The Independence of Claire Part 26

"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!"

"I was just--" Claire began impulsively, drew herself up, and finished demurely--"I suppose it is."

"You haven't been at either of Mrs Willoughby's 'At Homes.'"

"No; but I've seen a good deal of them all the same. They have been so kind."

"Don't you care for the 'At Homes'? I asked Mrs Willoughby about you, and she seemed to imply that you preferred not to go."

"Oh, no! Oh, no! That was quite wrong. I _did_ enjoy that evening.

It was a--a misunderstanding, I think," said Claire, much exercised to find an explanation of what could really not be explained. Of the third "At Home" she had heard nothing until this moment, and a pang of retrospective disappointment mingled with her present content. "I have been to the house several times when they were alone," she continued eagerly. "They even asked me on Christmas Day."

"I know," he said shortly. "I was in Saint Moritz, skating in the sunshine, when I heard how you were spending _your_ Christmas holidays."

His face looked suddenly grim and set. "A man feels pretty helpless at a time like that. I didn't exactly enjoy myself for the rest of that afternoon."

"That was stupid of you, but--but very nice all the same," Claire said softly. "It wouldn't have made things easier for me if other people had been dull, and, after all, I came off better than I expected."

"You were all alone--in your Grand Hotel?"

"Only for a week." Claire resolutely ignored the hit. "Then my friend came back, and we made some little excursions together, and enjoyed being lazy, and getting up late, and reading lots of nice books. I had made all sorts of good resolutions about the work I was going to get through in the holidays, but I never did one thing."

"Do you often come to the Park?"

Claire felt a pang of regret. Was it possible that even this simple pleasure was to be denied her? She knew too well that if she said "yes," Captain Fanshawe would look out for her again, would come with the express intention of meeting her. To say "yes" would be virtually to consent to such meetings. It was a temptation which took all her strength to reject, but rejected it must be. She would not stoop to the making of a rendez-vous.

"I have been several times, but I shan't be able to come any more. We get busier towards the end of the term. Examinations--"

Captain Fanshawe straightened himself, and said in a very stiff voice--

"I also, unfortunately, am extremely busy, so I shall not be able to see the rhododendrons in their full beauty. I had hoped you might be more fortunate."

Claire stared at a pa.s.sing motor, of which she saw nothing but a moving ma.s.s; when she turned back it was to find her companion's eyes fixed on her face, with an expression half guilty, half appealing, altogether ingratiating. At the sight her lips twitched, and suddenly they were laughing together with a delicious consciousness of understanding.

"Well!" he cried, "it's true! I mean it! There's no need to stay away because of me; but as I _am_ here to-day, and it's my last chance, won't you let me give you tea? If we walk along to Victoria Gate--"

Claire thought with a spasm of longing of the little tables under the awning; of the pretty animated scene; but no, it might not be. Her acquaintance with this man was too casual to allow her to accept his hospitality in a public place.

"Thank you very much, but I think not. I would rather stay here."

"Well, at any rate," he said defiantly, "I've paid for my chair, and you can't turn me out. Of course, you can move yourself."

"But I don't want to move. I like being here. I'm very glad to see you. I should like very much to have tea, too. Oh, if you don't understand I can't explain!" cried poor Claire helplessly; and instantly the man's expression altered to one of sympathy and contrition.

"I do understand! Don't mind what I say. Naturally it's annoying, but you're right, I suppose--you're perfectly right. I am glad, at any rate, that you allow me to talk to you for a few minutes. You are looking very well!" His eyes took her in in one rapid comprehensive sweep, and Claire thanked Providence that she had put on her prettiest dress. "I am glad that you are keeping fit. Did you enjoy your holiday in Belgium?"

"How did you know I was in Belgium?"

He laughed easily, but ignored the question.

"You have good news of your mother, I hope?"

"Very good. She loves the life, and is very happy and interested, and my stepfather writes that his friends refuse to believe in the existence of a grown-up daughter. He is so proud of her youthful looks."

"How much did you tell her about your Christmas holidays?"

"All the nice bits! I don't approve of burdening other people!"

"Evidently not. Then there have been burdens? You've implied that!

Nothing by any chance, in which a man--fairly intelligent, and, in this instance, keen after work--could possibly be of some use?"

The two pairs of eyes met, gazed, held one another steadily for a long eloquent moment.

"Yes," said Claire.

Captain Fanshawe bent forward quickly, holding his stick between his knees. The side of his neck had flushed a dull red colour. For several moments he did not speak. Claire had a curious feeling that he could not trust his voice.

"Good!" he said shortly at last. "Now may I hear?"

"I should like very much to ask you some questions about--about a man whom I think you may know."

The grey eyes came back to her face, keen and surprised.

"Yes! Who is he?"

"A Major Carew. His Christian name is Frank. He belongs to your Club."

"I know the fellow. Yes! What do you want to know about him?"

"Everything, I think; everything you can tell me!"

"You know him personally, then? You've met him somewhere?"

"Yes," Claire answered to the last question, "and I'm anxious--I'm interested to know more. Do you know his people, or anything about him?"

"I don't know them personally. I know Carew very slightly. Good family, I believe. Fine old place in Surrey."

The Elizabethan manor house was true, then! Claire felt relieved, but not yet satisfied. Her suspicion was so deep-rooted that it was not easily dispelled. She sat silent for a moment, considering her next question.

"Is he the eldest son?"

"I believe he is. I've always understood so."

The eldest son of a good family possessing a fine old place! Claire summoned before her the picture of the coa.r.s.e florid-faced man who had tried to flirt with her in the presence of the woman to whom he was engaged; a man who stooped to borrow money from a girl who worked for her own living. _What_ excuse could there be for such a man? She drew her brows together in puzzled fashion, and said slowly--