Chapter Fourteen.
Claudia had her breathing space, and at first enjoyed it. Her cousins were kind without being curious; she could say as little or as much as she liked about her engagement, and only Emily, Emily, whose remarks she assured herself she did not mind, so much as hinted at the changed circumstances of her career, for which, as she could not yet forget them herself, she was grateful. Nor, although she heard of Harry Hilton’s visit, and, putting two and two together, realised that it coincided with her letter of announcement, could she accuse him of having said anything to prejudice her in her cousins’ eyes. She would not have been sorry to find fault with him, but she had to own that he had behaved very well, and there was even a moment when the thought flashed upon her that, in his hands, her liberties would not have been so circumscribed as now appeared probable. She drove it indignantly from her. What was Harry by the side of Arthur Fenwick?
On the other hand, Philippa maintained that Claudia was decidedly the better for her engagement. She said to Anne—
“She has gained broader views, and is not nearly so self-absorbed. The man must be a man of sense. She does not force her plans for reforming the world down one’s throat with such vigour; indeed, I am almost inclined to doubt whether she now altogether expects to reform the world. That is, indeed, a discovery!”
Anne, kind Anne, smiled and sighed, with thought of Harry.
“I do hope that she likes him.”
“Could he have worked such a miracle if she did not?”
In Claudia’s mind there was no doubt. Away from Fenwick, his vigorous personality impressed her the more, and she told herself that his love was such a gift as would make a woman gladly give up all that clashed with it. There was something almost pathetic in her anxiety to put away what she had learnt to see that he disliked, and, though her strong young nature would always demand outlet for its energies, she hastily accepted what little was common to other girls and other lives about her. Her beloved pocket-book was laid aside, or only looked at surreptitiously, she wrote to the college, renouncing all wish for engagements; she cut tickets for Emily, took her bicycle into retired roads, never once tried to shock the Dean’s wife, and controlled her very hand-writing. It was natural enough that after the first welcome breathing space such a life of suppression should soon weary her, and that she began to count the days before she might get her invitation to Aldershot.
Once and once only was Harry specially alluded to.
“Mr Hilton has been ill again,” Philippa announced, folding a letter. “Poor Harry!” Claudia imagined a reproach.
“Why should you call him poor Harry?” she said shortly. “I never saw any one quite so much his own master. Nobody at Thornbury thinks of contradicting him.”
“Let Anne enlarge,” said Philippa laughing. “It’s her topic.”
“Life has been for him one long contradiction!” Anne exclaimed, nothing loth. “I dare say he never told you how his whole mind was set upon being a soldier, and how he got into the very regiment he wanted, and then had to leave on account of his father’s illness?”
“No,” returned Claudia, slowly: “he never told me.”
“Then, when Mr Hilton was better, he had a chance of going out to South Africa, and it was the same thing over again, the scheme completely knocked on the head. No one could know Harry, with his love of sport and roughing it, and suppose for a moment that his home life is what he would choose. But, as he never dreams of complaining, his giving up all he cares for is taken as a matter of course.”
Anne spoke with quite unusual vehemence, and Claudia reddened and did not answer. A month ago, she would have made light of such a tale, but love had already taught her something of its divine power of self-sacrifice, and it touched her. At the same time, by one of the contrarieties of a woman’s nature, she felt indignant with Harry because she had been the means of losing him another of life’s blessings. Why had he been so stupid? He had only to hold his tongue for them to have remained excellent friends. Then she fell to wondering whether, if the same accident had threatened her when Harry was by her side, he would have acted as Fenwick had acted, and was the more vexed to have to own that he could have done nothing else. She wanted, it will be seen, to keep all the glory for her special hero, but the mental training she had received, would not allow her to make her mind a present to her emotions.
They left her, however, restless, and she regretfully decided that Elmslie was dull, and looked impatiently for the invitation to Aldershot. It came quite as quickly as was possible, Fenwick took care of that, and then she—she, Claudia!—had to wait for an escort, to Philippa’s private and unbounded amusement; for although Fenwick wished her to have a maid, space was too limited in the hut to receive her, and that concession to helpless young ladyhood, as Claudia scornfully called it, had to be postponed until her return. Finally she went off in the companionship of two of the Dean’s daughters, and Mrs Leslie’s maid was to meet her at the junction where they parted. The bicycle was left behind, and Emily commented—
“How odd! I thought you took it everywhere.”
Claudia was trying to forget this innocent speech as she whirled along in the train by the side of the Dean’s daughters, who, had she but known it, were as much astonished at the reversal of the position as she could be, but it rankled. She had made larger concessions without feeling as sore as she felt through the journey, and was only soothed by the glad sight of Fenwick’s tall figure on the junction platform, in place of the maid she had expected. The next moment she frowned. He was not alone, Mrs Leslie was with him, and she felt oddly shy. She reflected, further, that the Dean’s daughters had done nothing to require so many thanks.
“As if I were a helpless parcel!” she murmured rebelliously.
It was unfortunate, for it revived the spirit of antagonism which had met Mrs Leslie at Huntingdon. There, however, Claudia had seen but little of her, here she was somebody to be taken in hand, advised, checked, arranged for, informed that Arthur did not like this, that, or the other, and treated in fact as a very average young woman of early years, whose inexperience required superior counselling.
“Arthur’s is a curious nature,” said his sister on the morning after Claudia’s arrival. The girl lifted her eyebrows.
“I think I understand him. Few persons do,” pursued Mrs Leslie, reflectively, “and I always felt anxious that his wife should be a person of experience. You will require patience, for one thing, I warn you.”
“Perhaps he will require it, too,” said Claudia, with a short laugh which made Mrs Leslie look at her.
“I hope not,” she said gravely. “I don’t think his stock is large. I advise you to be the one to yield.”
Claudia found this and similar hints maddening, but when she carried her indignation to Fenwick, he was disposed to take his sister’s side.
“She has rather a peremptory manner,” was the utmost he would allow. “It’s only manner. She’s had to pilot old Leslie along, and very well she’s done it.”
“I dare say. But I don’t require piloting,” said Claudia stiffly.
Fenwick smiled, and her colour rose.
“What do you mean?”
“By what?”
“By looking like that.”
He rose and stretched his arms.
“My dear Claudia, you’re in an aggressive humour to-day.”
Her heart smote her. “I believe I was cross,” she said with difficulty. “I thought that she—Gertrude—treated me as if I was a child.”
“Learn philosophy,” he said, with a yawn. “What does it matter?”
It is very well to be told to study philosophy, but there are times when the advice carries insult with it. Claudia jumped up and stood at the window. From thence she shot a glance at him. He was not looking at her, but strolling about the room, taking up a book here and there.
“They’ve made themselves pretty snug here,” he remarked at last. “Gertrude thoroughly understands how to rig up a hut.”
“I like the Marchmonts’ better,” said Claudia coldly.
“Do you? Tastes differ, but it isn’t really so good. Thornton, now, has dropped into comfortable quarters. By the way, somebody said that Miss Arbuthnot was due at the Thorntons’ this week.”
Claudia was cross, and, conscious of it, tried to swallow her displeasure.
“We met her yesterday,” she said, “and—didn’t you hear?—somebody else said that she was going to be married.”
He turned sharply.
“Married? Miss Arbuthnot? Don’t believe it.”
She opened her eyes at his tone.
“Why? Is there anything extraordinary in the fact?”
“Oh no,” he said, recovering himself rather awkwardly from the momentary excitement. “It’s the sort of thing which is always being said of her. She’s food for gossips. And it never comes to anything.”
“It will have to come soon, I suppose,” remarked Claudia, with the scorn of twenty-one for thirty-one.
He took no notice of this, but as Mrs Leslie came into the room, turned sharply upon her.
“Gertrude, what’s this about Helen Arbuthnot?”
“Helen!” reflected Claudia.
“Colonel Tomlinson said she was going to marry Lord Dartmoor’s eldest son.”
“That stick! Rot!”
Mrs Leslie looked at him with warning in her eye.
“Really, Arthur, I don’t see why it shouldn’t be true. She is sure to marry somebody.”
“Somebody, perhaps. It needn’t be a fool.”
He spoke savagely, and Claudia wondered why. His sister made haste to change the subject.
“Remember, Claudia, that there is the polo match this afternoon. We must go.”
The girl flung an imploring glance at Fenwick.
“You?” she said inquiringly.
“I can’t,” he returned. “I’m going to try a little bicycling of the most feeble description to suit a cripple.”
“Oh,” she cried eagerly, “do let me come! The Marchmonts said I could always have one of their bicycles, and it would be delightful. Please, Arthur!”
She went close to him, and he played with the frill of her sleeve.
“Delightful, but not to be done. I hate to see women bicycling about these places.”
“But,” she urged, “you used to go with the Marchmonts. They told me so.”
“He wasn’t engaged to a Marchmont,” said Mrs Leslie, arranging her flowers. “That makes all the difference.”
“Why?” asked Claudia. As no one answered her question she turned again to Fenwick, “Won’t you let me come, this once, this first time? You really may want help.”
“I should say he had better look after himself—this time,” said Mrs Leslie pointedly, and Claudia crimsoned.
“I’m all right,” said Fenwick, stretching himself again. “Look here, Claudia, go to the polo, like a good girl, and—if I can, I’ll drop in there later.”
She said no more, and though she had a sense of defeat, it did not prevent her from becoming absorbingly interested in the rush and energy of the polo match. The day was both bright and showery; every now and then a sudden storm sent the carriages under the trees, then the sun broke out again, and no one was much the worse. As the afternoon wore on, her attention began to flag, for she expected Fenwick. He came late.
“How have you managed?” she asked eagerly.
“Well enough. I didn’t go far.” More hesitatingly he added, “I turned in at the Thorntons’.”
“Then,” remarked his sister, “you heard whether the report about Helen Arbuthnot is true?”
“I heard nothing.”
“I wonder she did not tell you.”
“There was an excellent reason,” he said curtly. “They weren’t at home. What’s Bateman racing for?—oh, a new stick. I say, Lucas got that goal cleverly! I wonder what he’d take for his pony.”
Claudia’s eyes sparkled. “I wish, oh, how I wish women could play polo!”
“Good heavens! I’m thankful they don’t attempt it!”
She turned upon him with a laughing retort, but something in his face checked her. She said the next moment, “There is Miss Arbuthnot.”
Fenwick looked without making a remark, and exerted himself for Claudia’s entertainment. Before long, however, he left her, strolling over to the carriage where Helen sat. She gave him the slightest of greetings, but, undismayed, he folded his arms on the side of the carriage, and talked in a low voice.
“I have been to see you.”
“How judicious of you to choose such an admirably safe hour for visits!”
“Is that all you have to say after what I’ve been going through? Weeks on a sick bed!”
She looked at him between half-shut eyes.
“Haven’t I seen you since? Oh, don’t expect me to pity you. I believe your accident was simply an ingenious plant, to get what you had set your mind upon. By the way, let me offer my congratulations.”
“Thank you. You are very good. Rumour says you will soon be requiring the same.”
“Yes?”
The word was distinctly interrogative. Fenwick found himself pondering what it carried with it. Miss Arbuthnot’s appearance was prosperous, her tone—provokingly indifferent—stung him into retort.
“Does yes signify yes?”
“I have never yet been sure. It so entirely depends on the speaker.”
“Then,” he returned boldly, “in your case I should say it meant the opposite.”
Miss Arbuthnot appeared to consider.
“You were never backward in assertion,” she said. “Tell me, has your Claudia really given up her career and her pocket-book?”
“Do you suppose I should allow my wife to make a fool of herself?”
“Oh, forgive me! I did not know you were married.”
“You know, at any rate, what I mean.”
“Perhaps. By the way, I left your rival on a fair way to recovery.”
“My rival?”
“Your friend, then—Harry Hilton. He is an excellent fellow, and honestly, I think he would have been more suitable to Claudia.”
“Thank you,” said Fenwick grimly. “It seems she did not think so.”
“No. We women are so slow in learning our lessons that we are left with no time in which to use them.”
“You must have learnt yours, then, at an early age.”
The two fencers looked at each other, and she bent her head slightly.
“Yes. I have at least learned to take the goods the gods send.”
“Meaning Mr Pelham, and a future twenty thousand a year?” Fenwick shot out sharply.
She raised her eyebrows.
“Possibly.”
He suddenly drew back, and went to the other side of the carriage. Claudia, in the pony-cart, had lost her interest in the match. She made only monosyllabic replies, but she was listening intently to Mrs Leslie’s remarks, more than one of which related to Miss Arbuthnot. Finally she said—
“I wonder whether the report about her is true? It would be curious if she and Arthur married in the same year.”
“Why curious?”
“Because at one time— Oh, well,” she added with a laugh, “you can cross-question Arthur.”
Claudia made no answer; she seemed to be taken up with a wild gallop of the ponies across the ground.
As they drove home they passed the Thornton carriage, and were stopped by a sign from its mistress.
“Captain Fenwick has gone,” she said, “and has half promised that you will all dine with us after the inspection to-morrow. Will you?”
Mrs Leslie hesitated and accepted. Miss Arbuthnot, who had nodded to Claudia, now leaned forward.
“The Thornbury trees,” she said, “are beginning to recover from the shocks you gave them, but Harry has to go and explain and apologise to them. I know he apologises.”
The girl had not time to answer; the pony did not like stopping, and whisked them away.
“Helen was looking very well,” remarked Mrs Leslie. “What was she saying about the Thornbury trees?”
“I had to cut down a few,”—Claudia hesitated—was it possible she was becoming reluctant to allude to what had been her pride?—“I went down there, you know,”—she lifted her head, and out came the obnoxious word—“professionally.”
“Good gracious, what do you mean?”
“Has Arthur not told you that I was—that I am a landscape gardener?” asked Claudia, with all the dignity she could call to her aid.
Mrs Leslie broke into a peal of laughter.
“My dear child, I beg your pardon, but you are so comic! Arthur’s wife a landscape gardener! How long have you played with this amazing fancy?”
“It has not been play,” said Claudia stiffening. “I went through a regular training, and have had two engagements.” And then she broke off suddenly with a miserable wonder how the engagements, in which she had felt such an honest pride, had come to her. One was through Harry Hilton, and the other through Fenwick. Could it be possible! She murmured the Wilmots’ name, and Mrs Leslie’s next words completed her humiliation.
“Oh, the Wilmots!” she said, still laughing. “Flo will do anything for Arthur.”
“Do you mean—” began the girl hotly.
“Oh, of course they liked having you,”—Mrs Leslie felt that she had gone rather far—“but I tell you honestly that I suspect it was more because you were young and pretty, and perhaps because it amused them to see you taking life so seriously, than on account of your—what am I to call it—profession?”
“Call it what you like,” said Claudia proudly, and staring in front of her. “We are not likely to agree in the view we take of it. I have been brought up to think that idleness is not the desirable element in a woman’s life which you all seem to consider it. As for Arthur, if he is ashamed of it for his wife, he has changed very much since he talked of it a few weeks ago.”
She made her little speech quietly and well, though her voice trembled as she ended, because she could not but feel that he had changed.
“Settle that between you,” said Mrs Leslie, in a light tone. “It doesn’t seem to me at all his line.”
When she could get hold of her brother, she attacked him. “Arthur, why didn’t you give me a hint? What extraordinary craze is this of Claudia’s? Do you know that she calls herself a landscape gardener?” He frowned.
“Has she gone back to that rubbish? I thought it was at an end. Though, mind you, there was something very engaging in the serious view she took of her duties. She hadn’t a thought to fling in another direction.”
“Absurd! And you encouraged it?”
“It was the only way of getting at her. Besides, I knew if once I made her care, I could stop it, and stopped it I have, unless you have rubbed her the wrong way again. How did you come upon it?”
“Helen Arbuthnot alluded to the Thornbury trees. I can’t think why Helen has come here now,” said Mrs Leslie impatiently. “I wish she were married and done with.” Fenwick made no answer. Possibly he had not heard.