If the wonder Philippa expressed related to Claudia's own feelings, she
need have had no misgivings. In spite of hesitation, reluctance,
beforehand, in spite of the coldness which stiffened her on the first
day that she saw Fenwick in Lady Wilmot's den, she was becoming, daily,
shyly, yet radiantly happy. Fenwick's treatment of her was subtly
admirable. Her reserves, her pride, raised all his masterful instincts,
and perhaps the sudden check to his active physical life inclined him
the more to concentrate his energies upon conquering her love. It gave
these energies a field. More than once she would have revolted from the
touch of the new emotion; quivering and startled, she was inclined to
fly, and it needed just the treatment he knew how to apply, to soothe
her. The first sight of him, stretched helpless, had struck at her
heart. The readiness with which he tossed aside her stammering words of
regret made a direct appeal to her own generosity, and day by day the
bond tightened. He knew--none better--how to play upon her ambitions
and interests, talked as if they would continue, planned what further
opportunities might be hers, let her suppose that here was perfect,
satisfying sympathy, until it seemed to her that a delightful confidence
had sprung up between them, such a confidence as even the college had
never afforded. He waited for this, waited until, after some tentative
advance and shrinking, it stood strong, and the rest was curiously easy.
A few sentences instinct, as he knew how to make them, with all that
was both tender and dominant, finished his work; Claudia was his almost
before she realised that she had yielded, before Lady Wilmot, who was
flitting in and out, could frame a tidy excuse for leaving the two
alone. And it was extremely simple. Fenwick looked into her eyes, and
thought them charming; she, trying to meet his with her usual frank
directness, faltered, and could not face them. Then he whispered three
words, and she made a mute sign, eloquent in its vagueness. No collapse
could have been more complete, nothing could have been more unlike the
manner in which she resolved to go through such a scene when, like other
girls, she had rehearsed its possibilities. Claudia had always supposed
that she should marry, and, when the moment came, intended to speak
decidedly, very decidedly, to her lover, and let him make his choice;
either take her with the understanding that she would stick to her
profession, and accept whatever ties it imposed, or not take her at all.
It is true that she almost invariably pictured him as yielding, but she
meant to be dignified and quite firm; reflecting with contempt that the
old ways of love-making were altogether unsuitable to the new girl, who
was made of different stuff.
And this was the result!
Nothing, as she had to own, could have been less impressive than the
figure she had cut; nothing more commonplace than the words spoken,
except that she had a saving conviction that no one had ever spoken them
with Fenwick's strength, and this made a difference. Indeed, although
she was obliged to own that she had failed, the fact did not seem to
trouble her. She looked in the glass, and smiled at her own dimpling
face, remembering what he had said; and recollecting further that she
had heard him remark that he liked a particular shade of yellow, sat
down and wrote to London for an evening frock of that colour.
As for the obnoxious pocket-book, it remained where it had been laid the
day before.
When she was alone, or with Fenwick, Claudia's happiness was like
herself, eager and brilliant, for all happiness takes its colouring from
the person it touches. With others she was not altogether at her ease,
having an unacknowledged suspicion that Lady Wilmot was smiling in her
sleeve, as indeed she was, and broadly.
"Because it is so amusingly unexpected," she informed her husband. "No
two persons could be more unsuited to each other."
Sir Peter twinkled.
"Is that recommendation likely to last?"
"She was so _very_ indifferent, so _very_ much swallowed up by her own
ideas," pursued his wife, unheeding; "and Arthur has a way of expecting
women to flutter round him, and be flattered when he speaks. Oh, he's a
very good fellow, but that's his little weakness, and that's what makes
me laugh. But I'm really extremely glad. It's much better for him than
marrying a woman like--well, for instance, like Helen Arbuthnot, all
bitter herbs."
Sir Peter, who was well aware that his wife was not without her
jealousies, let this statement pass uncontradicted, but spoke a word or
two as to Claudia.
"I suppose she knows her own mind? She hasn't been talked into it?"
"Talked! When she was as easy to get at as a prickly pear. What a dear
old donkey you are, Peter! I would have given her all sorts of good
advice, and told her a hundred and fifty useful things, but I never had
the chance. No. It's very odd, but I can tell exactly what brought it
about, and it's only another instance of Arthur's extraordinary luck.
You know that day we went to Barton Towers?"
"Well?"
"Well, he said something which startled her, and, to stop it, away she
dashed down the hill, and then came the smash up."
"You call that luck, do you?"
"Certainly," said his wife, with dignity. "What's a broken leg or two?"
"No one would mind it, of course."
"It will mend up all right, and it made Claudia listen to him. I should
hope you would not have objected to breaking both legs on the day you
proposed to me."
He flicked the ash off his cigar.
"Nothing of the sort was necessary," he remarked. "You were too happy."
Lady Wilmot sighed.
"How little you know! I've never liked to tell you, but--you're sure
you won't mind?"
"Go on."
"As it happened, I tossed up."
"Tossed up?"
"You see, there was nothing else to do. I couldn't make up my mind
between you and Lord Baliol, so I thought of this plan, and you happened
to be heads. I shall tell Marjory about it when she grows up. It's so
simple!"
"I dare say. And suppose the wrong man comes up?"
"Oh, then she needn't pay," explained Lady Wilmot, escaping with a
laugh. "A woman has always that in reserve."
It seemed, indeed, as if Fenwick's recovery became extraordinarily,
almost suspiciously, rapid. After two or three days' rain the sun shone
bravely again, and he was carried out on the lawn. He chose to have
Claudia at command, and as she was scrupulously conscientious in wishing
to finish her work, she used to be out at the earliest hour possible,
planning and arranging, and leaving directions for the woodmen to carry
out. Fenwick, on discovering this, declared she looked fagged.
"I won't have you do it."
"But," she protested, half laughing, half vexed, "it has to be done."
"Not it! I'll talk to Peter. I'm your first consideration."
And she yielded. Indeed by a sort of rebound from what Lady Wilmot had
called prickliness, she was now extraordinarily yielding, finding it
delightful to give up her will to his. Lady Wilmot, who had expected
amusement from the situation and was disappointed, shook her head, and
even went so far as to warn the girl that there was not a man in the
world who could bear spoiling. Claudia was indignant. Fenwick drove
her in a low pony carriage for the first time that afternoon, and as
they went along the lanes she told him.
"Don't let Flo lecture you," he said quickly. "I won't have her
interfering."
This fell in with her own desires and she agreed happily. She drew a
long breath of content as she spoke. All at that moment seemed perfect,
and, looking back, she wondered at nothing so much as her own
hesitation. The day was bright and touched with keen exhilaration, the
road, cut through deep hedges, ran, richly shadowed, up and down hill,
and a fresh wind drove the clouds overhead. They passed the
blacksmith's forge, and a dog flew barking after them, then they went
up, up, up, past white cottages, each standing in its garden, and
Fenwick let the reins lie loosely on the pony's back. When they reached
the top they stopped. Behind, and on one side, the woods of Huntingdon,
gaining dignity by distance, swept down the valley, while in front
spread a fair broken view of pasture land running into blue upland, and
darkened here and there by veiling cloud. It was Claudia's moment of
absolute content, and Fenwick broke it.
"I spoke to Spooner to-day about getting away."
"What did he say?"
"He thinks it's all right, and that I can go soon."
"But--" She hesitated shyly. Fenwick bent forward and untwisted a rein
without looking at her. "Doesn't he think you ought to keep quiet a
little longer?"
"I dare say. But one can't stick in one place for ever." Then, as if
he realised that the words might convey a pang, he added quickly, "Of
course it's delightful, only I must get back to the camp, where another
fellow is howling at having to do my work."
"I see," said Claudia, in a low voice. The pang had just touched her,
but she would not acknowledge it. "And I have been here an
unconscionable time. I shall go to Elmslie, and if the Wilmots want me
again about anything, I can run down later on."
"Oh, they won't want you," said Fenwick, dryly. "Well, go to Elmslie
for a week or two if you think you must, and then come to Aldershot, and
stay with Gertrude."
"Will she have me?"
He smiled at her.
"Won't she? I believe you'll enjoy the life there immensely."
She was quite happy and gay again.
"And by that time your leg will be well, and we shall be able to go all
over the country on our bicycles."
"I think not," he returned rather grimly. "I don't care to see a woman
at that work near the camp."
"Oh," she cried impetuously, "I thought you were quite above that sort
of thing!"
"Did you? I'm not, then."