Chapter Ten.
A writer has said, and with truth, that while a woman expects her friends to belong, as it were, to her whole life, and to adapt themselves to its many sides, a man, instead of desiring such universal sympathy, keeps his friends each on his own ground, and would be disgusted if either attempted to poach on the other. He may have thus a club friend, and a sporting friend, an antipodean and a corresponding friend, and such and such only they remain, while the sporting friend has never written him a letter in his life, and the antipodean would scarcely find a word to say if they met in Pall Mall. And this differing view of friendship makes difficulties between man and woman.
Harry Hilton and Arthur Fenwick had been school friends, and there had remained, for as men they had little in common, and professed to find as little. Still the tie, such as it was, would last always, and Harry was a good deal shocked to hear of the accident, quite irrespectively of its bearing upon Claudia. He went over to Huntingdon Hall the next day, and Claudia, who forced herself to do her work, but broke off at intervals to hear the last report, met him near the house. She was so glad to see him that she forgot the past, and greeted him with her old ease. But he was shocked at her appearance.
“Oh, that’s nothing!” she said, trying to speak lightly. “We are all having a bad time, and as I was the wretched cause, of course, in some ways, mine is the worst. What have you heard?”
“Only the fact that Fenwick was thrown under a cart. Why should you take the blame?”
“Because it was my folly. I would race down a hill, the cart cut across at the bottom, and I should have been under it if he had not pushed me on one side. He couldn’t get out of the way himself.” She shuddered.
“Oh, well,” said Harry, instinctively trying to comfort her, “it was an accident which might have happened to any one. I’m only thankful he did push you.”
“I’m not,” she said, frowning with the pain of remembrance.
They walked on in silence. “How is he?” said Harry suddenly.
Claudia’s hands knotted themselves.
“Very ill.”
“His leg is broken, isn’t it?”
“Yes, but not badly. They fear other injuries. A second doctor comes to-night, and Mrs Leslie—his sister.”
Harry’s hopefulness asserted itself against her dreary tone.
“It mayn’t be as bad as they think. I know Fenwick better than they, and he’s a tough fellow. He’ll come round, you’ll see!”
A smile dawned on her face. “Do you really think so, or are you only—saying it?”
“Honour bright, I think so. You see, as I said, I know him, and they don’t.” He added with more effort, “Don’t worry so much over it.”
She turned frankly towards him, and drew a deep breath.
“Perhaps you’re right. At any rate, I’m very glad you came, for there was no one I could speak to, freely. Sir Peter is in his study, and Lady Wilmot makes too light of it, and as for Lady Bodmin, she’s hateful.”
“Yes, then I’m very glad I came,” said Harry manfully.
He was not clever, but he had that gift of helpfulness which makes the man or woman who possesses it a tower of strength to their friends. Everything looked brighter to Claudia, and she cast no reflection at what it cost him to walk by her side and feel convinced that all her thoughts were centred upon Fenwick. He owned with a sigh that it could hardly have been otherwise.
Lady Wilmot insisted upon his remaining to luncheon, and Sir Peter welcomed him warmly. A more hopeful spirit seemed to have sprung up with his advent, yet the accounts of Fenwick remained alarming enough.
“We’ve sent for Gertrude Leslie. Peter would have it, but it’s a great bore,” said Lady Wilmot, making a face. “She has all poor Arthur’s faults and none of his charm. However! She hates nursing, so perhaps she won’t stay.”
“Oh, she won’t stay when she sees he’s better,” Harry agreed.
“If he does get better,” remarked Lady Bodmin, looking pointedly at Claudia.
“Of course he will,” said Harry, with decision. “What I expect is that he’s having a touch of the fever he picked up in India, and that your doctor doesn’t know about it, and is puzzled. How are your improvements getting on here, Miss Hamilton?” he went on cheerily. “My mother insists upon every one going to look at that view of the Marldon hills which you opened out for us, and my father is awfully pleased, because he says his father used to talk about seeing them when he was a boy, and he’d forgotten.”
She flung him a grateful look.
“We’re going to rival you, but not just yet,” said Sir Peter. “We’ve got to take it on trust for some time. What I admire in Miss Hamilton is the determination she shows.”
Claudia was wishing that she had stuck to her work, and taken no holiday, but she owned with relief that Harry had made things brighter, and flung a ray of hope upon the situation. She liked him extremely, and flattered herself that he had forgotten that stupid slip of his which had vexed her so much, and obliged her to speak severely. But the past weeks had sufficiently shaken her sense of security to make her glad that when Sir Peter suggested a walk to the Black Pond, that Harry might see what she proposed doing, he came himself, and brought Charlie Carter.
It was the spot she liked best at Huntingdon. The fine firs which, flinging their sullen shadows on the water, had given it its name, now stood out, bold and black, and free from cramping surroundings. Claudia had cleared with an unsparing hand, and with good results. Long grass and rushes fringed the waters edge, the moor-fowl’s haunt, and on a still day the clear reflections doubled each green blade, while the great stems of the firs sprang up clean and straight and strong as columns. A little boathouse stood, picturesquely shadowed, and Charlie had got out the boat before any one saw what he was doing, and insisted on pulling them round the Pond. Harry took the other oar, Sir Peter steered, and Claudia sat looking round her, as the others supposed, with an eye to effects. She did, indeed, honestly try to call them up. But her work had suddenly become, if not distasteful, at least a labour, so that instead of the enthusiasm which used to possess her, as some thought, unduly, it required whip and scourge to hold her to it at all. And as they rowed along, through an opening in the trees, the house stood out distinctly, and, with the house, Fenwick’s open window. Her eye fell upon it, and remained. She recollected how one day when she was planning and arranging, she had seen him coming along, striding through brake fern, and evidently in pursuit of her, and how she had slipped behind a trunk and so baffled his search. It was one of those little remembrances which circumstances may arm with a sting. What would she not have given to have seen him coming now! Tears, remorseful tears, gathered in her eyes, and as she glanced hastily at her companions she was sure that Harry Hilton had surprised them. She, on her part, had surprised the look which she dreaded, and when they parted, her good-bye was wanting in the frank friendliness which had marked her greeting.