Chapter Five.
Miss Arbuthnot, when she appeared, awoke no remembrances of the college. She was a woman of past thirty, large, massive, and sleepy-looking. Claudia saw the meeting between her and Captain Fenwick, and was struck by the idea that they rather disliked each other. No two persons, indeed, could have presented a greater contrast.
After the first morning, Fenwick exerted himself to give a personal touch to the conversations he held with Claudia, and it surprised him to find how much he cared to speak to her, since, as he reflected, it was very like running your head against a stone wall. Until now he had always avoided women with opinions and prejudices; it is true that he had not hitherto met them accompanied by a dimple, or eyes which grew brilliant in their eager enthusiasm, but the real attraction lay in the girl’s absolute indifference. He was so accustomed to impress that, when he failed, he was like a hypnotist fighting against a strong will, there was something which had to be overcome. That Claudia should come and go without casting a glance in his direction, that no gleam of pleasure lit her face when he chose the seat next to hers, was an affront to his vanity. Almost unconsciously he began to study her more attentively, and to mark her likes and dislikes. As she announced them with careless freedom, this was not difficult, but it was less easy to please her, even when he had found them out.
Harry Hilton arrived at the same rueful conclusion by another road.
Heroic were the sacrifices he made in order that Claudia’s plans might sweep freely in whatever direction she chose to extend them. There were two limes which she condemned—not, as she owned, without regret—and after the order had been given for their downfall, Harry rode away immediately after breakfast, and did not return until dinner-time. He told himself that he was an idiotic fool, but, do what he would, all day the broad shadow of the great branches haunted him, and he heard in fancy every stroke of the axe. Claudia, who was unusually well satisfied with her day’s work, greeted him eagerly.
“You don’t know what a splendid opening we’ve got. I am longing for you to see and acknowledge it.”
“They are down?” said poor Harry, trying to speak cheerily.
“Yes, quite.” Then she laughed. “I wasn’t going to wait, when you might have changed your mind, for you did not altogether agree with me, you know. But I was certain it would be the greatest improvement imaginable, and, even if it was a sacrifice,”—she was still smiling—“art is made up of sacrifice, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” he said humbly.
“Why do I talk to him like that, when he hasn’t a glimmer of understanding about art or anything beyond the commonplace, poor fellow?” reflected Claudia. Aloud she said, “When you see it to-morrow morning, you will be glad that I was firm.”
And then she nodded and went away.
In an armchair close by, Miss Arbuthnot was sitting. She looked lazily up.
“Harry,” she said, “you might take me in to dinner for once instead of your father. All my wits have gone out into the suburbs this evening, and as you never had any, you won’t miss them.”
“All right,” he agreed, rather dejectedly. “There’s the gong.”
He hoped to sit next Claudia, but Fenwick was too quick for him.
“Never mind,” said Miss Arbuthnot, “or if you do mind, bear it. Life, like art, is made up of sacrifices, and for once you might put up with me, particularly as I, too, should prefer you to be somebody else.”
“Who?” He stared.
“Oh, you expect too much. Do you suppose it is the vicar? I am not going to talk about myself; when I do I like to have my wits at home, and, as I told you, they are out visiting. You are a much more simple subject, and as we are old friends, almost as old as you and the lime trees, I should like to know why you are allowing that little girl to ride you rough-shod?”
He did not answer, and she asked, with a touch of anxiety—
“Now, Harry, you’re not pretending to be affronted with me?”
“Affronted? No.”
“But you’ve tumbled into love?”
“Is there anything surprising in that?” he said in rather an injured tone.
She took no notice of the question beyond remarking, with a sigh—
“No, I don’t in the least believe in heredity.”
“What are you up to now?” he inquired resignedly.
“If there were anything in it, don’t tell me that, after centuries of falling in love, and out of it, man would not have developed some sort of understanding how to do it.”
“That’s evolution,” said Harry.
“Imagine your knowing! Well, whatever it is, does nothing tell you what is labour lost?”
He looked at her. “You mean I’ve no chance?”
“You put things so baldly! Can’t you see for yourself that nobody has any chance—yet? Your Claudia is launched on a career; it mayn’t be a big one, but for concentration and determination, or any other five-syllabled things, commend me to a young woman on a career. She hasn’t a thought to fling on anything else.”
“It won’t last,” he said stubbornly.
“That’s the first gleam of intelligence you’ve shown. No, it won’t last, because there are tendencies, eternal tendencies, in us, which decline to be ignored, and one day she will have to face them. But not yet.”
“Fenwick gets on with her a lot better than I do,” remarked Harry, with apparent inconsequence.
There was a pause.
“He has more experience,” she said lightly.
“Ah, you don’t like him, you don’t do him justice. He’s an awfully clever fellow, quite different from the Johnnies she’d generally meet. It’s natural she should prefer him.” He spoke dejectedly, and she laughed.
“I’ve never set you up on a pinnacle for admiration, have I? It is quite natural, only it isn’t the case. He may be occupied with her,” she added a little bitterly, “but at present she’s taken up with herself.”
Harry fired.
“Oh, you women! Now, I call it an awfully plucky thing to break away and strike out a line for herself.”
“Oh, so do I,” said Helen, with a sigh of unexpected meekness. “It’s like bicycling—a splendid prerogative of youth. All that I’m trying to impress upon you is that while it lasts, it’s absorbing. And much gratitude I get!”
“Oh, I’m grateful. Only—”
“What?”
“You’re clever, and you laugh at everything, until it’s a bit hard to find out what you mean. I wonder why you say all this?”
“For old acquaintance sake,” she said quickly and kindly. “When things become serious I’m not such a bad sort.”
“And you’ll really be on my side?”
“Of course I will. Let me see the menu, and don’t cheer up so preposterously. What I want you to realise is that nothing, no one, can be of any use just now. I don’t expect you to believe me, and you’ll probably rush in and blunder the whole affair; I only warn you that if you’re wise you’ll give your young woman time to trip along cheerfully on her career, and to find out for herself that it isn’t all she expected. And I’m afraid, I’m very much afraid, this may cost you more lime trees.”
“I don’t care a hang what it costs!”
“You mustn’t use bad words, or I shall have your mother down on me.”
His spirits rose.
“You haven’t told me what you think I’d better do.”
“Where’s the use, when you’ll do the contrary? My endeavour will be to introduce a little common sense on your side, and a little romance on hers. Be thankful for one thing.”
“What?”
“That she’s not a market-gardener. Market-gardening excludes romance. I defy you to make any running over a lot of cabbages. Now, trees, dewy lawns, grass rides—upon my word, they should have possibilities. Don’t get cross. I’m quite serious.” Something interrupted, but before dinner was ended, Harry, who had apparently been storing observations, said in a low voice—
“I say, do you expect me to look on and see Fenwick make all the running?”
There was another momentary hesitation on Miss Arbuthnot’s part before she said with a groan—
“Oh, the density of the male mind! Won’t you understand that all Miss Hamilton’s aspirations are bound up in that pocket-book to which I see her refer when she has got rid of you all? On the day the pocket-book disappears, I shall hope for you. Meanwhile, minister to her career; that is the best you can do, and all you can do. And it is so funny, that you ought to be extremely obliged to me for treating it seriously.”
He looked at her and laughed, and showed his trust in her discernment by avoiding Claudia for some days almost too pointedly. He rode away each morning and did not come back for hours, buried himself in the study with his father, or took Fenwick off to the next town. Mrs Hilton became uneasy for the amusement of her guests, and it was in vain that her son assured her they preferred being left to their own devices. Helen was tired after a London rush.
“I am not talking about Helen,” she said almost fretfully. “She is very well able to look after herself. And Ruth can make herself at home anywhere. But there is little Miss Hamilton.”
“Take my word for it, mother, she likes to go her own way.”
“My dear, you can’t know about a young girl, and I am so afraid she thinks we may consider her to be in a sort of derogatory position here. I do wish you would let me explain to her, poor thing, that we are delighted to have her, and that she can do just as she likes if it’s any amusement to her. I was afraid you might be vexed about the trees, but if you and your father are satisfied, it is all quite right.”
Harry laughed.
“Oh, she doesn’t in the least suppose she’s doing anything derogatory. Things are changed in these days, mother, and Miss Hamilton wants you to understand that her being here is a simple matter of business.” Mrs Hilton lifted her hands helplessly.
“My dear Harry, it can’t be! Of course if the poor girl is so sadly poor—”
“She isn’t.”
”—Or if she has taken it into her head to amuse herself.”
“Don’t let her hear you!”
“One would do everything one possibly could. But you can’t expect me to have a pretty young creature like that here, and not try to make it pleasant for her, and we all know what girls like, and how pleased they are with attention, poor things! I really think, Harry, she ought not to be left so much alone.”
He dug his hands into his hair, and laughed again—not quite naturally.
“Well, we’ll see.”
But though he said little, his heart was leaping. Women were women all the world over, and why should not his mother be as right as Helen Arbuthnot? Might he not in these last days have been playing the fool, and losing ground? It suddenly struck him—and he flushed at the thought—that he had been wanting in pluck, hanging back, and letting Captain Fenwick amuse himself—for he knew him well enough to be convinced that he meant nothing more. He jumped up, and went to a window which overlooked the small French garden. Beyond it the ground swept softly upwards towards a belt of fine trees, and beneath them Claudia was standing bare-headed, her hands clasped behind her. Harry looked, hesitated, turned away, and turned again. It was too much. Helen Arbuthnot and her counsels of prudence were flung on one side, he put his hand on the window-sill and vaulted out, enthusiastically followed by Vic and Venom, the terriers.
Claudia had been working for an hour with profound satisfaction to herself. Perhaps she had never been so happy in her life as in these last days at Thornbury. The sense of importance, the freedom from control, the range of ever-extending possibilities, were delightful, but beyond and above these causes for satisfaction there was the joy of youth, and a freshness which is its pleasant attribute, and puts it into delightful harmony with open-air nature. For the present it was as Miss Arbuthnot had divined; she needed nothing else, and would resent an unwelcome intrusion of disturbing elements. It was no less true that at some near time, and possibly at an unexpected moment, this tranquillity might be shattered, but by whom and when was as yet a problem. Was it by Harry, who now came towards her, walking as quickly as if he had just successfully accomplished the aim of a day’s search? She put up her hand.
“Two hundred feet by thirty,” she remarked meditatively.
“How are you getting on? Don’t you want something? Mayn’t I come and help?” He put the questions breathlessly.
“Please don’t interrupt. At last I do think I have got the proportions right.”
“But I shan’t interfere with them?”
“You do rather.” She glanced at him with a laugh of which she immediately had the grace to feel ashamed. Harry’s proportions might not be the best in the world, but she liked him very much indeed, and owed him kindliness. “You may stay if you won’t interrupt.”
“I won’t.”
“Then, look here,” she said. “I’m going to sacrifice all these low shrubs, straighten that curve, cut down two or three unimportant trees, and—do you know what will come of it?”
“Not in the least,” he said with his eyes on her.
“Guess.”
“I can’t.”
She reflected impatiently that he was really dreadfully dense.
“You will see the Marldon hills.”
“Really?” What did he care for all the hills in the country?
“Yes, really,” she exclaimed triumphantly. “I thought it might be so, and I have proved it. Why, it will be the most beautiful view in the whole neighbourhood, and I don’t think any one could have believed it possible.”
Her eyes sparkled enthusiastically, her hat lay on the ground before her, and the wind tossed her dark hair. Harry looked at her, worshipping, with a sudden contempt for Miss Arbuthnot. What did his heart tell him? What was earth and air crying out? What were the birds singing? Love—love—love—and he—he only—must remain dumb, dull, cowardly. His voice shook with the effort he made to keep back the universal cry.
“Aren’t you tired? St— stop for a little while,” he stammered.
If she had been thinking of him, or even if her mind had been taken up less with her own interests, she could not have failed to notice something hoarse and strained in his voice, but she heard nothing.
“Not exactly tired,” she said lightly; “but perhaps—well, I do feel that I have done a good morning’s work, and I am glad, because when this is finished, I must be going on.”
“Going on! What for?” he exclaimed so abruptly that this time she looked at him in surprise. But she did not see, and laughed.
“Why, to work, of course. Thornbury is a fascinating old place.”
“You like it?” he interrupted eagerly.
“Of course I do.” She felt she owed him a tribute. “I can’t tell you how much I have enjoyed what I have done here, but—one comes to an end. You don’t want me to cut down all your trees, do you?”
With that his head whirled.
“Sit down,” he said, pointing to a fallen trunk on which she had already experimented, and Claudia, still unsuspecting, seated herself, pushing back her hair with both hands—a trick she had.
“I suppose I am rather tired, after all, and certainly hot,” she allowed, drawing a deep breath; “but what delightful work it is!”
“You’ve really enjoyed it?”
“Of course I have, and you have let me alone, which people can’t understand is what one wants. I am going next to a place called Huntingdon Hall. Friends of Captain Fenwick have got it, and he says it requires putting to rights terribly, and they haven’t an idea how to set about it. I have heard from Lady Wilmot and have sent her my terms. I expect it will be quite straight sailing. Captain Fenwick says so.”
He scarcely heard. Love, love, love—everything was singing it tumultuously.
“Claudia!” he cried.