The Independence of Claire Part 27

"Then surely, if he is the heir, he ought to be rich!"

"It doesn't necessarily follow. I should say Carew was not at all flush. Landed property is an expensive luxury in these days. I've heard, too, that the father is a bit of a miser. He may not be generous in the matter of allowance!"

Claire sat staring ahead, buried in thought, and Captain Fanshawe stared at her in his turn, and wondered once more why this particular girl was different from every other girl, and why in her presence he felt a fullness of happiness and content. She was very pretty; but pretty girls were no novelty in his life; he knew them by the score. It was not her beauty which attracted him, but a mysterious affinity which made her seem nearer to him than he had hitherto believed it possible for any human creature to be. He had recognised this mysterious quality at their first meeting; he had felt it more strongly at Mrs Willoughby's "At Home"; six months' absence had not diminished his interest. Just now, when he had caught sight of her flushed upturned face, his heart had leapt with a violence which startled him out of his ordinary calm.

Something had happened to him. When he had time he must think the thing out and discover its meaning. But how did she come to be so uncommonly interested in Carew? He met Claire's eyes, and she asked falteringly--

"I wish you would tell me what you think of him personally! Do you think he is--nice?"

"Tell me first what you think yourself."

"Honestly? You won't mind?"

"Not one single little bit! I told you he is a mere acquaintance."

"Then," said Claire deliberately, "I think he is the most horrible, detestable, insufferable, altogether despicable creature I have ever met in the whole of my life!"

"What! What! I say, you _are_ down on him!" Captain Fanshawe stared, beamed with an obvious relief, then hastened to defend an absent man.

"You're wrong, you know; really you're wrong! I don't call Carew the most attractive fellow you can meet; rather rough manners, don't you know, but he's all right--Carew's all right. You mustn't judge by appearances, Miss Gifford. Some of the most decent fellows in the Club are in his set. Upon my word, I think he is quite a good sort."

Captain Fanshawe waxed the more eloquent as Claire preserved her expression of incredulous dislike. He looked at her curiously, and said, "I suppose I mustn't ask--I suppose you couldn't tell me exactly why you are so interested in Carew?"

"I'm afraid not. No; I'm afraid I can't," Claire said regretfully.

Then suddenly there flashed through her mind a remembrance of the many tangles and misunderstandings which take place in books for want of a little sensible out-speaking. She looked into Captain Fanshawe's face with her pretty dark-lashed eyes and said honestly, "I wanted to know about him for the sake of--another person? _Nothing_ to do with myself!

I have only met him twice. I hope I shall never meet him again!"

"Thank you," said the man simply, and at the time neither of the two realised the full significance of those quiet words. It was only on living over the interview on her return home that Claire remembered and understood!

For the next quarter of an hour they abandoned the personal note, and discussed the various topics of the hour. They did not always agree, and neither was of the type to be easily swayed from a preconceived opinion, but always they were interested, always they felt a sympathy for the other view, never once was there a fraction of a pause. They had so much to say that they could have talked for hours.

Gradually the Park began to empty, the string of motors grew less, the crowd on the footpath no longer lounged, but walked quickly with a definite purpose; the green chairs stood in rows without a single occupant. Claire looked round, realised her isolation, drew an involuntary sigh, and rose in her turn.

"It's getting late. I must be hurrying home. I go to the Marble Arch and take a motor-'bus. Please don't let me take you out of your way!"

He looked at her straightly but did not reply, and they paced together down the broad roadway, past the sunken beds of rhododendrons with the fountain playing in the centre, towards the archway which seemed to both so unnecessarily near! Claire thought of the six months which lay behind, saw before her a vision of months ahead unenlightened by another meeting, and felt suddenly tired and chill. Captain Fanshawe frowned and bit at his lower lip.

"I am going away to-morrow. We shall be in camp. In August I am taking part of my leave to run up to Scotland, but I can always come to town if I'm needed, or if there's a special inducement. I came up for both the Willoughbys' 'At Homes.'"

"Did you?" Claire said feebly, and fell a-thinking. The inference was too plain to be misunderstood. The "special inducement" in this instance had been the hope of meeting herself. Actually it would appear that he had travelled some distance to ensure this chance, but the chance had been deliberately denied. Kind Mrs Willoughby would have welcomed her with open arms; it was Janet who had laid the ban. Janet was friendly, almost affectionate. As spring progressed she had repeatedly called at Saint Cuthbert's after afternoon school and carried Claire off for refres.h.i.+ng country drives. Quite evidently she enjoyed Claire's society, quite evidently also she preferred to enjoy it when other visitors were not present. Claire was not offended, for she knew that there was no taint of sn.o.bbishness in this decision; she was just sorry, and, in a curious fas.h.i.+on, remorseful into the bargain. She did not argue out the point, but instinctively she felt that Janet, not herself, was the one to be pitied!

They reached the end of the footpath: in another minute they would be in the noise and bustle of Oxford Street. Erskine Fanshawe came to an abrupt halt, faced Claire and cried impulsively--

"Miss Gifford!"

"Yes?"

Claire shrank instinctively. She knew that she was about to be asked a question which it would be difficult to answer.

Erskine planted his stick on the ground, and stared straight into her eyes.

"Why are you so determined to give me no chance of meeting you again?"

"I--I'm _not_ determined! I hope we _shall_ meet. Perhaps next winter--at Mrs Willoughby's."

He laughed grimly.

"But if I were not content to wait for 'perhaps next winter--at Mrs Willoughby's.' ... What then?"

Claire looked at him gravely.

"What would you suggest? I have no home in London, and no relations, and your mother, Captain Fanshawe, would not introduce me to you when she had the chance!"

He made a gesture of impatience.

"Oh, my mother is the most charming of women--and the most indiscreet.

She acts always on the impulse of the moment. She introduced you to Mrs Willoughby, or asked Mrs Willoughby to introduce herself, which comes to the same thing. Surely that proves that she--she--"

He broke off, finding a difficulty in expressing what he wanted to say; but Claire understood, and emphatically disagreed. To enlist a friend's sympathy was a very different thing from running the risk of entangling the affections of an only son! Obviously, however, she could not advance this argument, so they stood, the man and the girl, looking at one another, helpless, irresolute, while the clock opposite ticked remorselessly on. Then, with an abruptness which lent added weight to his words, Erskine said boldly--

"I want to meet you again! I am not content to wait upon chance."

Claire did not blush; on the contrary, the colour faded from her cheeks.

Most certainly she also was not content, but she did not waver in her resolution.

"I'm afraid there's nothing else for it. It's one of the hards.h.i.+ps of a working girl's life that she can't entertain or make plans. It seems more impossible to me, perhaps, from having lived abroad where conventions are so strict. English girls have had more freedom. I don't see what I can do. I'm sorry!"--she held out her hand in farewell. "I hope some day I _shall_ see you again!"

Quite suddenly Captain Fanshawe's mood seemed to change. The set look left his face; he smiled--a bright confident smile.

"There's not much fear about that! I shall take very good care that we do!"

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

G.o.d'S OPPORTUNITY.

After the meeting with Captain Fanshawe in the Park, Claire's relations.h.i.+p with Mary Rhodes sensibly improved. In the first place, her own happiness made her softer and more lenient in her judgment, for she _was_ deeply, intensely happy, with a happiness which all her reasonings were powerless to destroy.

"My dear, what nonsense!" she preached to herself in elderly remonstrating fas.h.i.+on. "You met the man, and he was pleased to see you--he seemed quite anxious to meet you again. Perfectly natural!

Pray don't imagine any special meaning in _that_! You looked quite an attractive little girl in your pretty blue dress, and men like to talk to attractive little girls. I dare say he says just the same to dozens of girls!" So spake the inner voice, but spoke in vain. The best things of life are beyond reasoning. As in religion reason leads us, as it were, to the very edge of the rock of proven fact, then faith takes wing, and soars above the things of earth into the great silence where the soul communes with G.o.d, so in love there comes to the heart a sweetness, a certainty, which no reasoning can shake. As Erskine's eyes had looked into hers in those moments of farewell, Claire had realised that between this man and herself there existed a bond which was stronger than spoken word.

So far as she could foresee, they were hopelessly divided by the circ.u.mstances of life, but in the first dawn of love no lover troubles himself about what the future may bring; the sweetness of the present is all-sufficient. Claire was happy, and longed for every one else to be as happy as herself. Moreover, her suspicions concerning Major Carew had been lulled to rest by Erskine's favourable p.r.o.nouncement.

Personally she did not like him, but this was, after all, a matter of taste; she could not approve his actions, but conceivably there might be explanations of which she was unaware. Her manner to Cecil regained its old spontaneous friendliness, and Cecil responded with almost pathetic readiness. In her ungracious way she had grown fond of her pretty, kindly companion, and had missed the atmosphere of home which her presence had given to the saffron parlour. As they sat over their simple supper, she would study Claire's face with a questioning glance, and one night the question found vent in words.

"You look mightily pleased with yourself, young woman! Your eyes are sparkling as if you were having a firework exhibition on your own account. I never saw a school-mistress look so perky at the end of the summer term! Look as if you'd come into a fortune!"

"Wish I had!" sighed Claire, thankful to switch the conversation on to a safe topic. "It would come in most usefully at the moment. What are you going to do for the summer hols, Cecil? Is there any possibility of--"

"No," Cecil said shortly. "And the regiment is going into camp, so he will be out of town. I'm not bothering my head about holidays--quite enough to do with this wretched Matric. The Head is keen to make a good show this year, for the Dulwich School beat us last year, and, as usual, all the responsibility and all the blame is put on the poor mistresses.

You can't make girls work if they don't want, you can't cram their brains when they've no brains to cram; but those wretched examiners send a record of all the marks, so you can see exactly where they fall short.