CHAPTER NINETEEN.
ERSKINE FANSHAWE'S HOME.
Claire dreaded Mary Rhodes' curiosity on the subject of her proposedvisit, but in effect there was none forthcoming. Cecil was too muchengrossed in her own affairs to feel anything but a passing interest.
"Some one you met at the Willoughbys'? Only the old lady? Rather youthan me! Nice house though, I suppose; gardens, motors, that kind ofthing. Dull, but luxurious. Perhaps you'll stay on permanently as hercompanion."
"That," Claire said emphatically, "will never happen! I was thinking ofclothes... I am quite well-off for evenings, and I can manage forafternoons, but I do think I ought to indulge in one or two `drasticbargains' for morning wear. I saw some particularly drastic specimensin Knightsbridge this week. Cecil ... could you--I hate asking, but_could_ you pay me back?"
Cecil's stare of amazement was almost comical under the circumstances.
"My--good--girl! I was really pondering whether I dare, I'm horriblyhard up, and that's the truth. I've had calls..."
"Not Major Carew again? I can't understand it, Cecil. You know Iinquired about him, you told me to ask if I had a chance, and his father_is_ rich. He might fly into a rage if he were asked for money, but hewould give it in the end. Major Carew might have a bad half-hour, butwhat is that compared with borrowing from you! And from a man's pointof view it's so little, such very small sums!" She caught a change ofexpression on the other's face, and leapt at its meaning. "Cecil! Youhave been giving more! Your savings!"
"And if I have, Claire Gifford, what business is it of yours? What wasI saving for? To provide for my old age, wasn't it? and now that theneed has gone, why shouldn't I lend it, if I chose? Frank happens to behard up for a few months, and besides, there's a reason! ... We aregetting tired of waiting... You must never, never breathe a word to asoul, but he wants me ... he thinks it might be better..."
Claire stared with wide eyes, Cecil frowned, and finished the sentencein reckless tones--
"We shall probably get married this autumn, and tell his fatherafterwards."
"Oh, Cecil, no! Don't do it! It's madness. It's folly. He ought notto ask you. It will make things fifty times more difficult."
"It would make things _sure_!" Mary Rhodes said.
The words were such an unconscious revelation of her inner attitudetowards her lover, that Claire was smitten with a very passion of pity.She stretched out her hand, and cried ardently. "Cecil, I am thinkingof your happiness: I long for you to be sure, but a private marriage isan insult to a girl. It puts her into a wrong position, and no man hasthe right to suggest it. Where is your pride?"
"Oh, my dear," interrupted Cecil wearily, "I'm past worrying aboutpride. I'm thirty-three, and look older, and feel sixty at the least.I'm tired out in body and soul. I'm sick of this empty life. I want ahome. I want rest. I want some one to care for me, and take aninterest in what I do. Frank isn't perfect, I don't pretend that he is.I wish to goodness he _would_ own up, and face the racket once for all,but it's no use, he won't! Between ourselves I believe he thinks theold man won't live much longer, and there will be no need to worry himat all. Any way there it is, he won't tell at present, however much Imay beg, but he will marry me; he wants to be married in September, andthat proves that he _does_ care! He is looking out for a flat, andpicking up furniture. _We_ are picking up furniture," Cecil correctedherself hastily. "I go in and ask the prices, and he sends his servantsthe next week to do the bargaining. And there will be my clothes,too... I'll pay you back in time, Claire, with ten per cent, interestinto the bargain, and perhaps when I'm a rich woman the time may comewhen you will be glad to borrow from me!"
The prospect was not cheering, but the intention was good, and as suchhad to be suitably acknowledged. Claire adjourned upstairs to consulther cheque-book, and decided bravely that the drastic bargains could notbe afforded. Then, being a very human, and feminine young woman shetold herself that there could be no harm in going to look at the dressesonce more, just to convince herself that they were not so very drasticafter all, and lo! close inspection proved them even more drastic thanshe had believed, and by the evening's delivery a choice specimen wasspeeding by motor van to Laburnum Road.
On visiting days Claire went regularly to visit Sophie, who, by her ownaccount, was being treated to seventeen different cures at the sametime, and was too busy being rubbed, and boiled, and electrified, anddosed, and put to bed in the middle of the afternoon, and awakened inthe middle of the night, to have any time to feel bored. She took akeen interest also in her fellow patients, and was the confidante ofmany tragic stories which made her own lot seem light in comparison.Altogether she was more cheerful and hopeful than for months back, butthe nurses looked dubious, and could not be induced to speak of herrecovery with any certitude.
On the tenth of August, Claire packed her boxes with the aid of a verymountain of tissue paper, and set forth on her journey. The traindeposited her at Hazlemere station, outside which Mrs Fanshawe waswaiting in a big cream car, smiling her gay, quizzical smile. She wasone of the fortunate women who possess the happy knack of making a guestfeel comfortable, and at home, and her welcome sent Claire's spiritsracing upwards.
Many times during the last fortnight had she debated the wisdom ofvisiting Erskine Fanshawe's home, but the temptation was so strong thatat every conflict prudence went to the wall. It was not in girl natureto resist the longing to see his home and renew her acquaintance withhis mother; and as it had been repeatedly stated that he himself was tospend most of August in Scotland, she was absolved from any ulteriordesign. Janet Willoughby had obviously looked upon the visit withdisfavour, but Claire was too level-headed to be willing to victimiseherself for such a prejudice. Janet would have a fair field inScotland. She could not hold the whole kingdom as a preserve!
"You are looking charming, my dear," Mrs Fanshawe said. "I always sayit is one of the tests of a lady to know how to dress for a journey. Alittle pale, perhaps, but we shall soon change that. This high air isbetter than any tonic. I laze about during the heat of the day, andhave a two hours' spin after tea; I never appear until eleven, and Irest in my own room between lunch and tea, so you won't have too much ofmy society, but I've a big box of new books from Mudie's for you toread, and there's a pony-cart at your disposal, so I dare say you canamuse yourself. I love companionship, but I couldn't talk to thecleverest woman in Europe for twelve hours at a stretch."
"Nor I!" agreed Claire, who to tell the truth was more elated at theprospect of so much time to herself than she felt it discreet to betray.She was enchanted with her first view of the beautiful Surreylandscape, and each turn of the road as they sped uphill seemed to openout more lovely vistas. They drove past spinneys of pine trees, pastpicturesque villages, consisting of an old inn, a few scatteredcottages, a pond and a green, along high roads below which the greatplain of thickly-treed country lay simmering in a misty haze. Thenpresently the road took a sudden air of cultivation, and Claire staringcuriously discovered that the broad margin of grass below the hedge oneither side, was mown and rolled to a lawn-like smoothness, the edgesalso being clipped in as accurate a line as within the most carefullytended garden. For several hundred yards the margin stretched ahead,smooth as the softest velvet, a sight so rare and refreshing to the eyethat Claire could not restrain her delight.
"But how charming! How unexpected! I never saw a lane so swept andgarnished. It has a wonderful effect, those two long lines of sward.It _is_ sward! grass is too common a word. But what an amount of work!Twenty maids with twenty mops sweeping for half a year.--I think thewhole neighbourhood ought to be grateful to the owner of this land."
Mrs Fanshawe beamed, complacently.
"I'm glad you think so. _I_ am the owner! This is my property, minefor my lifetime, and my son's after me. It's one of my hobbies to keepthe lane mown. I like to be tidy, outside as well as in. Erskine beganby thinking it a ridiculous waste of work, but his f
riends are soenthusiastic about the result, that he is now complacently convincedthat it was entirely his own idea. That's a man, my dear! Illogical,self-satisfied, the best of 'em, and you'll never change them till theend of time... What's your opinion of men?"
"I rather--like them!" replied Claire with a _naivete_ which kept herlistener chuckling with amusement until the lodge gates were reached,and the car turned into the drive.
The house was less imposing than the grounds, just a large comfortableEnglish country house, handsome and dignified, but not venerable in anyway. The hall was good, running the entire length of the house, andopening by tall double doors on to the grounds at the rear. In summerthese doors were kept open, and allowed a visitor a charming vista ofrose pergolas and the blue-green foliage of an old cedar. All the wallsof the house from top to bottom were painted a creamy white, and therewas noticeable a prevailing touch of red in Turkey carpets, cushion-covers, and rose-flecked chintzes.
Tea was served on a verandah, and after it was over Mrs Fanshaweescorted her visitor round the flower gardens, and finally upstairs toher own bedroom, where she was left with the announcement that dinnerwould be served at eight o'clock. After dinner the ladies playedpatience, drank two glasses of hot-water, and retired to bed at teno'clock. It was not exciting, but on the other hand it was certainlynot dull, for Mrs Fanshawe's personality was so keen, so youthful inits appreciation, that it was impossible not to be infected, and sharein her enjoyment.
The next week passed quickly and pleasantly. The weather was good,allowing long drives over the lovely country, a tennis party at home,and another at a neighbouring house introduced a little variety into theprogramme, and best of all Mrs Fanshawe grew daily more friendly, evenaffectionate in manner. She was a woman of little depth of character,whose main object in life was to amuse herself and avoid trouble, butshe had humour and intelligence, and made an agreeable companion for asummer holiday. As her intimacy with her guest increased she spokecontinually of her son, referring to his marriage with Janet Willoughbywith an air of complacent certitude.
"Of course he will marry Janet. They've been attached for years, butthe young men of to-day are so deliberate. They are not in a hurry togive up their freedom. Janet will be just the right wife for Erskine,good tempered and yielding. He is a dear person, but obstinate. Whenhe once makes up his mind, nothing will move him. It would never do forhim to have a high-spirited wife."
"I disapprove of pandering to men," snapped Claire in her most HighSchool manner, whereupon the conversation branched off to a discussionon Women's Rights, which was just what she had intended and desired.
On the seventh afternoon of her visit, Claire was in her room writing aletter to Sophie when she heard a sudden tumult below, and felt herheart bound at the sound of a familiar voice. The pen dropped from herhand, and she sat transfixed, her cheeks burning with excitement. Itcould not be! It was preposterous, impossible. He was in Scotland.Only that morning there had been a letter.--It was impossible,impossible, and then again came the sound of that voice, that laugh, andshe was on her feet, running across the floor, opening the door,listening with straining ears.
A voice rose clear and distinct from the hall beneath, the deep, strongvoice about which there could be no mistake.
"A perfect flood! The last five days have been hopeless. I was tiredof being soaked to the skin, and having to change my clothes every twohours, so I cut it, picked up Humphreys in town, and came along home.And how have you been getting on, mater? You look uncommonly fit!"
"I'm quite well. I am perfectly well. You need not have come home onmy account," Mrs Fanshawe's voice had a decided edge. "I suppose thisis just a flying visit. You will be going on to pay another visit. Ihave a friend with me--a Miss Gifford. You met her at theWilloughbys'."
"So I did! Yes. That's all right. I'm glad you had company. Isuppose I _shall_ be moving on one of these days. I say, mother, whatabout tea?"
Claire shut the door softly, and turned back into the room. Erskine'svoice had sounded absolutely normal and unmoved: judging by it no onecould have imagined that Miss Gifford's presence or absence afforded himthe slightest interest, and yet, and yet, the mysterious inner voice wasspeaking again, declaring that it was not the wet weather which haddriven him back ... that he had hurried home because he knew, he knew--
In ten minutes' time tea would be served. Claire did not change herdress or make any alteration in her simple attire, her energies duringthose few minutes were chiefly devoted to cooling her flushed cheeks,and when the gong sounded she ran downstairs, letters in hand, andevinced a politely impersonal surprise at the sight of Captain Erskineand his friend.
Mrs Fanshawe's eyes followed the girl's movements with a keen scrutiny.It seemed to her that Claire's indifference was a trifle overdone:Erskine also was unnaturally composed. Under ordinary circumstancessuch a meeting would have called forth a frank, natural pleasure. Sheset her lips, and determined to leave nothing to chance.
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