Chapter Twenty.

As age creeps on, there are other deaths than those we mourn openly. Sometimes hope dies, or faith, or love—and from the infinite blackness of such loss, may God in His mercy keep us!—sometimes it is ambition, or friendship, which is worse. But all death is sad, except, as perhaps we shall find, our own, for that should mean recovering again some good things which we have lost.

Claudia went through several phases at this time. It was not extraordinary; most men and women do after a crisis, particularly a crisis which has in it anything humiliating. She fancied that her old occupation would give her interest, and forced herself into working furiously at certain plans. When they failed, or seemed to fail, she lost heart, and believed herself incapable. By way of expiation, she sat humbly at Emily’s feet, printing hundreds of leaflets in the palest and most uninviting inks, and dutifully attended Anne when she paid visits in the Close, and, far from flaunting nineteenth-century aims in the eyes of her listeners, tried to fling herself into the pettiest of local interests.

“If she goes on like this, by-and-by she will elope with the Dean, or do something equally sinful,” announced Philippa one day as she snipped withered flowers in the garden.

“I know,” said Anne uneasily. “But I don’t know what to suggest. And I fancied she would be better for finding out for herself.”

“Get her to go bicycling again.”

“I suppose,” Anne hesitated and sighed—“I suppose it would not do to have Harry? He is dying to come.”

“No, indeed. You prudent people are always the most reckless. We are all boring her to death just now, and Harry would be only another element of boredom. No; the bicycle.”

It was not easy, because the bicycle had unavoidable associations, and also made part of a certain untold scheme of renunciation. But restlessness, together with an inevitable reaction from the life into which she was squeezing herself, came to Anne’s help. The burdens we choose for ourselves often gall and fret, while those which God lays on us are moulded to our use by the great Master’s hand. The girl was growing sore and impatient over her self-imposed tasks, and Philippa was right. For now she went off by herself, and fought hard battles under fresh windy skies, often through rain and storm, and came back with wet cheeks and uncurled hair, but with the old glow and brightness awakening in her eyes.

“I told you so!” cried Philippa, not in the least above that feminine weakness. “And I have another idea. She wants a playfellow, and Harry shall send her a dog.”

“A dog!” exclaimed Emily in dismay. “But you would never have one here on account of Belisarius.” Belisarius was the cat, and he ruled Philippa with a rod of iron.

“I think I could persuade Belisarius,” she said, with a sigh. “He puts up with Vic, and I could make him understand that the dog was not ours.”

Claudia, sounded, expressed pleasure. Nothing was said as to Harry’s part in the affair until a very perfectly bred fox-terrier arrived one day from Thornbury, and then she admired him too much to have qualms as to his acceptance. It is true that she said hastily to Anne, “My taking this doesn’t mean anything?” And Anne could truthfully assure her that she was not the first person to receive a dog from Thornbury; but without this assurance, she did justice to a certain generosity in Harry Hilton’s character, which would prevent his trying to place her under an obligation.

The dog was a greater success than the bicycle, partly from his merits, partly from an aptitude for getting into trouble; not from disagreeableness—for he had a delightful temper, but from a cheerful joy in fighting for fighting’s sake, which kept Claudia constantly on the alert. There was an awful battle on the first day between him and Belisarius, which laid a foundation of mutual respect, though it nearly killed Philippa; and a sponge and hot water were invariably ready for Claudia, when she returned from a long bicycle ride. One day she surprised Anne by saying—

“I think I will go to Thornbury to-morrow, before the days get too short.”

“Do,” said Anne. “You won’t find Harry there.”

“No. I heard you telling Emily that he was away. I should like to see Mrs Hilton and the trees.”

She carried out her intention, which was perhaps meant as much to give Fox pleasure as for any other reason. The morning was fresh, the sky whitening for rain. When she reached Thornbury, Mrs Hilton’s delight and distress expressed themselves with many a “so.”

“My dear, it is so good of you to come! And all that way! Why, you must be tired to death, poor thing! And it is so annoying that Harry should be away! His father was a little better, and he had been waiting for an opportunity to run up to London, so he went, and will not be back till to-morrow. I am so sorry!”

“I knew that he was away. I came to see you, and I thought you would give me some luncheon.”

“Indeed I will. So good of you to think of such a thing, and on your bicycle, too! I have just had a letter from Helen Arbuthnot; you remember her, don’t you?” Claudia’s face was turned in another direction. “Yes,” she answered.

“Well, she has quite taken my breath away, telling me she is going to be married, poor thing! and I hadn’t the least idea of it. People are so sudden in these days, in and out of an engagement before one has time to look round,”—and then Mrs Hilton began to flounder—“my dear—you must forgive me—I never meant—oh dear! I wonder whether Mr Hilton has had his paper?” The moment had come, and Claudia, although she had paled, was scarcely conscious of her companion’s distress. She was nerving herself for the expected tidings.

“Who does she say she is going to marry?” she asked, in a voice which to her own ears sounded strange and unreal.

Mrs Hilton joyfully ran to this outlet.

“I think it was a Mr Pelham—somebody, I know, that I had never heard of—but it is in the Morning Post, so we can easily see. Huish,”—to the butler—“we want yesterday’s paper.”

The news sent Claudia’s blood coursing. She found herself constantly wondering how it had come to pass, and what—for something there surely must have been—had passed between Fenwick and Helen. It almost amazed her that it did not work a revulsion in her own feelings, as it seemed to show that, at least as to one point, she had jumped to a wrong conclusion. But she tried to keep before her eyes that on the principal point there could be no such mistake—he did not love her, he did not love her; in their last interview he had not even pretended love. And though a passionate heart cried out that it might re-awaken, pitiless sense told her that the dead do not come to life again—here.

Such thoughts touched her, passed, returned, like a broken reflection on the water, while Mrs Hilton’s kindly talk gurgled on, exacting little attention. If Claudia failed in an answer, she set it down to the physical weariness of her ride, and yet, as she said afterwards, she had never liked her so much, or found her so gentle.

“You know, my dear, she rather kept me on tenter-hooks when she was here before, for, to my old-fashioned notions, she was just a little surprising, and I never quite knew what she was going to do next; but yesterday she was as nice as possible, and seemed so glad to be here again, poor thing! And she remembered all about Huish’s rheumatism, which I thought wonderful in such a young girl. We walked all over the place, and she did not say a word about cutting down more trees, so I hope she has got over that funny little craze. I asked her when she would come and stay here again, and she thanked me so nicely! She said she would like it some day, but not just yet, and of course, poor thing! it is very natural she should want a little quiet time after that sad business. I really could not have believed it of that pleasant Captain Fenwick!”

All this was spoken to Harry, who had but just returned from London, and who sat listening, his face in shade, and his arms on his knees. He was, as usual in cricket time, furiously burnt, and his laugh rang as cheerily as ever, though, his mother sometimes fancied, not so often. Now he neither laughed nor answered her, and she grew uncomfortable.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have said that? Perhaps you would rather not have any one asked here just now? My dear boy, it is easy enough to put it off a little. On no account would I do anything you disliked.”

He laughed now. An odd little laugh.

“I shouldn’t dislike it.” After a momentary hesitation, he said, “I think you ought to know that nothing on earth would make me so happy as her coming of her own free will to stay. But she won’t.”

To say that Mrs Hilton was astonished is to use an inadequate word. It is no less certain that she was dismayed, for no woman on earth appeared to her worthy to be her son’s wife, and her “Oh, Harry!” carried in it unusual protest. He went on quickly—

“When she was here before I asked her to marry me, and she refused—”

“Refused!”

”—I don’t know whether I shall ask her again. That depends. If I don’t, one thing I know, I shall never marry another woman.”

“Refused you! What could she be thinking of!”

His mother’s indignation brought his old laugh. He got up, and straightened himself.

“Well, I’m afraid it was that she didn’t care for your son. Perhaps she never will. But she came over here to-day, and I don’t mean to give up while there’s the ghost of a chance.”

“A chance! My dear Harry, ridiculous!” cried his mother, impatiently. “But you take away my breath! I never thought of such a thing. I am not sure she’s good enough, I am not, indeed! She is a pretty creature, of course, and one knows all about her, which is always a comfort, but she has such very peculiar notions. This going about on bicycles cutting trees. My dear, I couldn’t bear that for your wife.”

“She will never do anything of which you and my father need be ashamed,” he said shortly.

“But her ideas—”

“As for her ideas, time enough to talk about them if ever she consents to be my wife. I should not interfere with them.”

Mrs Hilton stood up, let all her knitting fall in a tangle on the floor, and laid a trembling hand on her son’s arm.

“Harry!”

“Yes, mother.”

“You mustn’t be angry. You know that your happiness is our first, our very first thought.”

“I know,” he said briefly. But he put his hand on hers.

“You have been such a son to us—my dear,”—she broke down a little—“may God bless you, and give you a good wife!”

Is not any man the better for such a benediction? Whether the desire of his heart be granted or not, I think the strength of a mother’s unselfish love carries it straight to the throne of God, and brings back a blessing, rich and plentiful.

Harry had learnt wisdom, and did not rush off impetuously to Elmslie, as he felt inclined. He stayed away, indeed, so long that Philippa began to grumble, and Claudia to feel guiltily that she was depriving her cousins of their favourite visitor. She had made an unsuccessful effort to get work through the principal of the college, but either her late experiences had shaken their faith in her; or the authorities preferred giving orders to those who needed them more; or Claudia’s first brilliant successes had been due to circumstances not so absolutely dependent upon her merits as she flattered herself. At any rate no orders came, and with winter at hand it did not seem likely that they would arrive. It was annoying, but one thing was evident to them all—Claudia’s heart was not broken. The want of interest, the evident strain of her first return, were, little by little but no less surely, wearing off. It could hardly have been otherwise, since, after all, she had been more dominated than attracted by Fenwick’s strong personality, and once having snapped its bonds, her own character reasserted itself. There was, it is true, a danger lest the reaction of this self-assertion should be too complete, and leave her hardened. Perhaps it was the nature of her surroundings which saved her from the peril. For there was a fresh and wholesome vigour about Philippa Cartwright, an honest dutifulness in Emily, a true and delicate sympathy in Anne, which she could not but recognise, now that her eyes had opened to a broader view, and she was brave enough to own to her mistakes. The result was that her heart began to cling to Elmslie, while she was still occupied with plans for the future. At last—

“I think I will go abroad for three or four months,” she announced to Anne one wet autumn day, as they trudged back from the town. “It would do me a lot of good to study some of the old Italian gardens. There’s one in particular near Viterbo, laid out by Vignola. Will you come?”

“Ah, I can’t,” Anne returned, shaking her head and smiling. “I have reached the point in life in which I know the world would collapse if I left Elmslie for more than a week. Ask Philippa. She’s the adventurous one.”

“Well. Fox wouldn’t like it, though.”

“We’ll send him back to Thornbury.”

“And you could have Harry Hilton,” mused Claudia. She gave an impatient shake. “How silly it all has been, and how many lives have been made uncomfortable! I suppose if I went away he would be here as much as he used to be?”

“Perhaps he will come by-and-by even if you stayed.”

“No; and if he did, he would be looking or saying something which I should hate. Unless you can make him understand that I shall never marry.”

Anne was silent, and employed herself in closing her umbrella. The rain had ceased, but there was a wintry wind, and yellow leaves lay rotting in the road. As they came towards the gate, they saw a man’s figure emerging, and Fox was off like a shot.

“Harry!” cried Anne, and with such delight that Claudia stifled her own displeasure. She was displeased, because she expected a renewal of all that she disliked, but as the days went on, she was obliged to admit that Harry behaved admirably. That she was first with him—always—she could not fail to see, but neither word nor look forced the knowledge to her embarrassment. By degrees she unstiffened, and fell back on their old friendliness. Nor did he stay long. Perhaps to have done so and yet have made no sign, might have been beyond his powers, but, be that as it may, Claudia accepted his unexpected silence as proof of a stronger character than she had credited him with. Nor, now that she did not obstinately close her eyes, could she fail to see how in trouble or difficulty of whatever kind, it was to Harry that the trouble was taken with absolute confidence in his helpfulness. On the whole, Anne hoped he had rather made ground than lost it.

Philippa and Claudia went abroad that winter, travelling in sun-baked out-of-the-way places in Italy, perhaps even more to Philippa’s delight than Claudia’s. Philippa wrote to her sister that the girl showed no sign of wishing to shock people, “but she seems resolved to pick up her work again when she returns to England, and is studying eagerly. The note-book, however, seldom steps into prominence, and I have never heard the word ‘career.’ I remark that she is careful to check all interests that show signs of undue development.”

In the course of the early spring, news of Mr Hilton’s death came to the travellers, and then Philippa, who had hitherto avoided talk of Harry, allowed herself to launch forth into an account of what he had given up for his father’s sake.

“And the poor man so irritable! I dare say it was caused by illness, but really he made every one’s life a burden. Harry’s patience was not to be told.”

Claudia expressed no opinion, but she listened. Further, she sent a message to Mrs Hilton and her son, and, that being over, appeared to forget them. She and Philippa left Rome in April, and travelled so as to reach London by the middle of May, going for two or three days to a hotel in South Kensington. There, on the morning after their return, Harry Hilton walked in.

This time the girl showed no displeasure; it seemed to Philippa that she looked at him with an air of reflection. Philippa herself hailed him with delight.

“I am so tired of taking care of myself!” she announced one morning, “and as Claudia allows me no conveyance more luxurious than a ’bus—in which she flatters herself she is paying homage to Socialism—I am thankful to have a man to find the right one.”

Claudia laughed gaily.

“There’s a mission for you!”

He did not seem to object. He went everywhere with them, and Philippa, reading in his face that he meant again to put his fate to the touch before long, grew nervous herself, uncertain whether to utter a warning or not. She dropped the idea, but it touched her to the quick when she pictured a second rebuff.

Their last morning they spent in the Park, where the rhododendrons were breaking into flower. Philippa met with an old friend, and Harry suggested to Claudia that they should stroll on and look at the Serpentine. She assented without hesitation, yet, as they silently walked, side by side, something in the silence set her heart fluttering, and, to her amazement, she became conscious of a painful want of breath. She would have given a good deal to have spoken, to have gone back, but she dared not trust herself, for the strange excitement, for which she could not account, was depriving her of her self-possession. Just before, she had been calm, talking to Harry with the ease of an old friend, and now something—she knew not what—had raised an unexpected tumult, and swept the rudder out of her hand. There was a din in her ears, and suddenly she heard his voice, hoarse and changed—

“Only give me one crumb of hope to live upon. Claudia, can’t you love me?”

Could this be love? “Oh, impossible!” she cried, almost angrily.

“Why impossible?” he asked, persistently fighting for an answer.

“I told you at Thornbury—”

“But now—now—” He pressed her impetuously.

“I can’t! You mustn’t ask me.”

“I must, I must!” Something was creeping into his voice which she had never heard there before, something at which her heart fluttered, her voice failed.

“You forget what has passed.”

“Passed! What is that to me? Claudia!”

“I must live my own life—I should shock your mother—your belongings.”

He caught her hands in his, and his honest eyes looked into hers, heedless of passers-by.

“Mine!” he cried joyfully. “Mine at last!”

So—while there is no resurrection for a dead love—love, fresh and living, often steals into our hearts from unexpected hiding-places, and makes them his own. And, so long as this can be, our old world, weary and suffering, blossoms again into rosy youth, and tastes the joy which is eternal.

The End.