As age creeps on, there are other deaths than those we mourn openly.
Sometimes hope dies, or faith, or love--and from the infinite blackness
of such loss, may God in His mercy keep us!--sometimes it is ambition,
or friendship, which is worse. But all death is sad, except, as perhaps
we shall find, our own, for that should mean recovering again some good
things which we have lost.
Claudia went through several phases at this time. It was not
extraordinary; most men and women do after a crisis, particularly a
crisis which has in it anything humiliating. She fancied that her old
occupation would give her interest, and forced herself into working
furiously at certain plans. When they failed, or seemed to fail, she
lost heart, and believed herself incapable. By way of expiation, she
sat humbly at Emily's feet, printing hundreds of leaflets in the palest
and most uninviting inks, and dutifully attended Anne when she paid
visits in the Close, and, far from flaunting nineteenth-century aims in
the eyes of her listeners, tried to fling herself into the pettiest of
local interests.
"If she goes on like this, by-and-by she will elope with the Dean, or do
something equally sinful," announced Philippa one day as she snipped
withered flowers in the garden.
"I know," said Anne uneasily. "But I don't know what to suggest. And I
fancied she would be better for finding out for herself."
"Get her to go bicycling again."
"I suppose," Anne hesitated and sighed--"I suppose it would not do to
have Harry? He is dying to come."
"No, indeed. You prudent people are always the most reckless. We are
all boring her to death just now, and Harry would be only another
element of boredom. No; the bicycle."
It was not easy, because the bicycle had unavoidable associations, and
also made part of a certain untold scheme of renunciation. But
restlessness, together with an inevitable reaction from the life into
which she was squeezing herself, came to Anne's help. The burdens we
choose for ourselves often gall and fret, while those which God lays on
us are moulded to our use by the great Master's hand. The girl was
growing sore and impatient over her self-imposed tasks, and Philippa was
right. For now she went off by herself, and fought hard battles under
fresh windy skies, often through rain and storm, and came back with wet
cheeks and uncurled hair, but with the old glow and brightness awakening
in her eyes.
"I told you so!" cried Philippa, not in the least above that feminine
weakness. "And I have another idea. She wants a playfellow, and Harry
shall send her a dog."
"A dog!" exclaimed Emily in dismay. "But you would never have one here
on account of Belisarius." Belisarius was the cat, and he ruled
Philippa with a rod of iron.
"I think I could persuade Belisarius," she said, with a sigh. "He puts
up with Vic, and I could make him understand that the dog was not ours."
Claudia, sounded, expressed pleasure. Nothing was said as to Harry's
part in the affair until a very perfectly bred fox-terrier arrived one
day from Thornbury, and then she admired him too much to have qualms as
to his acceptance. It is true that she said hastily to Anne, "My taking
this doesn't mean anything?" And Anne could truthfully assure her that
she was not the first person to receive a dog from Thornbury; but
without this assurance, she did justice to a certain generosity in Harry
Hilton's character, which would prevent his trying to place her under an
obligation.
The dog was a greater success than the bicycle, partly from his merits,
partly from an aptitude for getting into trouble; not from
disagreeableness--for he had a delightful temper, but from a cheerful
joy in fighting for fighting's sake, which kept Claudia constantly on
the alert. There was an awful battle on the first day between him and
Belisarius, which laid a foundation of mutual respect, though it nearly
killed Philippa; and a sponge and hot water were invariably ready for
Claudia, when she returned from a long bicycle ride. One day she
surprised Anne by saying--
"I think I will go to Thornbury to-morrow, before the days get too
short."
"Do," said Anne. "You won't find Harry there."
"No. I heard you telling Emily that he was away. I should like to see
Mrs Hilton and the trees."
She carried out her intention, which was perhaps meant as much to give
Fox pleasure as for any other reason. The morning was fresh, the sky
whitening for rain. When she reached Thornbury, Mrs Hilton's delight
and distress expressed themselves with many a "so."
"My dear, it is so good of you to come! And all that way! Why, you
must be tired to death, poor thing! And it is so annoying that Harry
should be away! His father was a little better, and he had been waiting
for an opportunity to run up to London, so he went, and will not be back
till to-morrow. I am so sorry!"
"I knew that he was away. I came to see you, and I thought you would
give me some luncheon."
"Indeed I will. So good of you to think of such a thing, and on your
bicycle, too! I have just had a letter from Helen Arbuthnot; you
remember her, don't you?" Claudia's face was turned in another
direction. "Yes," she answered.
"Well, she has quite taken my breath away, telling me she is going to be
married, poor thing! and I hadn't the least idea of it. People are so
sudden in these days, in and out of an engagement before one has time to
look round,"--and then Mrs Hilton began to flounder--"my dear--you must
forgive me--I never meant--oh dear! I wonder whether Mr Hilton has had
his paper?" The moment had come, and Claudia, although she had paled,
was scarcely conscious of her companion's distress. She was nerving
herself for the expected tidings.
"Who does she say she is going to marry?" she asked, in a voice which to
her own ears sounded strange and unreal.
Mrs Hilton joyfully ran to this outlet.
"I think it was a Mr Pelham--somebody, I know, that I had never heard
of--but it is in the Morning Post, so we can easily see. Huish,"--to
the butler--"we want yesterday's paper."
The news sent Claudia's blood coursing. She found herself constantly
wondering how it had come to pass, and what--for something there surely
must have been--had passed between Fenwick and Helen. It almost amazed
her that it did not work a revulsion in her own feelings, as it seemed
to show that, at least as to one point, she had jumped to a wrong
conclusion. But she tried to keep before her eyes that on the principal
point there could be no such mistake--he did not love her, he did not
love her; in their last interview he had not even pretended love. And
though a passionate heart cried out that it might re-awaken, pitiless
sense told her that the dead do not come to life again--here.
Such thoughts touched her, passed, returned, like a broken reflection on
the water, while Mrs Hilton's kindly talk gurgled on, exacting little
attention. If Claudia failed in an answer, she set it down to the
physical weariness of her ride, and yet, as she said afterwards, she had
never liked her so much, or found her so gentle.
"You know, my dear, she rather kept me on tenter-hooks when she was here
before, for, to my old-fashioned notions, she was just a little
surprising, and I never quite knew what she was going to do next; but
yesterday she was as nice as possible, and seemed so glad to be here
again, poor thing! And she remembered all about Huish's rheumatism,
which I thought wonderful in such a young girl. We walked all over the
place, and she did not say a word about cutting down more trees, so I
hope she has got over that funny little craze. I asked her when she
would come and stay here again, and she thanked me so nicely! She said
she would like it some day, but not just yet, and of course, poor thing!
it is very natural she should want a little quiet time after that sad
business. I really could not have believed it of that pleasant Captain
Fenwick!"
All this was spoken to Harry, who had but just returned from London, and
who sat listening, his face in shade, and his arms on his knees. He
was, as usual in cricket time, furiously burnt, and his laugh rang as
cheerily as ever, though, his mother sometimes fancied, not so often.
Now he neither laughed nor answered her, and she grew uncomfortable.
"Perhaps I shouldn't have said that? Perhaps you would rather not have
any one asked here just now? My dear boy, it is easy enough to put it
off a little. On no account would I do anything you disliked."
He laughed now. An odd little laugh.
"_I_ shouldn't dislike it." After a momentary hesitation, he said, "I
think you ought to know that nothing on earth would make me so happy as
her coming of her own free will to stay. But she won't."
To say that Mrs Hilton was astonished is to use an inadequate word. It
is no less certain that she was dismayed, for no woman on earth appeared
to her worthy to be her son's wife, and her "Oh, Harry!" carried in it
unusual protest. He went on quickly--
"When she was here before I asked her to marry me, and she refused--"
"Refused!"
"--I don't know whether I shall ask her again. That depends. If I
don't, one thing I know, I shall never marry another woman."
"Refused you! What could she be thinking of!"
His mother's indignation brought his old laugh. He got up, and
straightened himself.
"Well, I'm afraid it was that she didn't care for your son. Perhaps she
never will. But she came over here to-day, and I don't mean to give up
while there's the ghost of a chance."
"A chance! My dear Harry, ridiculous!" cried his mother, impatiently.
"But you take away my breath! I never thought of such a thing. I am
not sure she's good enough, I am not, indeed! She is a pretty creature,
of course, and one knows all about her, which is always a comfort, but
she has such very peculiar notions. This going about on bicycles
cutting trees. My dear, I couldn't bear that for your wife."
"She will never do anything of which you and my father need be ashamed,"
he said shortly.
"But her ideas--"
"As for her ideas, time enough to talk about them if ever she consents
to be my wife. I should not interfere with them."
Mrs Hilton stood up, let all her knitting fall in a tangle on the
floor, and laid a trembling hand on her son's arm.
"Harry!"
"Yes, mother."
"You mustn't be angry. You know that your happiness is our first, our
very first thought."
"I know," he said briefly. But he put his hand on hers.
"You have been such a son to us--my dear,"--she broke down a
little--"may God bless you, and give you a good wife!"
Is not any man the better for such a benediction? Whether the desire of
his heart be granted or not, I think the strength of a mother's
unselfish love carries it straight to the throne of God, and brings back
a blessing, rich and plentiful.
Harry had learnt wisdom, and did not rush off impetuously to Elmslie, as
he felt inclined. He stayed away, indeed, so long that Philippa began
to grumble, and Claudia to feel guiltily that she was depriving her
cousins of their favourite visitor. She had made an unsuccessful effort
to get work through the principal of the college, but either her late
experiences had shaken their faith in her; or the authorities preferred
giving orders to those who needed them more; or Claudia's first
brilliant successes had been due to circumstances not so absolutely
dependent upon her merits as she flattered herself. At any rate no
orders came, and with winter at hand it did not seem likely that they
would arrive. It was annoying, but one thing was evident to them all--
Claudia's heart was not broken. The want of interest, the evident
strain of her first return, were, little by little but no less surely,
wearing off. It could hardly have been otherwise, since, after all, she
had been more dominated than attracted by Fenwick's strong personality,
and once having snapped its bonds, her own character reasserted itself.
There was, it is true, a danger lest the reaction of this self-assertion
should be too complete, and leave her hardened. Perhaps it was the
nature of her surroundings which saved her from the peril. For there
was a fresh and wholesome vigour about Philippa Cartwright, an honest
dutifulness in Emily, a true and delicate sympathy in Anne, which she
could not but recognise, now that her eyes had opened to a broader view,
and she was brave enough to own to her mistakes. The result was that
her heart began to cling to Elmslie, while she was still occupied with
plans for the future. At last--
"I think I will go abroad for three or four months," she announced to
Anne one wet autumn day, as they trudged back from the town. "It would
do me a lot of good to study some of the old Italian gardens. There's
one in particular near Viterbo, laid out by Vignola. Will you come?"
"Ah, I can't," Anne returned, shaking her head and smiling. "I have
reached the point in life in which I know the world would collapse if I
left Elmslie for more than a week. Ask Philippa. She's the adventurous
one."
"Well. Fox wouldn't like it, though."
"We'll send him back to Thornbury."
"And you could have Harry Hilton," mused Claudia. She gave an impatient
shake. "How silly it all has been, and how many lives have been made
uncomfortable! I suppose if I went away he would be here as much as he
used to be?"
"Perhaps he will come by-and-by even if you stayed."
"No; and if he did, he would be looking or saying something which I
should hate. Unless you can make him understand that I shall never
marry."
Anne was silent, and employed herself in closing her umbrella. The rain
had ceased, but there was a wintry wind, and yellow leaves lay rotting
in the road. As they came towards the gate, they saw a man's figure
emerging, and Fox was off like a shot.
"Harry!" cried Anne, and with such delight that Claudia stifled her own
displeasure. She was displeased, because she expected a renewal of all
that she disliked, but as the days went on, she was obliged to admit
that Harry behaved admirably. That she was first with him--always--she
could not fail to see, but neither word nor look forced the knowledge to
her embarrassment. By degrees she unstiffened, and fell back on their
old friendliness. Nor did he stay long. Perhaps to have done so and
yet have made no sign, might have been beyond his powers, but, be that
as it may, Claudia accepted his unexpected silence as proof of a
stronger character than she had credited him with. Nor, now that she
did not obstinately close her eyes, could she fail to see how in trouble
or difficulty of whatever kind, it was to Harry that the trouble was
taken with absolute confidence in his helpfulness. On the whole, Anne
hoped he had rather made ground than lost it.
Philippa and Claudia went abroad that winter, travelling in sun-baked
out-of-the-way places in Italy, perhaps even more to Philippa's delight
than Claudia's. Philippa wrote to her sister that the girl showed no
sign of wishing to shock people, "but she seems resolved to pick up her
work again when she returns to England, and is studying eagerly. The
note-book, however, seldom steps into prominence, and I have never heard
the word `career.' I remark that she is careful to check all interests
that show signs of undue development."
In the course of the early spring, news of Mr Hilton's death came to
the travellers, and then Philippa, who had hitherto avoided talk of
Harry, allowed herself to launch forth into an account of what he had
given up for his father's sake.
"And the poor man so irritable! I dare say it was caused by illness,
but really he made every one's life a burden. Harry's patience was not
to be told."
Claudia expressed no opinion, but she listened. Further, she sent a
message to Mrs Hilton and her son, and, that being over, appeared to
forget them. She and Philippa left Rome in April, and travelled so as
to reach London by the middle of May, going for two or three days to a
hotel in South Kensington. There, on the morning after their return,
Harry Hilton walked in.
This time the girl showed no displeasure; it seemed to Philippa that she
looked at him with an air of reflection. Philippa herself hailed him
with delight.
"I am so tired of taking care of myself!" she announced one morning,
"and as Claudia allows me no conveyance more luxurious than a 'bus--in
which she flatters herself she is paying homage to Socialism--I am
thankful to have a man to find the right one."
Claudia laughed gaily.
"There's a mission for you!"
He did not seem to object. He went everywhere with them, and Philippa,
reading in his face that he meant again to put his fate to the touch
before long, grew nervous herself, uncertain whether to utter a warning
or not. She dropped the idea, but it touched her to the quick when she
pictured a second rebuff.
Their last morning they spent in the Park, where the rhododendrons were
breaking into flower. Philippa met with an old friend, and Harry
suggested to Claudia that they should stroll on and look at the
Serpentine. She assented without hesitation, yet, as they silently
walked, side by side, something in the silence set her heart fluttering,
and, to her amazement, she became conscious of a painful want of breath.
She would have given a good deal to have spoken, to have gone back, but
she dared not trust herself, for the strange excitement, for which she
could not account, was depriving her of her self-possession. Just
before, she had been calm, talking to Harry with the ease of an old
friend, and now something--she knew not what--had raised an unexpected
tumult, and swept the rudder out of her hand. There was a din in her
ears, and suddenly she heard his voice, hoarse and changed--
"Only give me one crumb of hope to live upon. Claudia, can't you love
me?"
Could this be love? "Oh, impossible!" she cried, almost angrily.
"Why impossible?" he asked, persistently fighting for an answer.
"I told you at Thornbury--"
"But now--now--" He pressed her impetuously.
"I can't! You mustn't ask me."
"I must, I must!" Something was creeping into his voice which she had
never heard there before, something at which her heart fluttered, her
voice failed.
"You forget what has passed."
"Passed! What is that to me? Claudia!"
"I must live my own life--I should shock your mother--your belongings."
He caught her hands in his, and his honest eyes looked into hers,
heedless of passers-by.
"Mine!" he cried joyfully. "Mine at last!"
So--while there is no resurrection for a dead love--love, fresh and
living, often steals into our hearts from unexpected hiding-places, and
makes them his own. And, so long as this can be, our old world, weary
and suffering, blossoms again into rosy youth, and tastes the joy which
is eternal.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The End.