Chapter Four.
She awoke early and sprang up at once, fresh as the morning itself, and when she went to the window all her ambitions rushed to the front. What were people compared with those green masses in which she read promise of fame? An old place, with magnificent growth of timber, lay before her bathed in the serenity of a young day. From the lower ground a thin white mist was drifting with filmy nothingness, but the softly swelling uplands lay in beautifully rounded outlines against a clear sky, touched by a delicate sunshine, and here and there broken by depths of cool shade. Claudia looked, and drew a long breath of delight, then dressed rapidly, and was out in the park before any of the windows in the front of the house were unsealed. She glanced rapidly round her. A French garden, still in shadow, lay on the side of the house, but elsewhere only grass and trees, splendid trees, met her view. So far as she could see, chestnuts and limes predominated, although contrasts were not wanting in fir and cedar. One with the other they grew in stately order, evidently cared for, so far that there was scarcely any crowding, and the big limbs had full play and sweep. Claudia’s first impression of entire satisfaction had, by the time she had plunged into some of the leafy intricacies, given way to more complicated criticism. She walked briskly, so as to acquaint herself with the lie of the ground, and pulling out a note-book and pencil as she walked, fell to jotting down possible improvements, chiefly with a view to obtaining distant effects. Time passed rapidly in this congenial occupation, until she heard voices close at hand, and looking up, saw Harry Hilton, a keeper, and many dogs. Harry at once made for her, and Claudia closed her book with an ungrateful sigh, considering that it was he who had obtained for her this splendid opportunity for renown.
“This is most surprising!” he called out joyously.
“Why?” asked Claudia as crossly.
“I thought I had heard you protest against early rising?”
“At Elmslie. I dare say. What was there to do at Elmslie? Every square inch was occupied by somebody.”
He laughed. “So it is, when one comes to think of it. I’m a lazy chap, and I suppose I don’t mind.”
“I suppose you don’t. I can’t conceive how you can bury yourself here and there, and not do anything bigger in the world,” said Claudia, looking at him meditatively. Her tone only expressed wonder, but his face fell.
“Don’t you like it, then?” he said, in a disappointed tone.
“Oh!” she exclaimed with a change to enthusiasm, “do you mean this place? It is simply delightful. It holds the greatest possibilities, and I am longing to begin. It is far, far more beautiful than I expected; but of course it may be made more beautiful still.”
He nodded. He was looking at her, at the eager light in her eyes, at her smiling lips, at the dimple so absurdly attractive. This, he was sure, was what Thornbury wanted. She went on—
“May I really cut freely? Your father will not object?”
He winced. Claudia did not ask whether he cared, yet to no one at Thornbury was every stick and stone of the old place so dear as to himself. His father buried himself in his books and his infirmities, and his mother saw everything through the medium of her son’s eyes. But there was not a tree, nor a patch of shadow on the grass, nor tangle of underwood, nor green sweep of bracken, nor haunt of squirrel, which Harry did not know and love.
“He won’t object,” he said hesitatingly. “But—when you think you must cut, you won’t mind, will you, telling me beforehand?”
“Oh no,” she said, “not in the least. I know people have fancies and prejudices, and I should not like to hurt them, of course. Now will you please go away?”
“Go away! Why? Have I offended you?”
“Offended me? Why should you think so?” said Claudia, opening her eyes in frank wonder. “But you forget that I am here professionally, and have my work to do.”
“You’re not going to work all day!” he exclaimed in dismay.
“I hope so. Please don’t misunderstand. I’m not here on the same footing as your other guests—as Miss Baynes, for instance. I have only come for a purpose.”
“What on earth has that to do with it?”
“Everything. You really must try to see what I mean.”
“I can’t,” he muttered.
“Oh yes, you can. Suppose, for instance, that I were an artist come down to paint your mother’s portrait. Then you’d expect me to stick to my work, wouldn’t you?” Claudia spoke sadly and temperately, as one might to a thick-headed child.
“No artist would paint all day,” he persisted obstinately.
“Nor am I going to work all day. I suppose I shall eat and drink and sleep—”
“And amuse yourself.”
“Yes, and amuse myself, when there is nothing better to do. But even while he was doing all this, the painter would have an eye to business; he would be studying your mother’s expression, and little ways, and characteristic movements.”
“Oh, well, if that’s what you’d like, I can take you all over the place, and show you everything,” said Harry with renewed cheerfulness. “Nobody knows it better than I do. There are some old oaks behind the house.”
“Thanks,” said Claudia, crushingly; “but I prefer to work out ideas by myself. Do you know you have wasted a great deal of my time this morning?” She looked at her wrist as she spoke. “There is only half an hour to breakfast, and I must do the best I can with that.”
He made another effort.
“You’ll lose your way.”
She escaped with a laugh.
“If I do, I give you leave to come and hunt for me.”
Harry stood looking after her, mingled feelings in his heart. Each time that he saw her he seemed to like her better, and this morning her fresh charm, the light in her eyes, and the general harmony which existed between her youth and that of the day, the sky, and the woods, affected him strongly. He found it, too, very pleasant to see the woman he was beginning to love better than any one else in the world, in the place which was so dear to him, and her admiration for his old home gave him keen satisfaction.
But there were damping reflections. He had enough shrewd common sense to be aware, not only that Claudia flung no glance in the direction where he would have had her look, but that her friendliness was, to say the least, pitying. He had heard her inveigh—with the vigour she was apt to put into her lightest words—against the drones who have no purpose in the world, and something in her manner had made him fully understand that she looked on him as a drone. He felt this hard, although he did not resent it, for he was not the man to talk about himself, and she could not be expected to realise how incapable his father was of managing the estate. But he was afraid it would always weigh with her, and the thought caused him great pain. He saw no way of altering her opinion, unless it came to her spontaneously, and in the light of a discovery of her own, for no one could know Claudia, even for a week—and he remembered with surprise that he had not actually known her much longer—without perceiving that she preferred her own judgments to those of other people.
It need not be thought, however, that, because Harry saw difficulties ahead, he took them to be insuperable, or even particularly alarming. Young, sturdy, healthy, he was the last man in the world to become the prey of morbid fancies. He could not forget that moment in which her hand had lain in his. He had her at Thornbury, which was present joy; she was pleased with the place, and though he had no high opinion of his own attractions, he was quite ready to hope that the place might count for something, and told himself—it must be owned with a pang—not to be such a fool as to begrudge her a free hand among the trees. Then, his reflections having mounted his spirits high, he whistled cheerily to the dogs, stuck his hands into his pockets, and walked towards the house, heroically resisting all temptations to waylay Claudia.
She arrived rather late.
“Here you are, my dear,” said Mrs Hilton, kindly. “How have you slept? Are you rested? Watkins said you would not let her do anything for you.”
“Thank you,” said Claudia, pleasantly. “I always manage for myself.” Her morning’s round had put her into the best of humours, and she was fresh and smiling, but before breakfast was half over, longing to escape to the work which no one appeared disposed to regard gravely. Captain Fenwick, who was last of all, and dropped into the empty chair by her side, made no attempt to conceal his amusement.
“You have been round the place already! Wonderful energy! And when are you really going to begin? Mayn’t we all come and help?”
“Do you think you could?”
“I am sure I should be a very valuable adviser.”
“About as much so as I should be if I attempted to drill your men. I suppose that is the sort of thing you do?” said the girl, so quietly that he looked at her.
“I am afraid that is a neat way of hinting that I should mind my own business.”
Her eyes began to dance.
“Perhaps.”
“You cover me with confusion. But, indeed, you are mistaken. I am quite willing to learn.”
“Only I did not come here to give lessons. So don’t you think we had both better keep to what we know?”
He was piqued. He was accustomed to find himself popular, which, put into other words, meant courted, by women. From Claudia’s manner it was plain that the honour of becoming his instructress did not appeal to her. If she had not really been very pretty he would have turned away; as it was, he said in a tone of mock humility—
“What cruelty! Do you refuse even to throw me a few crumbs?”
“Oh dear no! Do they ever do any one any good? However, if they please you, and you find them about— May I ask for the mustard?”
Mrs Hilton’s voice was heard, addressing Claudia.
“Harry tells me you will like to have your morning to yourself, and I dare say you have letters to write, haven’t you, my dear? Anne will be wanting to hear how you got on yesterday. But after luncheon you must come for a drive, and later perhaps a little tennis? Or golf? Harry says that is what every one plays now, and I believe there are some links—isn’t that the name? or something.”
“Thank you,” said Claudia. “I only care about cricket.”
“Ah!” said Mrs Hilton, vaguely—“to look on at matches?”
“Oh no! To play. It seems to me the one game worth anything. But, then, I never tried football.”
She glanced at her hostess, delighted to see her startled face. But Harry, who was on the watch, broke in cheerfully.
“Cricket? Oh, of course. Heaps of girls play nowadays.” (He did not add that his opinion of their play was low.) “I’m afraid there’s nothing good to offer you, but Hurst is sending over an eleven to-morrow to play Thornbury.”
“Thank you,” said Claudia again, and more coldly.
“And we shall all be expected to look on, I suppose?” remarked Miss Baynes. “We do at Walter’s. He and his boys are such first-rate cricketers, they are always in demand.”
She looked round enthusiastically, but no one appeared struck with the statement.
“Other people’s relations are even one degree less interesting than other people’s ailments,” murmured Captain Fenwick, so that only Claudia heard. He went on, “Well, you’ve had your choice of amusements.”
“I didn’t come here to be amused.”
“And you have scorned them all, pointedly.”
“I!” Her face dimpled.
“Don’t you ever try to gloss over your feelings? You make me afraid to offer a suggestion.”
“Why?” said Claudia, looking at him with disconcerting frankness. “As it happens, there is something you shall do for me.” He smiled. “I want to look at the brake of your bicycle, it seemed to act better than mine.”
“When? This morning?”
“Certainly not. It must be in play-time.” She turned, for Mrs Hilton was speaking again.
“Will half-past three suit you, my dear? Ruth, I know,”—nodding at Miss Baynes—“will see that Mr Hilton has all he wants, and Harry—Harry, won’t it be a good plan for us to call at the station for Helen? Yes, I thought so; we will do that, and come home in good time for tea.”
Miss Baynes asked whether Miss Arbuthnot was expected.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? So like me! Yes, she is coming for a week or two—for as long as she likes to stay,” she added hospitably. “Helen almost belongs to the house, so that she will be able to help Harry.”
“To help Harry?” repeated Claudia in an undertone.
“To amuse you,” chuckled Fenwick. “Oh!” There was profound scorn in the “Oh!”
“It’s a little the case of toujours perdrix, isn’t it?” he went on. “But Harry’s the best fellow in the world.”
“You, too!” She thought impatiently of Elmslie. “Do let us take his virtues for granted by way of a change, and tell me about Miss Arbuthnot. Who is she? And what is she like?” A new girl was a far more interesting subject to her than any mere man; the girls at the college, and the lines they took or might be expected to take, had been fertile objects of speculation for their fellow-students.
“She,” said Fenwick, slowly, “is a daughter of Lord Ambleton. What is she like?” He hesitated. “How am I to answer?”
Claudia opened her eyes.
“Why? Is she so inscrutable?”
“Inscrutable? Yes, perhaps. But just then I was reflecting on the difficulties of describing a woman to a woman without setting her against her.”
“Why?” asked the girl again, coolly. “I suppose you mean that women are jealous?”
“I shouldn’t venture on such plain speaking.”
“I wish you would,” she said impatiently. “I hate people to be afraid to come round a corner without peeping first. As for being jealous, I don’t agree. I think women are more ready to admire women than men men.”
“Of course if you think so.”
“Please don’t pay silly compliments. Disagree as much as you like, and then the thing may be argued out.”
“Never!”
“What do you mean?”
“Everything in the world has been argued, and nothing ever has been, or will be, argued out.”
Claudia paused. “But that would strike at the root of all conviction,” she said doubtfully.
“Oh, by no means. Yours—excuse me—is a feminine leap at conclusions. Do you really suppose that half the convictions in the world are capable of being proved by argument?”
“Then,” she said, “I don’t see how they can be convictions.”
“Well, experimentalise upon your own. If you are fair I suspect you’ll find more than half are backed up by nothing better than a little prejudice and a little— No, I won’t say the other thing.”
“Do,” said Claudia, flushing. No one had ever spoken to her so plainly before, yet after what she had said, she could not have the satisfaction of showing her displeasure.
She added quickly, “Though you know nothing of me.”
“I’ve only a conviction. Are you going?”
“Yes, indeed; I’ve wasted time enough.”
“Even workers must eat!” returned Fenwick, maliciously, as he rose.