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 _naivete_ 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.