Cornthwaite’s.
It was a pleasant October evening; there was a touch of frost in the
air, which was bracing and pleasant after the heavy atmosphere of the
town. When he got close to the farmhouse, he saw Claire crossing the
farmyard on her way to the kitchen door, with a heavy load of wood in
her arms. It seemed to him that her face looked sad and worn, that odd
little face which had so little prettiness in repose except for those
who knew the possibilities for fun, for tenderness, that lay dormant in
her bright brown eyes.
He hesitated a moment, and then went quickly through the gate.
“May I help you, Miss Claire?”
She did not start or pretend to be surprised. She had seen him coming.
She stopped.
“You know what I told you, that you were not to come here again,” she
said severely.
But it was severity which did not frighten him.
“Well,” he began humbly, “I’ve kept away nearly a fortnight.”
“But I said you were never to come again.”
“I don’t think you can have meant it though. You would have given me
some reason if you had.”
Claire frowned and tapped her little foot impatiently on the ground.
“Oh, you know, you must know. You are not stupid, Mr. Elshaw.”
“I’m beginning to think I am,” said Bram, as he began to take her load
from her with gentle insistence.
It amused and touched him to note how glad she was, in spite of her
assumed displeasure, to give her work up to him in the old way. He
opened the kitchen door, and took the wood into the scullery, where
Joan was at work, just as he used to do for her, and then went through
the kitchen slowly on his way out again.
Claire was standing by the big deal table.
“Thank you, thank you very much,” said she.
But her tone was not so bright as usual; she was more subdued
altogether--a quiet, demure, downcast little girl. Bram, making his way
with leaden feet to the outer door, wanted to say something, but hardly
knew what. He hoped that she would stop him before he reached the door,
but he was disappointed. He put his hand upon the latch and paused.
Still she said nothing. He opened the door, and glanced back at her.
Although the look she gave him in return had nothing of invitation in
it, he felt that there was something in her sad little face which made
it impossible to leave her like that.
“Miss Claire,” said he, and he was surprised to find that his voice
was husky and not so loud as he expected, “mayn’t I finish the
dressing-table?”
“If you like.”
Her voice was as husky as his own.
Without another word he set about the work, found the saw, which,
by-the-bye, was his own, the wood, and the rest of the things he
wanted, and in less than ten minutes was at work in the old way, and
Claire, fetching her needlework, was busy by the fire, just as she used
to be. She was too proud to own it; but Bram saw quite plainly that
this quiet re-establishment of the old situation made her almost as
happy as it did him.
“Things going all right, Miss Claire?” asked he as he took up his plane.
“No, of course they’re not. They’re going all wrong, as usual. More
wrong than usual. Johnson takes more advantage than ever of there being
nobody to look after him properly.”
Johnson was the farm bailiff, and he had worked all the better for
the suggestions sharp-sighted Bram had made to Claire. Since Bram’s
banishment Johnson had been rampant again. Claire was quite conscious
of this, and she turned to another subject, to allow him no opportunity
of applying her comments.
“And you--at least I needn’t ask. You always get on all right, don’t
you?”
“I shall come to grief to-morrow,” answered Bram soberly. “I’ve got
to go up to the Park to dinner. What do you think of that, Miss
Claire? And to wear a black coat and a stiff shirt-front, just like a
gentleman! Won’t they all laugh at me when my back’s turned, and talk
about daws’ and peacocks’ feathers? It’s all Mr. Christian’s fault, so
I suppose you will say it’s all right?”
“It is all right, Bram,” said Claire gravely; “and they won’t laugh
at you. They can’t. You’re too modest. And too clever besides.” She
paused, dropped her work in her lap, and looked intently at the fire.
“Is it true that you’re going to be married, Bram?” she presently asked
abruptly.
“Married! Me! Lord, no. Who told you such a thing as that?” And Bram
stood up and looked at her, letting his plane lie idle.
“Papa said he thought you were. He said you were engaged to a girl who
lived in the country. You never told me about her.”
“And is that why you sent me away?”
At his tone of dismay Claire burst out laughing with her old hilarity.
“Oh, no, oh, no. I sent you away, if you must know, because I had heard
that you were to go up and dine at Holme Park, and because I knew that
it would be better for you to be able to say there that you didn’t
visit us.”
“Is _that_ what you call a reason?” asked Bram scornfully, angrily.
“Yes, that’s one reason.”
“Well, well, haven’t you any better ones?”
“Perhaps. But I shan’t tell you any more, so you need not ask me for
them. I want to know something about this girl you’re engaged to.”
“Not engaged,” said Bram stolidly.
“Well, in love with then? I want to know something about her. I think
it very strange that I never heard anything about her before. What is
she like?”
“Well, she’s like other girls,” said Bram. “She is much like nine out
of every ten girls you meet.”
“Really? I shouldn’t have thought you’d care for a girl like that,
Bram.”
“You must care for what you can get in this world,” said Bram
sententiously.
“Well, tell me something more. Is she tall or short, fair or dark? Has
she blue eyes, or gray ones, or brown?”
Bram looked thoughtful.
“Well, she’s neither tall nor short. She’s not very dark, nor yet very
fair. And her eyes are a sort of drab color, I think.”
“You don’t mean it, Bram? I suppose you think it’s no business of mine?”
“That’s it, Miss Claire.”
“I don’t believe in the existence of this girl with the drab-colored
eyes, Bram.”
Claire had jumped up, and darted across to the table in her old
impulsive way; and now she stood, her eyes dancing with suppressed
mirth, just as she used to stand in the good old days before the
rupture of her own making.
Bram was delighted at the change.
“Well, I won’t say whether she exists or not,” replied he with a smile
lurking about his own mouth; “and I don’t choose to have my love
affairs pried into by anybody, I don’t care who. How would you like
people to pry into yours?”
She grew suddenly grave, and he wished he had not said it.
“There’s no concealment about mine, Bram,” she said quietly.
“You’re going to marry Mr. Christian?”
“I suppose so.”
Why did she speak so quietly, so wistfully? The question troubled
Bram, who did not dare to say any more upon a subject which she seemed
anxious to avoid as much as she could. And the talk languished until
Claire heard her father’s footsteps coming down the stairs.
“Now go,” said she imperiously. “I don’t want you to meet papa. And you
mustn’t come again. And you mustn’t tell them up at Holme Park that
you were here this evening.”
Bram frowned.
“Miss Claire,” said he, “I am a deal prouder of coming here than I am
of going up to t’ Park. And if I’m to choose between here and t’ Park,
I choose to come here. But I shall be let to do as I please, I can
promise you. But, of course, if you don’t want me here, I won’t come.”
“Good-night,” said she for answer.
And she hurried him out of the house, and shut the door upon him in
time to prevent her father, who was in the passage outside, from
meeting him.
Bram went up to the Park on the following evening in much better
spirits than if he had not had that reassuring interview with Claire.
He still felt rather troubled as to the prospects of the marriage
between her and her cousin, but he hoped that he might hear something
about it in the family circle at Holme Park.
The ordeal of the evening proved less trying than the promoted clerk
had expected--up to the certain point.
With the ladies of the family he had already become acquainted. Mrs.
Cornthwaite was a tiresome elderly lady of small mental capacity and
extremely conservative notions, who alternately patronized Bram and
betrayed her horror at the recollection of his former station. The
good lady was a perpetual thorn in the side of her husband, whom she
irritated by silly interruptions and sillier comments on his remarks,
and to her daughter, who had to be ever on the alert to ward off the
effects of her mother’s imbecility.
The daughter, Hester, was a thoroughly good creature, who had been
worried into a pessimistic view of life, and into a belief that much
“good” could be done in the world by speaking her mind with frank
rudeness upon all occasions. The consequence of these peculiarities
in the ladies of the household was that to spend an evening in their
society was a torture from which all but the bravest shrank, although
every one acknowledged that they were the best-intentioned people in
the world.
The only guests besides Bram were Mr. and Mrs. Hibbs and their only
daughter, whom Bram knew already by name and by sight.
Mr. Hibbs was a coal-owner, a man of large means, and a great light
in evangelical circles. He was a tall, sallow man, with thin whiskers
and a deliberate manner of speaking, as if he were always in the
reading-desk, where on Sundays he often read the lessons for the day.
His wife was a comfortable-looking creature, with a round face and a
round figure, and a habit of gently nodding her head after any remark
of her husband’s, as if to emphasize its wisdom.
As for Minnie, it struck Bram, as he made her the bow he had been
practising, that she exactly answered to the description he had
given Claire of the supposed lady of his heart. There was only this
difference, that she was distinguished from most young women of her
age by the exceedingly light color of her eyebrows and eyelashes. She
appeared to have none until you had the opportunity for a very close
inspection.
She had quite a reputation for saintliness, which had reached
even Bram’s ears. Her whole delight was in Sunday-school work and
in district visiting, and the dissipations connected with these
occupations.
She was, however, very cheerful and talkative during dinner; and Bram
was surprised to see how very attentive Christian, who sat by her
side, was to this particularly unattractive young person, who was the
antithesis of all he admired.
For Christian’s good nature did not generally go the length of making
him more than barely civil to plain women.
Bram found Miss Cornthwaite kind and easy to get on with. She was
a straightforward, practical woman, on the far side of thirty, and
this grave, simple-mannered young man, with the observant gray eyes,
interested and pleased her. She tried to intercept the glances of
horror which Mrs. Cornthwaite occasionally threw at him, and the
terrible explanations with which the elder lady condescendingly favored
him.
Thus, when the Riviera was mentioned, Mrs. Cornthwaite threw him the
good-natured aside, audible all over the room--
“The shore of the Mediterranean, you know, the sea that lies between
France and Italy, and--and those places!”
And when some one used the word “bizarre,” Mrs. Cornthwaite smiled at
Bram again, and again whispered loudly--
“Quaint, odd, you know. It’s a French word.”
“Mamma, you needn’t explain. Mr. Elshaw speaks better French than we
do, I’m quite sure,” said Hester good-naturedly enough, though she had
better have made no comment.
But Bram said at once, as if grateful to the old lady--
“No, Miss Cornthwaite, I can read and write French pretty well, but I
can’t speak it. And when I hear a French word spoken I don’t at once
catch its meaning.”
“There, you see, Hester, I was right. I knew Mr. Elshaw would be glad
of a little help,” said Mrs. Cornthwaite triumphantly.
“Very glad, indeed,” assented Bram, quickly interposing as Hester was
about to continue the argument with her mother.
It was not until the ladies had left the room, and Bram, with an amused
glance at Christian, had taken a cigarette, that the real ordeal of the
evening came for the young clerk in a shape he had never expected.
“I suppose you hardly know, Elshaw,” said Mr. Cornthwaite with
a preliminary cough, as if to show that he was about to make an
announcement of importance, “why I was so particularly anxious for you
to dine with us this evening?” Bram looked interested, as, indeed, he
felt. “You are aware, Elshaw, of the enormously high opinion of your
talents which my son has always held. He now proposes that you should
go to London to represent us in a rather delicate negotiation, in
place of himself. And as the reason is that he will himself be occupied
with pleasanter matters than those of dry business, I thought it would
interest you to be present on the occasion of the first announcement of
the pleasanter matter in question. It is not less than a wedding----”
“A wedding, sir?” Bram’s face clouded with perplexity.
“Yes, Elshaw. You have had the honor of being introduced to the young
lady this evening. My son has been fortunate enough to obtain the heart
and a promise of the hand of Miss Minnie Hibbs.”
Bram looked steadily at Christian. He dared not speak.