The Independence of Claire Part 32

Claire stared in surprise, but there seemed no reason to deny so simple a request.

"And what am I to do when I get there?"

"Just stand still for a moment, and then walk on... I'll come after!"

Claire laughed, shrugged, and went slowly forward along the flagged path, up the flower-sprinkled stair, to pause beneath an arch of pink roses and look back with an inquiring smile. Erskine was standing where she had left him, but he did not smile in response, while one might have counted twenty, he remained motionless, his look grave and intent, then he came quickly forward, leapt up the shallow steps and stood by her side.

"Thank you!" he said tersely, but that was all. Neither then or later came any explanation of the strange request.

For a few moments there was silence, then Erskine harked back to his former subject.

"Scottish scenery is very fine, but for restful loveliness, Surrey is hard to beat. You haven't told me yet how you like our little place, Miss Gifford! It's on a very modest scale, but I'm fond of it. There's a homey feeling about it that one misses in bigger places, and the mater is a genius at gardening, and gets the maximum of effect out of the s.p.a.ce. Are you fond of a garden?"

"I've never had one!" Claire said, and sighed at the thought. "That's one of the Joys that does _not_ go with a roving life! I've never been able to have as many flowers as I wanted, or to choose the right foliage to go with them, or to pick them with the dew on their leaves." She paused, smitten with a sudden recollection. "One day this year, a close, smouldering oven-ey day, I came in from school and found--a box full of roses! There were _dewdrops_ on the leaves, or what looked like dewdrops. They were as fresh as if they had been gathered an hour before. Dozens of roses, with great long stems. They made my room into a bower."

"Really! Did they? How very jolly," was Erskine's comment.

His voice sounded cool and unperturbed, and Claire did not venture to look at his face. She thought with a pang, that perhaps after all she had been mistaken. Perhaps Mrs Willoughby had been the real donor ...

perhaps he had never thought... She hurried on terrified lest her thoughts might be suspected.

"Mrs Fanshawe has been so kind, allowing me to send boxes of fruit and flowers to a friend in hospital. One of our mistresses, who is being treated for rheumatism."

"Poor creature!" said the Captain with careless sympathy. "Dull work being in hospital in this weather. How have you been getting on with my mother, Miss Gifford? I'm awfully glad to find you down here, though I should have enjoyed showing you round myself. I'm a bit jealous of the mater there! She's a delightful companion, isn't she? So keen and alert. I don't know any woman of her age who is so young in spirit.

It's a great gift, but--" he paused, drew another cigarette from his case, and stared at it reflectively, "it has its drawbacks!"

"Yes. I can understand that. It must be hard to feel young, to _be_ young in heart and mind, and to be handicapped by a body that persists in growing old. I've often thought how trying it must be."

"I suppose so. Yes. I'm afraid I wasn't thinking about it in that light. I was not discussing the position from my mother's point of view, but from--her son's! It would be easier sometimes to deal with a placid old lady who was content with her knitting, and cherished an old- fashioned belief in the superiority of man! Well! let us say the equality. But the mater won't even grant that. By virtue of her superior years she is under the impression that she can still manage my affairs better than I can myself, which, of course, is a profound delusion!"

Looking at the firmly cut profile it seemed ridiculous to think of any one managing this man if it were not his will to be managed. Mother and son were alike in possessing an obstinate self-will. A conflict between them would be no light thing. Woman-like, Claire's sympathies leant to the woman's side.

"It must be very difficult for a mother to realise that her son is really past her control. And when she _does_, it must be a painful feeling. It isn't painful for the son; it's only annoying. The mother fares worst!"

Captain Fanshawe laughed, and looked down at the girl's face with admiring eyes.

"What a faculty you have of seeing the other side! Do you always take the part of the person who isn't here? If so, all the better for me this last week, when the mater has been spinning stories of my obstinacy, and pig-headedness, and general contradictiveness. I thought I had better hurry home at once, before you learnt to put me down as a hopeless bad lot!"

Claire stood still, staring with widened eyes.

"Hurry home--hurry home before--" She stopped short, furious with herself for having taken any notice of the slip, and Erskine gave a short embarra.s.sed laugh, and cried hastily--

"Oh, I knew; of course I knew! The rain was only an excuse. The real reason was that as soon as I knew you were staying here, I hadn't patience to stay on. I stood it for exactly three hours, thinking of you in this garden, imagining walking about as we are walking now, and then--I bolted for the afternoon train!"

Claire felt her cheeks flame, and affected dignity to hide her deep, uncontrollable joy.

"If _I_ had been your hostess--"

"But you weren't, you see... You weren't! For goodness' sake don't put yourself in her place next. Be Claire Gifford for once, and say you are glad to see me!" His eyes met hers and twinkled with humour as he added solemnly. "There's not a single solitary convention that could possibly be broken by being civil to a man in his own home! Even your ultra sensitive conscience--"

"Never mind my sensitive conscience. What I want to know is, how did you know? Who told you that I was here?"

It was significant that the possibility that Mrs Fanshawe had written of her guest never occurred to Claire's mind; that Erskine like herself discounted such a possibility. He replied with a matter-of-fact simplicity which left Claire marvelling at the obtuseness of mankind--

"Janet, of course. Janet Willoughby. We were staying in the same house. We were talking of you yesterday morning, and comparing notes generally. She said you were--oh! quite a number of agreeable things-- and I agreed with her, with just one exception. She considered that you were responsive. I said I had never found any one less so. She said you were always so ready to meet her halfway. I complained that you refused to meet me at all. I ... er ... told her how I felt about it, and she said my chance was waiting if I choose to take it--that you were staying here keeping the mater company. So--"

Claire said nothing. She was thinking deeply. For how many days had Janet been staying in the same house with Erskine? Perhaps a week, certainly several days, yet it had been only yesterday morning that she had given the news. Yesterday morning; and in three hours he had flown!

How was Janet faring now, while Claire was walking in fairyland?

"You are not angry? Why do you look so serious? Tell me you are not sorry that I came?" said a deep voice close to her ear, but before she had time to answer, footsteps approached, and Mrs Fanshawe's voice was heard calling in raised accents--

"Erskine! are you there? Give me your arm, dear; I am so tired. It's such a perfect night, that it seemed a shame to stay indoors. The Major has been admiring 'The Flowery Way.' It certainly looks its best to- night." She turned towards Major Humphreys with her light, cynical laugh. "My son declares that it is profanation to allow ordinary, commonplace mortals to walk up those steps! He always escorts my visitors round by another way. He is ungallant enough to say that he has never yet seen a girl whom he would care to watch walk up those steps in the moonlight. She would have to be quite ideal in every respect to fit into the picture. We'll go round by the lily garden, Erskine, and then I think Miss Gifford and I will be off to bed. You men will enjoy a smoke."

For the next ten minutes Mrs Fanshawe kept tight hold of her son's arm, and Claire talked a.s.siduously to Major Humphreys. She knew now why Erskine had asked her to walk ahead up "The Flowery Way!"

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR.

The next afternoon a party of friends had been bidden for tennis. For the morning no plans had been made, but throughout its length Mrs Fanshawe fought a gallant fight against overwhelming odds, and was hopelessly beaten for her pains. It was her strong determination that her son should be prevented from holding another _tete-a-tete_ with Claire Gifford. Erskine actively, and Claire pa.s.sively, desired and intended to bring about just that very consummation, while Major Humphreys, shrewdly aware of the purpose for which he had been invited, aided and abetted their efforts by the development of a veritable frenzy of gardening enthusiasm. He questioned, he disputed, he meekly acknowledged his mistakes; he propounded schemes for fresh developments, the scenes of which lay invariably at the opposite end of the grounds from that in which the young people were ensconced.

Mrs Fanshawe struggled valiantly, but the Triple Entente won the day, and for a good two hours before lunch, Erskine and Claire remained happily lost to sight in the farthest recesses of the grounds. They had left behind the region of formal seats and benches, and sat on the gra.s.s at the foot of a great chestnut, whose dark green foliage made a haven of shade in the midst of the noonday glare. Claire wore her bargain frock, and felt thankful for the extravagant impulse of that January morn. Erskine was in flannels, cool and becoming as a man's _neglige_ invariably is; both had discarded hats, and sat bareheaded in the blessed shade, and Erskine asked questions, dozens of questions, a very _viva voce_ examination, the subject being the life, history, thoughts, hopes, ambitions, and dreams of the girl by his side.

"You were an only child. So was I. Were you a lonely little kiddie?"

"No, I don't think I was. My mother was a child with me. We were blissfully happy manufacturing a doll's house out of a packing chest, and furnishing it with beds made out of cardboard boxes, and sofas made out of pin-cushions. I used to feel other children a bore because they distracted her attention."

"That would be when you were--how old? Six or seven? And you are now-- what is it? Twenty-two? I must have been a schoolboy of seventeen at that time, imagining myself a man. Ten years makes a lot of difference at that age. It doesn't count so much later on. At least I should think not. Do I appear to you very old?"

"h.o.a.ry!"

"No, but I say... Honestly!"

"Don't be conceited. You know perfectly well--"

"But I wanted to make sure! And then you went to school. Did you have a bad time at first among the other girls?"

"No. I'm afraid the other girls had a bad time with me. I was very uppish and British, and insisted on getting my own way. Did _you_ have a bad time?"

"Yes, I did," he said simply. "Small boys have a pretty stiff time of it during their first term, and my time happened to be stiffer than most. I may be as miserable again. I hope I never may be! But I'm pretty sure it's impossible to be _more_ miserable than I was at nine years old, bullied on every side, breaking my heart with home sickness, and too proud to show a sign."

"Poor little lad!" sighed Claire softly, and for a long minute the two pairs of eyes met, and exchanged a message. "But afterwards? It grew better after that?"

"Oh, yes. I learnt to stand up for myself, and moved up in the school, and began to bully on my own... Did you make many real friends in your school days?"

"No real lasting friends. They were French girls, you see, and there was the difference of race, and religion, to divide us as we grew up.

And we were birds of pa.s.sage, mother and I; always moving about."