Claudia, sitting under the great beech with Harry Hilton, was becoming
interested in her listener, because he showed what she called a
recipient mind, meaning that he attended to all she said, and was ready
and eager to admit the good effects which were to result to woman from
her taking up landscape gardening. How was she to know that his
thoughts meanwhile fastened themselves upon the dimple in her cheek, the
waving tendrils of her hair, the whiteness of her throat? He would have
agreed to almost anything uttered in her young clear voice, for the mere
pleasure of hearing her speak, and his own happy and genial nature
accepted the charm frankly. She was good, he was sure, and her schemes,
whatever they were--and it cannot be said that he quite understood their
aim--must be good too. She wanted her fellow-creatures to be raised,
and she had her own ideas as to how the rise was to be effected--he
thought her adorable for the wish, and more adorable for telling him
about it.
"People will believe me mad," she said. "I am quite used to that. No
one is prepared for a woman who has money enough to let her sit still
and fold her hands, choosing to plunge into a regular money-making
occupation. Half my friends suppose it to be just a fad, and I can't
tell you how many letters I get asking me to stay, and assuring me that
nobody will object to my amusing myself in their gardens. Amusing
myself! Why, I make it a strictly professional matter. If I do
anything--even here, for my cousins--it must be for payment. I couldn't
oppose the laws of political economy."
"No, no," said Harry, doing his best to struggle after her, "of course
not. I think it a capital idea. When a woman has no actual home of her
own, naturally she wants occupation."
But this was not right, and Claudia frowned.
"She always wants, or ought to have, her occupations. Do you imagine
that if I married, for instance, I should be content to merge all my
interests in ordering dinner, or talking about servants?"
He looked at her puzzled.
"I should continue to work," said Claudia, calmly.
"But," burst from honest Harry, "you don't mean--? No man who could
work would stand his wife having to grind!"
"Why not?" she demanded. "If the woman has learnt her business, why on
earth shouldn't she grind, as you call it, as well as her husband?"
"Why? Well, simply, he would be a cad if he allowed it, unless it was
absolutely necessary."
Claudia sat up straight, and turned her bright face upon him.
"Ah, these are the behind-hand ideas which we have to live down. Don't
you understand that we hold there ought not to be the social differences
which have hitherto existed? We maintain that idleness is a sin, and
that we ought all to be working men and women. Of course while
different degrees of culture and education handicap some of us, the work
cannot be alike, but by decrees that will right itself--By degrees? I
believe it is coming by leaps and bounds. I suppose, now," she added,
"you think there is a difference between me and--say a charwoman?"
"By Jove, yes!" blurted out Harry, with a laugh.
"Well, I expect if we could project ourselves fifty years or so, you
wouldn't find much. That difference is something we have to be ashamed
of, and to rectify. We must give the people our opportunities and the
chance of reaching a higher level. I dare say that horrifies you?"
"Oh, not at all," he said, struggling between admiration and a sense of
the ludicrous. "I am only a little puzzled."
"Yes?" she said graciously; for to puzzle her hearers and then enlighten
them, was a fascinating process. "Yes?"
"I was wondering who would do the washing?"
"They, of course. They, just the same, only with higher standards of
perfection and better methods. It will have reached the dignity of a
fine art by that time."
All his admiration could not keep back an explosive laugh.
"You mustn't be angry," he said, "I think it's splendid--as you put it."
"Oh, I'm not angry," returned Claudia, frankly. "One can't expect to
make people look at things from one's own point of view in a minute.
You've all of you a thousand prejudices to get rid of to begin with.
The great point is if you wish to learn."
"If that's all, I want to--awfully."
"Really?"
"I should think so!"
"Well, then, I don't mind telling you." She was looking gravely at him,
her chin resting on her hand.
"That's tremendously good of you."
"Yours is a good face," she went on calmly, with her eyes still upon
him; "not clever, you know, but honest and straight. I should think you
always tried to do what was right, and that you might be trusted. I'm
ready to be friends, if you are." And as she spoke, she stretched out a
small white hand with a frank gesture.
Harry Hilton flushed like a girl to the roots of his hair, as he took
it.
"You're--you're too good, Miss Hamilton," he stammered.
"Why?" said Claudia, opening her eyes and smiling. "Don't you think
it's nice to have friends? I had so many at the college, and I really
miss them here. I can't stand writing and that sort of thing--I haven't
the time. So that if you like it."
"Like it!"
"People are so stupid," she went on; "they always talk as if men and
women couldn't be friends without fancying themselves in love, or some
such nonsense. Several of us agreed that we would make our own lines,
and not give way to foolish conventionalities. Why should we not show
the world that it is mistaken?"
"Yes," he said more doubtfully. But Claudia was filled with the
enthusiasm of her own convictions, and the hesitation of his
acquiescence was lost upon her.
"Of course we can, and we will. You and I, for instance, will be good
comrades, ready to help each other on either side. If I think you wrong
in any matter I shall tell you, and you must do the same by me. Then
there are certain things I will never have."
"What are they?" said Harry, hastily.
"If you pay compliments or flatter, the compact's off. I can't stand
either one or the other."
"Mayn't I say if I admire anything very much?"
"Certainly not. Is that how you talk to other men? You must try to
think that I am another man, and talk as you would then."
"Oh!" groaned Harry. He murmured that it was all new to him. The
sudden limit which she put to this delightful offer of friendship was
disconcerting, but he reflected that, after all, and for a time,
friendship was a step in the right direction. There was no doubt that
Claudia meant what she said, even if she spoke with extraordinary
simplicity. Now, as she began to gather her fluttering leaves together,
he said eagerly, "You're not going?"
"You are," said the girl, with a smile. "We've talked enough."
"We haven't said a word about Thornbury. You'll come to Thornbury,
won't you?"
"Is that where you live? Yes, if I can do anything there. My
engagements have not yet begun, and Thornbury may as well start them as
any other place." She spoke in a business-like tone, and took out a
note-book. "Let me see; how much time will you want, and when?"
"As soon as possible, and for as long as possible."
"That won't do," she said, laying down her book, and speaking coldly.
"This is strictly business."
"I'll get my mother to write," said Harry, hurriedly.
Claudia opened her eyes.
"Why trouble her? Surely I can arrange it with you?"
"Well, you see--" he began, and stopped.
"Did you speak?"
"I want to thank you. I think it most awfully kind. Still, I believe
my mother would like to write. She's--"
"Yes?"
"We're all of us rather old-fashioned people, you see."
"Oh yes, I see. I think you might even say--very," said Claudia, gaily.
"Well, settle it any way you like. I only warned you because I dare
say I shall soon be having plenty of applications and getting my time
filled up. And you had better tell her that my terms are ten pounds for
one week, or fifteen for a fortnight. It is always well," she added,
"to have things square beforehand. Now I must get to work."
Left to himself, Harry Hilton's face broadened into a smile. He lit a
cigarette, stuck his hands into his pockets and sauntered towards the
river to see whether any fish were rising. His head was full of
Claudia's face, and the flashings and cloudings which swept across it,
giving it a charm even more irresistible than mere beauty. He felt a
great desire to stand well with her. "If I can get her to Thornbury,
and let her go ahead with some of the young trees, she'll be pleased.
The mater will ask her, fast enough, if she knows I want it; and I'll
get Philippa to tackle--her, and see that she writes a civil answer. I
want her to make a good impression. I wonder if I'm falling in love?
Well, hang it all! if I am, it's not unpleasant. _I_ don't mind. I
hope it won't spoil my fishing. `Ten pounds for a week, and fifteen for
a fortnight'! Oh, I say, I can't tell the mater that, I really can't!"
He was laughing again, for he was not yet so much in love as to fail to
see the comic side of Claudia's announcements. His nature was simple
and broadly lined, but furnished with good common sense which would
prevent his ever making a fool of himself, or being made a fool of by
others. Claudia, at this period of her life, admired complexity and
unfathomable sayings, and it would have mortified her beyond expression
to have realised with what ease Harry pushed aside her small
eccentricities as absolutely matters of no moment. They did not affect
the attraction he felt a whit more than an unbecoming fashion would have
detracted from his admiration for a beautiful face. Then how frank she
was, how free from petty ways and shams! He looked at the hand in which
her white hand had rested, and his smile became very grave and tender.
He stood so long, indeed, that Vic, the fox-terrier, came back and
jumped on him inquiringly. Harry patted her, laughed happily again, and
set himself to consider the best method of getting an invitation to
Thornbury couched in such terms as should satisfy Claudia's views as to
the exigencies of political economy. He made up his mind to go home
himself the next morning, and he had a hope that Claudia would express a
little regret at his leaving--a hope which was not realised. All that
fell from her was a casual remark at dinner.
"Let me know as soon as you can if you want any time kept for Thornbury,
for I shall be writing to the college in a day or two."
"And what does the college do?" asked Philippa.
"It acts as a medium. Naturally, people apply to the Principal to
recommend a capable person."
"And she would recommend you?"
"Why not? She knows how much or how little I am good for. If she did
not think I was up to the work, another would be put in."
"I see."
"But you don't require us to write to the Principal?" said Harry,
anxiously.
"You would be wiser if you did," retorted Claudia. "But we do not
require it, for we are all at liberty to make our own arrangements."
"And yet remain a sort of society? I think it is very interesting,"
said Emily. "I always maintain we don't co-operate enough."
"It depends upon what you co-operate for," the girl answered coolly, for
she thought Emily's schemes, where they were not mischievous,
inadequate, and was resolved to avoid being drawn into their meshes.
For Anne she felt that universal attraction which a large power of
sympathy creates, and, though she now and then winced under Philippa's
trenchant sentences, she enjoyed their humour and blunt directness; but
for Emily's best intentions she had no other word than--inadequate,
which expressed a good deal of contempt.
As for Harry Hilton, she liked him cordially, but her offer of
friendship was made perhaps more with a view to his benefit than her own
pleasure. A man with so limited a horizon that he was content to live
without a profession or hope of a career, was a man to be profoundly
pitied, and stirred, if possible, to a nobler ambition. If she had
realised that he seriously admired her, the idea would only have caused
irritation, as that with which she might have regarded any tiresome
person who wished to place an obstacle in her way. This impatient anger
is not unusual with young girls for whom the world is just unfolding.
They are eagerly expectant, time looks infinite, sentiment ridiculous,
the lover comes before their hearts are ready, he is in their way, and
they call him silly. They will accept him as a comrade, a companion;
but the feeling which they are always credited with wishing to inspire
is, in many a case, so irksome that they cannot forgive the man who
offers it, and he never recovers the ground which that first repulsion
lost.