Cecil’s loan remained unpaid. She had spent her holidays with her mother as arranged, but her finances did not appear to have profited thereby. Dunning for bills became so incessant that the landlady spoke severely of the “credit of the house.” She went out constantly in the evening, and several times Claire heard Major Carew’s voice at the door, but he never came into the house, and there was no talk of an open engagement.
As for Claire herself, she had had a happy time in Brussels, staying with both English and Belgian friends and re-visiting all the old haunts. She thoroughly enjoyed the change, but could not honestly say that she wished the old life to return. If she came back with a heavy heart, it was neither poverty nor work which she feared, but rather the want of that atmosphere of love and kindliness which make the very essence of home. At the best of times Mary Rhodes was a difficult companion and far from affectionate in manner, but since the giving of that last loan, there had arisen a mental barrier which it seemed impossible to surmount. It had become difficult to keep up a conversation apart from school topics, and both girls found themselves dreading the evening’s tête-à-tête.
Claire felt like a caged bird beating against the bars. She wanted an outlet from the school life, and the call of the spring was insistent to one who until now had spent the summer in wandering about some of the loveliest scenes in Europe. She wearied of the everlasting streets, and discovered that by hurrying home after afternoon school, making a quick change of clothing, and catching a motor-’bus at the corner of the road, she could reach Hyde Park by half-past five, and spend a happy hour sitting on one of the green chairs, enjoying the beauty of the flowers, and watching the never-ending stream of pedestrians and vehicles. Sometimes she recognised Mrs Willoughby and Janet bowling past in their luxurious motor, but they never saw her, and she was not anxious that they should. What she wanted was to sit still and rest. Sometimes a smartly-dressed woman, obviously American, would seat herself on the next chair, and inquire as to the best chance of seeing the Queen, and the question being amiably answered, would proceed to unasked confidences. She thought England “sweet.” She had just come over to this side. She was staying till the fall. Who was the lady in the elegant blue auto? The London fashions were just too cute! When they parted, the fair American invariably said, “Pleased to have met you!” and looked as though she meant it into the bargain, and Claire whole-heartedly echoed the sentiment. She liked these women with their keen, child-like enthusiasm, their friendly, gracious ways. In contrast to them the ordinary Englishwoman seemed cold and aloof.
One brilliant afternoon when the Park was unusually bright and gay, Claire was seated near the Achilles statue, carelessly scanning the passers-by, when, with a sudden leap of the heart, she saw Erskine Fanshawe some twenty yards ahead, strolling towards her, accompanied by two ladies. He was talking to his companions with every appearance of enjoyment, and had no attention to spare for the rows of spectators on the massed green chairs. Claire felt the blood rush to her face in the shock of surprise and agitation. She had never contemplated the possibility of such a meeting, for Captain Fanshawe had not appeared the type of man who would care to take part in a fashionable parade, and the sudden appearance of the familiar face among the crowd made her heart leap with a force that was physically painful. Then, the excitement over, she realised with a second pang, almost as painful as the first, that in another minute he would have passed by, unseeing, unknowing, to disappear into space for probably months to come. At the thought rebellion arose in her heart. She felt a wild impulse to leave her seat and advance towards him; she longed with a sudden desperation of longing to meet his eyes, to see his smile, but pride held her back. She sat motionless watching with strained eyes.
One of Captain Fanshawe’s companions was old, the other young—a pretty, fashionably-dressed girl, who appeared abundantly content with her escort. All three were watching with amusement the movements of a stout elderly dame, who sauntered immediately ahead, leading by a leash a French poodle, fantastically shaved, and decorated with ribbon bows. The stout dame was evidently extravagantly devoted to her pet, and viewed with alarm the approach of a jaunty black and white terrier.
The terrier cocked his ears, and elevating his stump of a tail, yapped at the be-ribboned spaniel with all a terrier’s contempt, as he advanced to the attack. The stout dame screamed, dropped the leash, and hit at the terrier with the handle of her parasol. The poodle evidently considering flight the best policy, doubled and fled in the direction of the green chairs, to come violently to anchor against Claire’s knee. The crowd stared, the stout dame hurried forward. Claire, placing a soothing hand on the dog’s head, lifted a flushed, smiling face, and in so doing caught the lift of a hat, met for the moment the glance of startled eyes.
The stout lady was not at all grateful. She spoke as sharply as though Claire, and Claire alone, had been the cause of her pet’s upset. She strode majestically away, leaving Claire trembling, confused, living over again those short moments. She had seen him; he had seen her! He was alive and well, living within a few miles of herself, yet as far apart as in another continent. It was six months since they had last met. It might be six years before they met again. But he had seemed pleased to see her. Short as had been that passing glance, there was no mistaking its interest. He was surprised, but pleasure had overridden surprise. If he had been alone, he would have hurried forward with outstretched hand. In imagination she could see him coming, his grave face lightened with joy. Oh, if only, only he had been alone! But he was with friends; he had the air of being content and interested, and the girl was pretty, far prettier than Janet Willoughby.
“Good afternoon!”
She turned gasping; he was standing before her, holding out his hand. He had left his companions and come back to join her. His face looked flushed, as though he had rushed back at express speed. He had seemed interested and content, and the girl was pretty, yet he had come back to her! He seated himself on the chair by her side, and looked at her with eager eyes.
“I haven’t seen you for six months!”