Chapter Fifteen.“Lend me five pounds!”The contrasts of life seemed painfully strong to Claire Gifford that Saturday afternoon as she seated herself in the luxurious car by Mrs Willoughby’s side, and thought of Sophie Blake obliged to borrow ten pounds to pay for a chance of health, and the contrast deepened during the next few hours, as she watched beautifully gowned women squandering money on useless trifles which decked the various “stalls.” Embroidered cushions, painted sachets, veil cases, shaving cases, night-dress cases, bridge bags, fan bags, handkerchief bags, work bags; bags of every size, of every shape, of every conceivable material; bead necklaces, mats—a wilderness of mats—a very pyramid of drawn-thread work. Claire found a seat near the principal stall, where she caught the remarks of the buyers as they turned away. ”...I detest painted satin! Can’t think why I bought that ridiculous sachet. It will have to go on to the next bazaar.””...That makes my twenty-third bag! Rather a sweet, though, isn’t he? It will go with my grey dress.”“This is awful! I’m not getting on at all. I can’t decently spend less than five pounds. For goodness’ sake tell me what to buy!”“Can’t think why people give bazaars! Such an upset in the house. For some charity, I believe—I forget what. She asked me to come...”So on and so on; scores of women surging to and fro, swinging bags of gold and silver chain, buying baubles for which they had no use; occasionally—very occasionally, for love of the cause; often—very often because Lady — had sent a personal invitation, and Lady — was a useful friend, and gave such charming balls!At the two concerts Claire had a pleasant success, which she enjoyed with all her heart. Her whistling performance seemed to act as a general introduction, for every listener seemed to be anxious to talk to her, and to ask an infinitude of questions. Was it difficult? How long did it take to learn? Was she nervous? Wasn’t it difficult not to laugh? How did she manage not to look a fright? Did she do it often? Did shemind? This last question usually led up to a tentative mention of some entertainment in which the speaker was interested, but after the first refusal Claire was on guard, and regretted that her time was filled up. She was eager to help Mrs Willoughby, but had no desire to be turned into an unpaid public performer!Janet did not appear at the bazaar, so the drive home was once more atête-à-tête, during which Mrs Willoughby questioned Claire as to the coming holidays, and expressed pleasure to hear that they were to be spent in Brussels. She was so kind and motherly in her manner that Claire was emboldened to bespeak her interest on Sophie’s behalf.“I suppose,” she said tentatively, “you don’t know of any family going abroad to a dry climate—it must be a very dry climate—who would like to take a girl with them to—er—to be a sort of help! She’s a pretty girl, and very gay and amusing, and she’s had the highest possible training in health exercises. She would be splendid if there was a delicate child who needed physical development, and, of course, she is quite well educated all round. She could teach up to a certain point. She is the Gym. mistress in my school, and is very popular with the girls.”“And why does she want to leave?”“She’s not well. It’s rheumatism—a bad kind of rheumatism. It is just beginning, and the doctor says it ought to be tackled at once, and that to live on clay soil is the worst thing for her. If she stays at Saint Cuthbert’s she’s practically bound to live on clay. And he says she ought to get out of England for the next few winters. She has not a penny beyond her salary, but if she could find a post—”“Well, why not?” Mrs Willoughby’s voice was full of a cheerful optimism. “I don’t know of anything at present, but I’ll make inquiries among my friends. There ought not to be any difficulty. So many people winter abroad; and there is quite a craze for these physical exercises. Oh, yes, my dear, I am sure I can help. Poor thing! poor girl! it’s so important to keep her health. I must find some one who will be considerate, and not work her too hard.”She spoke as if the post were a settled thing; as if there were several posts from which to choose. Probably there were. Among her large circle of wealthy friends this popular and influential woman, given a little trouble, could almost certainly find a chance for Sophie Blake.Given a little trouble! That was the rub! Five out of six of the women who had thronged Lady —’s rooms that afternoon would have dismissed Sophie’s case with an easy sympathy, “Poor creature! Quite too sad, but really, you know, my dear, it’s a shocking mistake to recommend any one to a friend. If anything goes wrong, you get blamed yourself. Isn’t there a Home?” Mrs Willoughby was the exception to the rule; she helped in deed, as well as in word. Claire looked at the large plain face with a very passion of admiration.“Oh, I wish all women were like you! I’m so glad you are rich. I hope you will go on growing richer and richer. You are the right person to have money, because you help, youwantto help, you remember other women who are poor.”“My dear,” said Mrs Willoughby softly, “I have been poor myself. My father lost his money, and for years we had a hard struggle. Then I married—for love, my dear, not money, but there was money, too,—more money than I could spend. It was an intoxicating experience, and I found it difficult not to be carried away. My dear husband had settled a large income on me, for my own use, so I determined, as a safeguard, to divide it in two, and use half for myself and half for gentlewomen like your friend, who need a helping hand. I have done that now for twenty-five years, but I give out of my abundance, my dear; it is easy for me to give money; I deserve no credit for that.”“You give time, too, and sympathy, and kindness. It’s no use, Mrs Willoughby. I’ve put you on the topmost pinnacle in my mind, and nothing that you can say can pull you down. I think you are the best woman in London!”“Dear, dear, you will turn my head! I’m not accustomed to such wholesale flattery,” cried Mrs Willoughby, laughing; then the car stopped, and Claire made her adieux, and sprang lightly to the ground.The chauffeur had stopped before the wrong house, but he did not discover his mistake as Claire purposely stood still until he had turned the car and started to retrace his way westward. The evening was fine though chill, and the air was refreshing after the crowded heat of Lady —’s rooms. Claire had only the length of a block to walk, and she went slowly, drawing deep breaths to fill her tired lungs.The afternoon had passed pleasantly enough, but it had left her feeling flat and depressed. She questioned herself as to the cause of her depression. Was she jealous of those other girls who lived lives of luxury and idleness? Honestly she was not. She was not in the position of a girl who had known nothing but poverty, and who therefore felt a girl’s natural longing for pretty rooms, pretty clothes, and a taste of gaiety and excitement. Claire had known all these things, and could know them again; neither was she in the position of a working girl who has no one to help in the day of adversity, for a comfortable home was open to her at any moment. No! she was not jealous: she probed still deeper, and acknowledged that she was disappointed! Last time that she had whistled in public—Claire shook her head with an impatient toss. This was feeble. This was ridiculous. A man whom she had met twice! A man whose mother had refused an introduction. A man whom Janet—“I must get to work, and prepare my lesson for Monday. Nothing like good work to drive away these sentimental follies!”But Fate was not kind, for right before her eyes were a couple of lovers strolling onward, the man’s hand through the girl’s arm, his head bent low over hers. Claire winced at the sight, but the next moment her interest quickened in a somewhat painful fashion, as the man straightened himself suddenly, and swung apart with a gesture of offence. The lovers were quarrelling! Now the width of the pavement was between them; they strode onward, ostentatiously detached. Claire smiled to herself at the childishness of the display. One moment embracing in the open street, the next flaunting their differences so boldly that every passer-by must realise the position! Surely a grown man or woman ought to have more self-control. Then suddenly the light of a lamp shone on the pair, and she recognised the familiar figures of Mary Rhodes and Major Carew. He wore a long light overcoat. Cecil had evidently slipped out of the house to meet him, for she was attired in her sports coat and knitted cap. Poor Cecil! The interview seemed to be ending in anything but a pleasant fashion.Claire lingered behind until the couple had passed her own doorway, let herself in with her latch-key, and hastened to settle down to work. When Cecil came in, she would not wish to be observed. Claire carried her books to the bureau, so as to have her back to the fire, but before she had been five minutes writing, she heard the click of the lock, and Cecil herself came into the room.“Halloa! I saw the light go up. I thought it must be you.” She was silent for a couple of minutes, then spoke again in a sharp, summoning voice: “Claire!”“Yes?”Claire turned round, to behold Cecil standing at the end of the dining-table, her bare hands clasping its rim. She was so white that her lips looked of a startling redness; her eyes met Claire with a defiant hardness.“I want you to lend me five poundsnow!”Claire’s anxiety was swallowed in a rising of irritation which brought an edge of coldness into her voice.“Five pounds! What for? Cecil, I have never spoken of it, I have never worried you, but I’ve already paid—”“I know! I know! I’ll pay you back. But I must have this to-night, and I’ve nowhere else to go. It’s important. I would lend it to you, Claire, if it were in my power.”“Cecil, I hate to refuse, but really—Ineedmy money! Just now I need it particularly. I can’t afford to go on lending. I’m dreadfully sorry, but—”“Claire, please! I implore you, just this one time! I’ll pay you back... There’s my insurance policy—I can raise something on that. For pity’s sake, Claire, help me this time!”Claire rose silently and went upstairs. It was not in her to refuse such a request while a five-pound note lay in her desk upstairs. She slipped the crackling paper into an envelope, and carried it down to the parlour. Cecil took it without a word, and went back into the night.When she had gone, Claire gathered her papers together in a neat little heap, ranged them in a corner of the bureau, and seated herself on a stiff-backed chair at the end of the table. She looked as if she were mounted on a seat of justice, and the position suited her frame of mind. She felt angry and ill-used. Cecil had no right to borrow money from a fellow-worker! The money in the bank was dwindling rapidly; the ten guineas for Sophie would make another big hole. She did not grudge that—she was eager and ready to give it for so good a cause; butwhatwas Cecil doing with these repeated loans? To judge from appearances, she was rather poorer than richer during the last few months, while bills for her new clothes came in again and again, and received no settlement. An obstinate look settled on Claire’s face. She determined to have this thing out.In ten minutes’ time Cecil was back again, still white, still defiant, meeting Claire’s glance with a shrug, seating herself at the opposite end of the table with an air of callous indifference to what should come next.“Well?”“Well?”“You look as if you had something to say!”“I have. Cecil, what are you doing with all this money?”“That’s my business, I suppose!”“I don’t see it, when the money is mine! I think I have the right to ask?”“I’ve told you I’ll pay you back!”“That’s not the question. I want to know what you are doingnow! You are not paying your bills.”“I’ll sell out some shares to-morrow, and—”“You shall do no such thing. I can wait, and I will wait, but I can’t go on lending; and if I did, it could do you no good. Where does the money go? It doesyouno good!”“I am the best judge of that.”“Cecil,are you lending money to that man?”The words leapt out, as on occasion such words will leap, without thought or premeditation on the speaker’s part. She did not intend to speak them; if she had given herself one moment for reflection she dared not have spoken them; when their sound struck across the quiet room she was almost as much startled as Cecil herself; yet heart and brain approved their utterance; heart and brain pronounced that she had discovered the truth.Cecil’s face was a deep glowing red.“Really, Claire, you go too far! Why in the world should you think—”“I saw you with him now in the street. I could see that you were quarrelling; you took no pains to hide it. You left him to come in to me, and went back again. It seems pretty obvious.”“Well! and if I did?” Cecil had plainly decided that denial was useless. “I am responsible for the loan. What does it matter to you who uses it?”But at that Claire’s anger vanished, and she shrank back with a cry of pain and shame.“And hetookit from you? Money! Took it from a girl he professes to love—who is working for herself! Oh, Cecil, howcouldhe? How could you allow him? How can you go on caring for such a man?”“Don’t get hysterical, Claire, please. There’s nothing so extraordinary in a man being hard up. It’s happened before now in the history of the world. Frank has a position to keep up, and his father—I’ve told you before how mean and difficult his father is, and it’s so important that Frank should keep on good terms just now.—He dare not worry him for money. When he is going to make me a rich woman some day, why should I refuse to lend him a few trifling pounds when he runs short? He’s in an expensive regiment; he belongs to an expensive Club; he is obliged to keep up with the other men. If I had twice as much I would lend it with pleasure.”Claire opened her lips to say that at least no more borrowed money should be supplied for Major Carew, but the words were never spoken. Pity engulfed her, a passion of pity for the poor woman who a second time had fallen under the spell of an unscrupulous man. Cecil’s explanation had fallen on deaf ears, for Claire could accept no excuses for a man who borrowed from a woman to ensure comfort and luxury for himself. An officer in the King’s army! The thing seemed incredible; so incredible that, for the first time, a rising of suspicion mingled with her dislike. Mentally, she rehearsed the facts of Major Carew’s history as narrated by himself, and found herself doubting every one. The beautiful house in the country—did it really exist? The eccentric old father who refused to part with his gold—was he flesh and blood, or a fictitious figure invented as a convenient excuse? The fortune which was to enrich the future—wasthere such a fortune? Or, if there were, was Major Carew in truth the eldest son? Claire felt a devastating helplessness her life abroad had left her ignorant of many British institutions; she knew nothing of the books in which she might have traced the Carew history; she had nothing to guide her but her own feminine instinct, but if that instinct were right, what was to become of Mary Rhodes?Her face looked so sad, so downcast, that Cecil’s conscience was pricked.“Poor old Claire!” she said gently, “how I do worry you, to be sure! Never mind, my dear, I’ll make it up to you one day. You’ve been a brick to me, and I shan’t forget it. And I’ll go to my mother’s for the whole of the Easter holidays, and save up my pennies to pay you back. The poor old soul felt defrauded because I stayed only a week at Christmas, so she’ll be thankful to have me. You can go to Brussels with an easy mind, knowing that I’m out of temptation. That will be killing two birds with one stone. What do you say to having cocoa now, instead of waiting till nine o’clock? We’ve tired ourselves out with all this fuss?”
The contrasts of life seemed painfully strong to Claire Gifford that Saturday afternoon as she seated herself in the luxurious car by Mrs Willoughby’s side, and thought of Sophie Blake obliged to borrow ten pounds to pay for a chance of health, and the contrast deepened during the next few hours, as she watched beautifully gowned women squandering money on useless trifles which decked the various “stalls.” Embroidered cushions, painted sachets, veil cases, shaving cases, night-dress cases, bridge bags, fan bags, handkerchief bags, work bags; bags of every size, of every shape, of every conceivable material; bead necklaces, mats—a wilderness of mats—a very pyramid of drawn-thread work. Claire found a seat near the principal stall, where she caught the remarks of the buyers as they turned away. ”...I detest painted satin! Can’t think why I bought that ridiculous sachet. It will have to go on to the next bazaar.”
”...That makes my twenty-third bag! Rather a sweet, though, isn’t he? It will go with my grey dress.”
“This is awful! I’m not getting on at all. I can’t decently spend less than five pounds. For goodness’ sake tell me what to buy!”
“Can’t think why people give bazaars! Such an upset in the house. For some charity, I believe—I forget what. She asked me to come...”
So on and so on; scores of women surging to and fro, swinging bags of gold and silver chain, buying baubles for which they had no use; occasionally—very occasionally, for love of the cause; often—very often because Lady — had sent a personal invitation, and Lady — was a useful friend, and gave such charming balls!
At the two concerts Claire had a pleasant success, which she enjoyed with all her heart. Her whistling performance seemed to act as a general introduction, for every listener seemed to be anxious to talk to her, and to ask an infinitude of questions. Was it difficult? How long did it take to learn? Was she nervous? Wasn’t it difficult not to laugh? How did she manage not to look a fright? Did she do it often? Did shemind? This last question usually led up to a tentative mention of some entertainment in which the speaker was interested, but after the first refusal Claire was on guard, and regretted that her time was filled up. She was eager to help Mrs Willoughby, but had no desire to be turned into an unpaid public performer!
Janet did not appear at the bazaar, so the drive home was once more atête-à-tête, during which Mrs Willoughby questioned Claire as to the coming holidays, and expressed pleasure to hear that they were to be spent in Brussels. She was so kind and motherly in her manner that Claire was emboldened to bespeak her interest on Sophie’s behalf.
“I suppose,” she said tentatively, “you don’t know of any family going abroad to a dry climate—it must be a very dry climate—who would like to take a girl with them to—er—to be a sort of help! She’s a pretty girl, and very gay and amusing, and she’s had the highest possible training in health exercises. She would be splendid if there was a delicate child who needed physical development, and, of course, she is quite well educated all round. She could teach up to a certain point. She is the Gym. mistress in my school, and is very popular with the girls.”
“And why does she want to leave?”
“She’s not well. It’s rheumatism—a bad kind of rheumatism. It is just beginning, and the doctor says it ought to be tackled at once, and that to live on clay soil is the worst thing for her. If she stays at Saint Cuthbert’s she’s practically bound to live on clay. And he says she ought to get out of England for the next few winters. She has not a penny beyond her salary, but if she could find a post—”
“Well, why not?” Mrs Willoughby’s voice was full of a cheerful optimism. “I don’t know of anything at present, but I’ll make inquiries among my friends. There ought not to be any difficulty. So many people winter abroad; and there is quite a craze for these physical exercises. Oh, yes, my dear, I am sure I can help. Poor thing! poor girl! it’s so important to keep her health. I must find some one who will be considerate, and not work her too hard.”
She spoke as if the post were a settled thing; as if there were several posts from which to choose. Probably there were. Among her large circle of wealthy friends this popular and influential woman, given a little trouble, could almost certainly find a chance for Sophie Blake.Given a little trouble! That was the rub! Five out of six of the women who had thronged Lady —’s rooms that afternoon would have dismissed Sophie’s case with an easy sympathy, “Poor creature! Quite too sad, but really, you know, my dear, it’s a shocking mistake to recommend any one to a friend. If anything goes wrong, you get blamed yourself. Isn’t there a Home?” Mrs Willoughby was the exception to the rule; she helped in deed, as well as in word. Claire looked at the large plain face with a very passion of admiration.
“Oh, I wish all women were like you! I’m so glad you are rich. I hope you will go on growing richer and richer. You are the right person to have money, because you help, youwantto help, you remember other women who are poor.”
“My dear,” said Mrs Willoughby softly, “I have been poor myself. My father lost his money, and for years we had a hard struggle. Then I married—for love, my dear, not money, but there was money, too,—more money than I could spend. It was an intoxicating experience, and I found it difficult not to be carried away. My dear husband had settled a large income on me, for my own use, so I determined, as a safeguard, to divide it in two, and use half for myself and half for gentlewomen like your friend, who need a helping hand. I have done that now for twenty-five years, but I give out of my abundance, my dear; it is easy for me to give money; I deserve no credit for that.”
“You give time, too, and sympathy, and kindness. It’s no use, Mrs Willoughby. I’ve put you on the topmost pinnacle in my mind, and nothing that you can say can pull you down. I think you are the best woman in London!”
“Dear, dear, you will turn my head! I’m not accustomed to such wholesale flattery,” cried Mrs Willoughby, laughing; then the car stopped, and Claire made her adieux, and sprang lightly to the ground.
The chauffeur had stopped before the wrong house, but he did not discover his mistake as Claire purposely stood still until he had turned the car and started to retrace his way westward. The evening was fine though chill, and the air was refreshing after the crowded heat of Lady —’s rooms. Claire had only the length of a block to walk, and she went slowly, drawing deep breaths to fill her tired lungs.
The afternoon had passed pleasantly enough, but it had left her feeling flat and depressed. She questioned herself as to the cause of her depression. Was she jealous of those other girls who lived lives of luxury and idleness? Honestly she was not. She was not in the position of a girl who had known nothing but poverty, and who therefore felt a girl’s natural longing for pretty rooms, pretty clothes, and a taste of gaiety and excitement. Claire had known all these things, and could know them again; neither was she in the position of a working girl who has no one to help in the day of adversity, for a comfortable home was open to her at any moment. No! she was not jealous: she probed still deeper, and acknowledged that she was disappointed! Last time that she had whistled in public—
Claire shook her head with an impatient toss. This was feeble. This was ridiculous. A man whom she had met twice! A man whose mother had refused an introduction. A man whom Janet—
“I must get to work, and prepare my lesson for Monday. Nothing like good work to drive away these sentimental follies!”
But Fate was not kind, for right before her eyes were a couple of lovers strolling onward, the man’s hand through the girl’s arm, his head bent low over hers. Claire winced at the sight, but the next moment her interest quickened in a somewhat painful fashion, as the man straightened himself suddenly, and swung apart with a gesture of offence. The lovers were quarrelling! Now the width of the pavement was between them; they strode onward, ostentatiously detached. Claire smiled to herself at the childishness of the display. One moment embracing in the open street, the next flaunting their differences so boldly that every passer-by must realise the position! Surely a grown man or woman ought to have more self-control. Then suddenly the light of a lamp shone on the pair, and she recognised the familiar figures of Mary Rhodes and Major Carew. He wore a long light overcoat. Cecil had evidently slipped out of the house to meet him, for she was attired in her sports coat and knitted cap. Poor Cecil! The interview seemed to be ending in anything but a pleasant fashion.
Claire lingered behind until the couple had passed her own doorway, let herself in with her latch-key, and hastened to settle down to work. When Cecil came in, she would not wish to be observed. Claire carried her books to the bureau, so as to have her back to the fire, but before she had been five minutes writing, she heard the click of the lock, and Cecil herself came into the room.
“Halloa! I saw the light go up. I thought it must be you.” She was silent for a couple of minutes, then spoke again in a sharp, summoning voice: “Claire!”
“Yes?”
Claire turned round, to behold Cecil standing at the end of the dining-table, her bare hands clasping its rim. She was so white that her lips looked of a startling redness; her eyes met Claire with a defiant hardness.
“I want you to lend me five poundsnow!”
Claire’s anxiety was swallowed in a rising of irritation which brought an edge of coldness into her voice.
“Five pounds! What for? Cecil, I have never spoken of it, I have never worried you, but I’ve already paid—”
“I know! I know! I’ll pay you back. But I must have this to-night, and I’ve nowhere else to go. It’s important. I would lend it to you, Claire, if it were in my power.”
“Cecil, I hate to refuse, but really—Ineedmy money! Just now I need it particularly. I can’t afford to go on lending. I’m dreadfully sorry, but—”
“Claire, please! I implore you, just this one time! I’ll pay you back... There’s my insurance policy—I can raise something on that. For pity’s sake, Claire, help me this time!”
Claire rose silently and went upstairs. It was not in her to refuse such a request while a five-pound note lay in her desk upstairs. She slipped the crackling paper into an envelope, and carried it down to the parlour. Cecil took it without a word, and went back into the night.
When she had gone, Claire gathered her papers together in a neat little heap, ranged them in a corner of the bureau, and seated herself on a stiff-backed chair at the end of the table. She looked as if she were mounted on a seat of justice, and the position suited her frame of mind. She felt angry and ill-used. Cecil had no right to borrow money from a fellow-worker! The money in the bank was dwindling rapidly; the ten guineas for Sophie would make another big hole. She did not grudge that—she was eager and ready to give it for so good a cause; butwhatwas Cecil doing with these repeated loans? To judge from appearances, she was rather poorer than richer during the last few months, while bills for her new clothes came in again and again, and received no settlement. An obstinate look settled on Claire’s face. She determined to have this thing out.
In ten minutes’ time Cecil was back again, still white, still defiant, meeting Claire’s glance with a shrug, seating herself at the opposite end of the table with an air of callous indifference to what should come next.
“Well?”
“Well?”
“You look as if you had something to say!”
“I have. Cecil, what are you doing with all this money?”
“That’s my business, I suppose!”
“I don’t see it, when the money is mine! I think I have the right to ask?”
“I’ve told you I’ll pay you back!”
“That’s not the question. I want to know what you are doingnow! You are not paying your bills.”
“I’ll sell out some shares to-morrow, and—”
“You shall do no such thing. I can wait, and I will wait, but I can’t go on lending; and if I did, it could do you no good. Where does the money go? It doesyouno good!”
“I am the best judge of that.”
“Cecil,are you lending money to that man?”
The words leapt out, as on occasion such words will leap, without thought or premeditation on the speaker’s part. She did not intend to speak them; if she had given herself one moment for reflection she dared not have spoken them; when their sound struck across the quiet room she was almost as much startled as Cecil herself; yet heart and brain approved their utterance; heart and brain pronounced that she had discovered the truth.
Cecil’s face was a deep glowing red.
“Really, Claire, you go too far! Why in the world should you think—”
“I saw you with him now in the street. I could see that you were quarrelling; you took no pains to hide it. You left him to come in to me, and went back again. It seems pretty obvious.”
“Well! and if I did?” Cecil had plainly decided that denial was useless. “I am responsible for the loan. What does it matter to you who uses it?”
But at that Claire’s anger vanished, and she shrank back with a cry of pain and shame.
“And hetookit from you? Money! Took it from a girl he professes to love—who is working for herself! Oh, Cecil, howcouldhe? How could you allow him? How can you go on caring for such a man?”
“Don’t get hysterical, Claire, please. There’s nothing so extraordinary in a man being hard up. It’s happened before now in the history of the world. Frank has a position to keep up, and his father—I’ve told you before how mean and difficult his father is, and it’s so important that Frank should keep on good terms just now.—He dare not worry him for money. When he is going to make me a rich woman some day, why should I refuse to lend him a few trifling pounds when he runs short? He’s in an expensive regiment; he belongs to an expensive Club; he is obliged to keep up with the other men. If I had twice as much I would lend it with pleasure.”
Claire opened her lips to say that at least no more borrowed money should be supplied for Major Carew, but the words were never spoken. Pity engulfed her, a passion of pity for the poor woman who a second time had fallen under the spell of an unscrupulous man. Cecil’s explanation had fallen on deaf ears, for Claire could accept no excuses for a man who borrowed from a woman to ensure comfort and luxury for himself. An officer in the King’s army! The thing seemed incredible; so incredible that, for the first time, a rising of suspicion mingled with her dislike. Mentally, she rehearsed the facts of Major Carew’s history as narrated by himself, and found herself doubting every one. The beautiful house in the country—did it really exist? The eccentric old father who refused to part with his gold—was he flesh and blood, or a fictitious figure invented as a convenient excuse? The fortune which was to enrich the future—wasthere such a fortune? Or, if there were, was Major Carew in truth the eldest son? Claire felt a devastating helplessness her life abroad had left her ignorant of many British institutions; she knew nothing of the books in which she might have traced the Carew history; she had nothing to guide her but her own feminine instinct, but if that instinct were right, what was to become of Mary Rhodes?
Her face looked so sad, so downcast, that Cecil’s conscience was pricked.
“Poor old Claire!” she said gently, “how I do worry you, to be sure! Never mind, my dear, I’ll make it up to you one day. You’ve been a brick to me, and I shan’t forget it. And I’ll go to my mother’s for the whole of the Easter holidays, and save up my pennies to pay you back. The poor old soul felt defrauded because I stayed only a week at Christmas, so she’ll be thankful to have me. You can go to Brussels with an easy mind, knowing that I’m out of temptation. That will be killing two birds with one stone. What do you say to having cocoa now, instead of waiting till nine o’clock? We’ve tired ourselves out with all this fuss?”
Chapter Sixteen.The Meeting in Hyde Park.It was the end of May. The weather was warm and sunny, the windows of the West End were gay with flowers; in the Park the great beds of rhododendrons blazed forth in a glow of beauty. It was the season, and a particularly gay and festive season at that. “Everybody” was in town, including a few million “nobodies.” There were clerks toiling by their thousands in the City, chained all day long to their desks; there were clerks’ wives at home in the suburbs, toiling all day too, and sometimes far into the night; there were typists, and shop assistants, and prosperous heads of households, who worked steadily for five and a half days a week, in order that their families might enjoy comfort and ease, condensing their own relaxation into short Saturday afternoons. And there were school-mistresses, too, who saw the sun through form-room windows, but felt its call all the same—the call of the whole glad spring—and grew restless, and nervous, and short in temper. It was not the leaders of society whom they envied; they read of Court balls, and garden parties, of preparations for Ascot and Henley with a serene detachment, just as they read with indifference in the fashion page of a daily newspaper that “Square watches are the vogue this season, and ourélégantesare ordering several specimens of this dainty bauble to match the prevailing colours of their costumes,” the while they suffered real pangs at the sight of an “alarming sacrifice” at twenty-nine and six. The one was almost within their grasp; the other floated in the nebulous atmosphere of a different sphere.In the staff-room at lunch-time the staff grew restless and critical. The hot joints no longer appealed to their appetites, the watery vegetables and heavy puddings became things abhorred. They thought of cool salads andcompôteson ice, and hated the sight of the greasy brown gravy. They blamed the cook, they blamed the Committee, they said repeatedly, “Nobody thinks ofus!” and exchanged anecdotes illustrative of the dulness, the stupidity of their pupils. As for the Matric. candidates, they wouldallfail! There wasn’t a chance for a single one. The stupidest set of girls the school had ever possessed! Oh, certainly they would all fail!“And then,” said Mary Rhodes bitterly, “weshall be blamed.”The Arts mistress said with a sigh—“Oh, wouldn’t it be heavenly to run away from it all, and have a week-end in the country! The gorse will be out, and the hawthorn still in blossom. What’s the very cheapest one could do it on for two days?”Mademoiselle said—“Absolutely,ma chère, there is no help for it. It is necessary that I have a distraction. I must buy a new hat.”Sophie Blake said defiantly to herself—“Crippled? Ridiculous! Irefuseto be crippled. I want to run, and run, and run, and run, and dance, and sing, and jump about! I feel pent! I feel caged! And all that precious money squandered on injections...”The six weeks’ course of treatment had been, from the doctor’s point of view, a complete success; from Sophie’s a big disappointment. She argued that she was still stiff, still in pain, that the improvement was but small; he pointed out that without the injections she would of a certainty have been worse, and since in arthritis even to remain stationary was a success, to have improved in the smallest degree in six weeks’ time might be regarded as a triumph. He prescribed a restful holiday during the Easter vacation, and a second course of treatment on her return. Sophie resigned herself to do without new clothes for the summer, and sold her most treasured possession, a diamond ring which had belonged to her mother, so that the second ten pounds was secure. But how was she to pay back the original loan?Meanwhile Mrs Willoughby was inquiring among her friends for a suitable post, and had played the good fairy by arranging to send Sophie for the Easter holidays to a country cottage on the Surrey heights, which she ran as a health resort for gentlewomen. Here on a fine dry soil, the air scented with the fragrant breath of the pines, with nothing to do, and plenty of appetising food to eat, the Gym. mistress’s general health improved so rapidly that she came back to school with her thin cheeks quite filled out.“Very satisfactory,” said the doctor. “Now I shall be able to get on to stronger doses!”“What’s the good of getting better, only to be made worse?” cried Sophie in rebellion.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’stête-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, ifonly, onlyhe 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!”“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. Ididenjoy 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 spendingyourChristmas 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 passing motor, of which she saw nothing but a moving mass; 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 Iamhere 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 coarse 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.Whatexcuse could there be for such a man? She drew her brows together in puzzled fashion, and said slowly—“Then surely, if he is the heir, he ought to be rich!”“It doesn’t necessarily follow. I should say Carew was not at all flush. Landed property is an expensive luxury in these days. I’ve heard, too, that the father is a bit of a miser. He may not be generous in the matter of allowance!”Claire sat staring ahead, buried in thought, and Captain Fanshawe stared at her in his turn, and wondered once more why this particular girl was different from every other girl, and why in her presence he felt a fullness of happiness and content. She was very pretty; but pretty girls were no novelty in his life; he knew them by the score. It was not her beauty which attracted him, but a mysterious affinity which made her seem nearer to him than he had hitherto believed it possible for any human creature to be. He had recognised this mysterious quality at their first meeting; he had felt it more strongly at Mrs Willoughby’s “At Home”; six months’ absence had not diminished his interest. Just now, when he had caught sight of her flushed upturned face, his heart had leapt with a violence which startled him out of his ordinary calm. Something had happened to him. When he had time he must think the thing out and discover its meaning. But how did she come to be so uncommonly interested in Carew? He met Claire’s eyes, and she asked falteringly—“I wish you would tell me what you think of him personally! Do you think he is—nice?”“Tell me first what you think yourself.”“Honestly? You won’t mind?”“Not one single little bit! I told you he is a mere acquaintance.”“Then,” said Claire deliberately, “I think he is the most horrible, detestable, insufferable, altogether despicable creature I have ever met in the whole of my life!”“What! What! I say, youaredown on him!” Captain Fanshawe stared, beamed with an obvious relief, then hastened to defend an absent man. “You’re wrong, you know; really you’re wrong! I don’t call Carew the most attractive fellow you can meet; rather rough manners, don’t you know, but he’s all right—Carew’s all right. You mustn’t judge by appearances, Miss Gifford. Some of the most decent fellows in the Club are in his set. Upon my word, I think he is quite a good sort.” Captain Fanshawe waxed the more eloquent as Claire preserved her expression of incredulous dislike. He looked at her curiously, and said, “I suppose I mustn’t ask—I suppose you couldn’t tell me exactly why you are so interested in Carew?”“I’m afraid not. No; I’m afraid I can’t,” Claire said regretfully. Then suddenly there flashed through her mind a remembrance of the many tangles and misunderstandings which take place in books for want of a little sensible out-speaking. She looked into Captain Fanshawe’s face with her pretty dark-lashed eyes and said honestly, “I wanted to know about him for the sake of—another person?Nothingto do with myself! I have only met him twice. I hope I shall never meet him again!”“Thank you,” said the man simply, and at the time neither of the two realised the full significance of those quiet words. It was only on living over the interview on her return home that Claire remembered and understood!For the next quarter of an hour they abandoned the personal note, and discussed the various topics of the hour. They did not always agree, and neither was of the type to be easily swayed from a preconceived opinion, but always they were interested, always they felt a sympathy for the other view, never once was there a fraction of a pause. They had so much to say that they could have talked for hours.Gradually the Park began to empty, the string of motors grew less, the crowd on the footpath no longer lounged, but walked quickly with a definite purpose; the green chairs stood in rows without a single occupant. Claire looked round, realised her isolation, drew an involuntary sigh, and rose in her turn.“It’s getting late. I must be hurrying home. I go to the Marble Arch and take a motor-’bus. Please don’t let me take you out of your way!”He looked at her straightly but did not reply, and they paced together down the broad roadway, past the sunken beds of rhododendrons with the fountain playing in the centre, towards the archway which seemed to both so unnecessarily near! Claire thought of the six months which lay behind, saw before her a vision of months ahead unenlightened by another meeting, and felt suddenly tired and chill. Captain Fanshawe frowned and bit at his lower lip.“I am going away to-morrow. We shall be in camp. In August I am taking part of my leave to run up to Scotland, but I can always come to town if I’m needed, or if there’s a special inducement. I came up for both the Willoughbys’ ‘At Homes.’”“Did you?” Claire said feebly, and fell a-thinking. The inference was too plain to be misunderstood. The “special inducement” in this instance had been the hope of meeting herself. Actually it would appear that he had travelled some distance to ensure this chance, but the chance had been deliberately denied. Kind Mrs Willoughby would have welcomed her with open arms; it was Janet who had laid the ban. Janet was friendly, almost affectionate. As spring progressed she had repeatedly called at Saint Cuthbert’s after afternoon school and carried Claire off for refreshing country drives. Quite evidently she enjoyed Claire’s society, quite evidently also she preferred to enjoy it when other visitors were not present. Claire was not offended, for she knew that there was no taint of snobbishness in this decision; she was just sorry, and, in a curious fashion, remorseful into the bargain. She did not argue out the point, but instinctively she felt that Janet, not herself, was the one to be pitied!They reached the end of the footpath: in another minute they would be in the noise and bustle of Oxford Street. Erskine Fanshawe came to an abrupt halt, faced Claire and cried impulsively—“Miss Gifford!”“Yes?”Claire shrank instinctively. She knew that she was about to be asked a question which it would be difficult to answer.Erskine planted his stick on the ground, and stared straight into her eyes.“Why are you so determined to give me no chance of meeting you again?”“I—I’mnotdetermined! I hope weshallmeet. Perhaps next winter—at Mrs Willoughby’s.”He laughed grimly.“But if I were not content to wait for ‘perhaps next winter—at Mrs Willoughby’s.’ ... What then?”Claire looked at him gravely.“What would you suggest? I have no home in London, and no relations, and your mother, Captain Fanshawe, would not introduce me to you when she had the chance!”He made a gesture of impatience.“Oh, my mother is the most charming of women—and the most indiscreet. She acts always on the impulse of the moment. She introduced you to Mrs Willoughby, or asked Mrs Willoughby to introduce herself, which comes to the same thing. Surely that proves that she—she—”He broke off, finding a difficulty in expressing what he wanted to say; but Claire understood, and emphatically disagreed. To enlist a friend’s sympathy was a very different thing from running the risk of entangling the affections of an only son! Obviously, however, she could not advance this argument, so they stood, the man and the girl, looking at one another, helpless, irresolute, while the clock opposite ticked remorselessly on. Then, with an abruptness which lent added weight to his words, Erskine said boldly—“I want to meet you again! I am not content to wait upon chance.”Claire did not blush; on the contrary, the colour faded from her cheeks. Most certainly she also was not content, but she did not waver in her resolution.“I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it. It’s one of the hardships of a working girl’s life that she can’t entertain or make plans. It seems more impossible to me, perhaps, from having lived abroad where conventions are so strict. English girls have had more freedom. I don’t see what I can do. I’m sorry!”—she held out her hand in farewell. “I hope some day Ishallsee you again!”Quite suddenly Captain Fanshawe’s mood seemed to change. The set look left his face; he smiled—a bright confident smile.“There’s not much fear about that! I shall take very good care that we do!”
It was the end of May. The weather was warm and sunny, the windows of the West End were gay with flowers; in the Park the great beds of rhododendrons blazed forth in a glow of beauty. It was the season, and a particularly gay and festive season at that. “Everybody” was in town, including a few million “nobodies.” There were clerks toiling by their thousands in the City, chained all day long to their desks; there were clerks’ wives at home in the suburbs, toiling all day too, and sometimes far into the night; there were typists, and shop assistants, and prosperous heads of households, who worked steadily for five and a half days a week, in order that their families might enjoy comfort and ease, condensing their own relaxation into short Saturday afternoons. And there were school-mistresses, too, who saw the sun through form-room windows, but felt its call all the same—the call of the whole glad spring—and grew restless, and nervous, and short in temper. It was not the leaders of society whom they envied; they read of Court balls, and garden parties, of preparations for Ascot and Henley with a serene detachment, just as they read with indifference in the fashion page of a daily newspaper that “Square watches are the vogue this season, and ourélégantesare ordering several specimens of this dainty bauble to match the prevailing colours of their costumes,” the while they suffered real pangs at the sight of an “alarming sacrifice” at twenty-nine and six. The one was almost within their grasp; the other floated in the nebulous atmosphere of a different sphere.
In the staff-room at lunch-time the staff grew restless and critical. The hot joints no longer appealed to their appetites, the watery vegetables and heavy puddings became things abhorred. They thought of cool salads andcompôteson ice, and hated the sight of the greasy brown gravy. They blamed the cook, they blamed the Committee, they said repeatedly, “Nobody thinks ofus!” and exchanged anecdotes illustrative of the dulness, the stupidity of their pupils. As for the Matric. candidates, they wouldallfail! There wasn’t a chance for a single one. The stupidest set of girls the school had ever possessed! Oh, certainly they would all fail!
“And then,” said Mary Rhodes bitterly, “weshall be blamed.”
The Arts mistress said with a sigh—
“Oh, wouldn’t it be heavenly to run away from it all, and have a week-end in the country! The gorse will be out, and the hawthorn still in blossom. What’s the very cheapest one could do it on for two days?”
Mademoiselle said—
“Absolutely,ma chère, there is no help for it. It is necessary that I have a distraction. I must buy a new hat.”
Sophie Blake said defiantly to herself—
“Crippled? Ridiculous! Irefuseto be crippled. I want to run, and run, and run, and run, and dance, and sing, and jump about! I feel pent! I feel caged! And all that precious money squandered on injections...”
The six weeks’ course of treatment had been, from the doctor’s point of view, a complete success; from Sophie’s a big disappointment. She argued that she was still stiff, still in pain, that the improvement was but small; he pointed out that without the injections she would of a certainty have been worse, and since in arthritis even to remain stationary was a success, to have improved in the smallest degree in six weeks’ time might be regarded as a triumph. He prescribed a restful holiday during the Easter vacation, and a second course of treatment on her return. Sophie resigned herself to do without new clothes for the summer, and sold her most treasured possession, a diamond ring which had belonged to her mother, so that the second ten pounds was secure. But how was she to pay back the original loan?
Meanwhile Mrs Willoughby was inquiring among her friends for a suitable post, and had played the good fairy by arranging to send Sophie for the Easter holidays to a country cottage on the Surrey heights, which she ran as a health resort for gentlewomen. Here on a fine dry soil, the air scented with the fragrant breath of the pines, with nothing to do, and plenty of appetising food to eat, the Gym. mistress’s general health improved so rapidly that she came back to school with her thin cheeks quite filled out.
“Very satisfactory,” said the doctor. “Now I shall be able to get on to stronger doses!”
“What’s the good of getting better, only to be made worse?” cried Sophie in rebellion.
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’stête-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, ifonly, onlyhe 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!”
“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. Ididenjoy 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 spendingyourChristmas 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 passing motor, of which she saw nothing but a moving mass; 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 Iamhere 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 coarse 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.Whatexcuse could there be for such a man? She drew her brows together in puzzled fashion, and said slowly—
“Then surely, if he is the heir, he ought to be rich!”
“It doesn’t necessarily follow. I should say Carew was not at all flush. Landed property is an expensive luxury in these days. I’ve heard, too, that the father is a bit of a miser. He may not be generous in the matter of allowance!”
Claire sat staring ahead, buried in thought, and Captain Fanshawe stared at her in his turn, and wondered once more why this particular girl was different from every other girl, and why in her presence he felt a fullness of happiness and content. She was very pretty; but pretty girls were no novelty in his life; he knew them by the score. It was not her beauty which attracted him, but a mysterious affinity which made her seem nearer to him than he had hitherto believed it possible for any human creature to be. He had recognised this mysterious quality at their first meeting; he had felt it more strongly at Mrs Willoughby’s “At Home”; six months’ absence had not diminished his interest. Just now, when he had caught sight of her flushed upturned face, his heart had leapt with a violence which startled him out of his ordinary calm. Something had happened to him. When he had time he must think the thing out and discover its meaning. But how did she come to be so uncommonly interested in Carew? He met Claire’s eyes, and she asked falteringly—
“I wish you would tell me what you think of him personally! Do you think he is—nice?”
“Tell me first what you think yourself.”
“Honestly? You won’t mind?”
“Not one single little bit! I told you he is a mere acquaintance.”
“Then,” said Claire deliberately, “I think he is the most horrible, detestable, insufferable, altogether despicable creature I have ever met in the whole of my life!”
“What! What! I say, youaredown on him!” Captain Fanshawe stared, beamed with an obvious relief, then hastened to defend an absent man. “You’re wrong, you know; really you’re wrong! I don’t call Carew the most attractive fellow you can meet; rather rough manners, don’t you know, but he’s all right—Carew’s all right. You mustn’t judge by appearances, Miss Gifford. Some of the most decent fellows in the Club are in his set. Upon my word, I think he is quite a good sort.” Captain Fanshawe waxed the more eloquent as Claire preserved her expression of incredulous dislike. He looked at her curiously, and said, “I suppose I mustn’t ask—I suppose you couldn’t tell me exactly why you are so interested in Carew?”
“I’m afraid not. No; I’m afraid I can’t,” Claire said regretfully. Then suddenly there flashed through her mind a remembrance of the many tangles and misunderstandings which take place in books for want of a little sensible out-speaking. She looked into Captain Fanshawe’s face with her pretty dark-lashed eyes and said honestly, “I wanted to know about him for the sake of—another person?Nothingto do with myself! I have only met him twice. I hope I shall never meet him again!”
“Thank you,” said the man simply, and at the time neither of the two realised the full significance of those quiet words. It was only on living over the interview on her return home that Claire remembered and understood!
For the next quarter of an hour they abandoned the personal note, and discussed the various topics of the hour. They did not always agree, and neither was of the type to be easily swayed from a preconceived opinion, but always they were interested, always they felt a sympathy for the other view, never once was there a fraction of a pause. They had so much to say that they could have talked for hours.
Gradually the Park began to empty, the string of motors grew less, the crowd on the footpath no longer lounged, but walked quickly with a definite purpose; the green chairs stood in rows without a single occupant. Claire looked round, realised her isolation, drew an involuntary sigh, and rose in her turn.
“It’s getting late. I must be hurrying home. I go to the Marble Arch and take a motor-’bus. Please don’t let me take you out of your way!”
He looked at her straightly but did not reply, and they paced together down the broad roadway, past the sunken beds of rhododendrons with the fountain playing in the centre, towards the archway which seemed to both so unnecessarily near! Claire thought of the six months which lay behind, saw before her a vision of months ahead unenlightened by another meeting, and felt suddenly tired and chill. Captain Fanshawe frowned and bit at his lower lip.
“I am going away to-morrow. We shall be in camp. In August I am taking part of my leave to run up to Scotland, but I can always come to town if I’m needed, or if there’s a special inducement. I came up for both the Willoughbys’ ‘At Homes.’”
“Did you?” Claire said feebly, and fell a-thinking. The inference was too plain to be misunderstood. The “special inducement” in this instance had been the hope of meeting herself. Actually it would appear that he had travelled some distance to ensure this chance, but the chance had been deliberately denied. Kind Mrs Willoughby would have welcomed her with open arms; it was Janet who had laid the ban. Janet was friendly, almost affectionate. As spring progressed she had repeatedly called at Saint Cuthbert’s after afternoon school and carried Claire off for refreshing country drives. Quite evidently she enjoyed Claire’s society, quite evidently also she preferred to enjoy it when other visitors were not present. Claire was not offended, for she knew that there was no taint of snobbishness in this decision; she was just sorry, and, in a curious fashion, remorseful into the bargain. She did not argue out the point, but instinctively she felt that Janet, not herself, was the one to be pitied!
They reached the end of the footpath: in another minute they would be in the noise and bustle of Oxford Street. Erskine Fanshawe came to an abrupt halt, faced Claire and cried impulsively—
“Miss Gifford!”
“Yes?”
Claire shrank instinctively. She knew that she was about to be asked a question which it would be difficult to answer.
Erskine planted his stick on the ground, and stared straight into her eyes.
“Why are you so determined to give me no chance of meeting you again?”
“I—I’mnotdetermined! I hope weshallmeet. Perhaps next winter—at Mrs Willoughby’s.”
He laughed grimly.
“But if I were not content to wait for ‘perhaps next winter—at Mrs Willoughby’s.’ ... What then?”
Claire looked at him gravely.
“What would you suggest? I have no home in London, and no relations, and your mother, Captain Fanshawe, would not introduce me to you when she had the chance!”
He made a gesture of impatience.
“Oh, my mother is the most charming of women—and the most indiscreet. She acts always on the impulse of the moment. She introduced you to Mrs Willoughby, or asked Mrs Willoughby to introduce herself, which comes to the same thing. Surely that proves that she—she—”
He broke off, finding a difficulty in expressing what he wanted to say; but Claire understood, and emphatically disagreed. To enlist a friend’s sympathy was a very different thing from running the risk of entangling the affections of an only son! Obviously, however, she could not advance this argument, so they stood, the man and the girl, looking at one another, helpless, irresolute, while the clock opposite ticked remorselessly on. Then, with an abruptness which lent added weight to his words, Erskine said boldly—
“I want to meet you again! I am not content to wait upon chance.”
Claire did not blush; on the contrary, the colour faded from her cheeks. Most certainly she also was not content, but she did not waver in her resolution.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing else for it. It’s one of the hardships of a working girl’s life that she can’t entertain or make plans. It seems more impossible to me, perhaps, from having lived abroad where conventions are so strict. English girls have had more freedom. I don’t see what I can do. I’m sorry!”—she held out her hand in farewell. “I hope some day Ishallsee you again!”
Quite suddenly Captain Fanshawe’s mood seemed to change. The set look left his face; he smiled—a bright confident smile.
“There’s not much fear about that! I shall take very good care that we do!”
Chapter Seventeen.God’s opportunity.After the meeting with Captain Fanshawe in the Park, Claire’s relationship with Mary Rhodes sensibly improved. In the first place, her own happiness made her softer and more lenient in her judgment, for shewasdeeply, intensely happy, with a happiness which all her reasonings were powerless to destroy.“My dear, what nonsense!” she preached to herself in elderly remonstrating fashion. “You met the man, and he was pleased to see you—he seemed quite anxious to meet you again. Perfectly natural! Pray don’t imagine any special meaning inthat! You looked quite an attractive little girl in your pretty blue dress, and men like to talk to attractive little girls. I dare say he says just the same to dozens of girls!” So spake the inner voice, but spoke in vain. The best things of life are beyond reasoning. As in religion reason leads us, as it were, to the very edge of the rock of proven fact, then faith takes wing, and soars above the things of earth into the great silence where the soul communes with God, so in love there comes to the heart a sweetness, a certainty, which no reasoning can shake. As Erskine’s eyes had looked into hers in those moments of farewell, Claire had realised that between this man and herself there existed a bond which was stronger than spoken word.So far as she could foresee, they were hopelessly divided by the circumstances of life, but in the first dawn of love no lover troubles himself about what the future may bring; the sweetness of the present is all-sufficient. Claire was happy, and longed for every one else to be as happy as herself. Moreover, her suspicions concerning Major Carew had been lulled to rest by Erskine’s favourable pronouncement. Personally she did not like him, but this was, after all, a matter of taste; she could not approve his actions, but conceivably there might be explanations of which she was unaware. Her manner to Cecil regained its old spontaneous friendliness, and Cecil responded with almost pathetic readiness. In her ungracious way she had grown fond of her pretty, kindly companion, and had missed the atmosphere of home which her presence had given to the saffron parlour. As they sat over their simple supper, she would study Claire’s face with a questioning glance, and one night the question found vent in words.“You look mightily pleased with yourself, young woman! Your eyes are sparkling as if you were having a firework exhibition on your own account. I never saw a school-mistress look so perky at the end of the summer term! Look as if you’d come into a fortune!”“Wish I had!” sighed Claire, thankful to switch the conversation on to a safe topic. “It would come in most usefully at the moment. What are you going to do for the summer hols, Cecil? Is there any possibility of—”“No,” Cecil said shortly. “And the regiment is going into camp, so he will be out of town. I’m not bothering my head about holidays—quite enough to do with this wretched Matric. The Head is keen to make a good show this year, for the Dulwich School beat us last year, and, as usual, all the responsibility and all the blame is put on the poor mistresses. You can’t make girls work if they don’t want, you can’t cram their brains when they’ve no brains to cram; but those wretched examiners send a record of all the marks, so you can see exactly where they fall short. Woe betide the mistress who is responsible for that branch! I wouldn’t mind prophesying that if the German doesn’t come out better than last year, Fräulein will be packed off. I wouldn’t be too sure of myself. I’ve done all right so far, but the Head is not as devoted to me as she might be. I don’t think she’d be sorry to have an excuse for getting rid of me. That’s one of the delightful aspects of our position—we are absolutely at the mercy of a woman who, from sheer force of circumstances, becomes more of an autocrat every year. The Committee listen to her, and accept every word she says; the staff know better than to dispute a single order. We’d stand on our head in rows if she made it a rule! The pupils scuttle like rabbits when they see her coming, and cheer themselves hoarse every time she speaks. No human woman can live in that atmosphere for years and keep a cool head!”“She’s rather a dear, though, all the same!” Claire said loyally. She had been hurt by the lack of personal interest which Miss Farnborough showed in the different members of her staff, but she was unwilling to brand her as a heartless tyrant. “Anyway,” she added hastily, “you are not satisfied here. If you were going on teaching I should have thought you’d be glad of a change. It would be easy to get another school.”Mary Rhodes looked at her; a long eloquent glance.“With a good testimonial—yes! Without a good testimonial—no! A testimonial for twelve years’ work depends on one woman, remember—on her prejudice or good nature, on the mood in which she happens to be on one particular day. It might read quite differently because she happened to have a chill on her liver.”“My dear! thereisa sense of justice! There is such a thing as honesty.”“My dear, I agree. Even so, would you dare to say that the wording of a testimonial would be unaffected by the writer’s mood?”“Surely twelve years in one school—”“No, it wouldn’t! Not necessarily. ‘Miss Rhodes has been English Mistress at Saint Cuthbert’s for twelve years. Of late has been erratic in temper. Health uncertain. Examination records less satisfactory.’ Well! If you represented another school, wouldyouengage Miss Rhodes?”Claire was silent. For the first time she realised the danger of this single-handed power. It meant—what might it not mean? It might mean that the mistress who was unfortunate enough to incur the dislike of her chief, mightneverbe able to procure another post! She might be efficient, she might be hard-working; given congenial surroundings she might develop into a treasure untold, yet just because of a depreciating phrase in the wording of a testimonial, no chance would be vouchsafed. No doubt the vast majority of head mistresses were women of judgment, possessing a keen sense of justice and responsibility, yet the fact remained that a hasty impulse, a little access of temper in penning those all-important lines, might mean the end of a career, might mean poverty, might mean ruin!Claire shivered, looked across the table at the thin, fretted face and made a hesitating appeal—“Cecil dear, I know you are a good teacher. I just love to hear you talking over your lessons, but youareirritable! One of my girls was crying the other day. You had given so much homework, and she didn’t understand what was to be done, and said she daren’t ask. You had been ‘so cross!’ I made a guess at what you wanted, and by good chance I was right; but if I’d been wrong, the poor thing would have been in disgrace, and honestly it wasn’t her fault! She was willing enough.”“Oh, that imbecile Gladys Brown! I know what you mean. I’d explained it a hundred times. If she’d the brains of a cow she’d have understood. No wonder I was cross. I should have been a saint if I wasn’t, and no one can be a saint in the summer term. Did—did any one else see her cry?”“I think not. No, I managed to comfort her; but if Miss Farnborough had happened to come in just at that moment—”Cecil shrugged and turned the subject, but she took the hint, to the benefit of her pupils during the next few weeks.July came in, and with it a spell of unbearable heat. In country places and by the seashore there was space and air, and clean fragrant surroundings; but over London hung a misty pall, and not a branch of the dusty trees quivered to the movement of a passing breeze. It was a thunderous, unnatural heat which sapped every scrap of vitality, and made every movement a dread.Claire was horrified at the effect of this heat wave on Sophie Blake. In superficial fashion she had always believed that rheumatism must be better in hot weather; but, according to the specialist, such heat as this was more trying than damp or cold, and Sophie’s stiffness increased with alarming suddenness.There came a day when by no effort of will could she get through her classes, when sheer necessity drove her to do the thing she had dreaded most of all—inform the Head that she could not go on with her work.Miss Farnborough was seated in her private room, and listened with grave attention to what the Games mistress had to say. Her forehead puckered in surprise as she noted Sophie’s halting gait, and the while she listened, her keen brain was diving back into the past, collecting impressions. She had seen less than usual of Miss Blake during the term; once or twice she had received the impression that Miss Blake avoided her approach; Miss Blake had been looking pale. She waited until Sophie had finished speaking, her hands folded on her knee, her penetrating eye fixed on the girl’s face. Then she spoke—“I am sorry to hear this, Miss Blake. Your work has been excellent hitherto, but rheumatism is a serious handicap. You say that this heat is responsible for the present attack? Am I to understand that it is a first attack—that you have had no threatening before?”“I have been rheumatic all winter, more or less. Before the Easter holidays it was pretty bad. I began to feel stiff.”Miss Farnborough repeated the word gravely.“Stiff! That was bad; that was very bad! How could you take your classes if you were feeling stiff?”“I managed somehow!” Sophie said.For a moment she had imagined that the Head Mistress’s concern had been on her account; she believed it no longer when she saw the flash of indignation which lighted the grey eyes.“Managed—somehow? And you went on in that fashion—you were content to go on!”“No. I was not content. I was very far from content. I suffered horrible pain. I went to a specialist and paid him two guineas for his advice. Since then I have paid twenty pounds for treatment.”On Miss Farnborough’s face the disapproval grew more and more pronounced.“Miss Blake, I am afraid you have not been quite straightforward in this matter. It appears that you have been ill for months, with an illness which must necessarily have interfered with your work, and this is the first time I hear about it. I am Head Mistress of this school; if anything is wrong with a member of the staff, it is her first duty to come to me. You tell me now that you have been ill for three months, since before the last holidays, and acknowledge that you can go on no longer.”“In ten days we break up. I ask you to allow me ten extra days. The weather is so hot that the girls would be thankful to escape the exercises. By the end of the holidays I hope to be quite better.”“The Easter holidays do not seem to have done you much good,” Miss Farnborough said cruelly. Then, seeing the girl flush, she added, “Of course you shall have your ten days. I can see that you are unfit for work, and we must manage without you till the end of the term. I am very sorry for you, Miss Blake; very sorry, indeed. It is very trying and upsetting and—and expensive into the bargain. Twenty pounds, did you say? That is surely a great deal! Have you tried the shilling bottles of gout and rheumatic pills? I have been told they are quite excellent. But I must repeat that you have been wrong in not coming to me sooner. As a pure matter of honesty, do you think that you were justified in continuing to take classes for which you were unfit?”The tears started to Sophie’s eyes; she lowered her lids to hide them from sight.“The girls did not suffer,” she said deeply. “I did the suffering!”Miss Farnborough moved impatiently. She was intensely practical and matter-of-fact, and with all her heart hated any approach to sentiment.“You sufferedbecauseyou were unfit,” she repeated coldly, “and your obvious duty was to come to me. You must have known that under the circumstances I should not have wished you to continue the classes!”Sophie was silent for a moment, then she said very quietly, very deliberately—“Yes, I did know; but I also knew that if I could nerve myself to bear the pain and the fatigue, Icouldtrain the girls as well as ever, and I knew, too, that if you sent me away in the middle of term you would be less likely to take me back. It means everything to me, you see. What would happen to me if I were permanently invalided—without a pension—at thirty-one?”“You have been paid a good salary, Miss Blake—an exceptionally good salary—because it is realised that your work is especially wearing. You ought to have saved—”“If I had had no home claims I might have been able to save one or two hundred pounds—not a very big life provision! As it happens, however, I have given thirty pounds a year towards the education of a young sister, and it has been impossible to save at all.”“But now, of course, your sister will helpyou,” Miss Farnborough said, and turned briskly to another topic. “You said that you have been to a specialist? Will you give me his address? I should like to communicate with him direct. You understand, Miss Blake, that if this stiffness continues, it will be impossible for you to continue your duties here?”“Quite impossible,” faltered Sophie, in low tones.Miss Farnborough pushed back her chair, and rose to her feet.“But one hopes, of course, that all may go well. I have never had any complaint to make with respect to your work. You have been very successful, very popular with the girls. I should be sorry to lose you. Be sure to let me know how you go on. Perhaps I had better be guided by Dr Blank. I should try the pills, I think; they are worth trying. And avoid the sea; sea air is bad for rheumatism. Try some high inland place. We had better say good-bye, now, I suppose, as you will not come back after to-night. Good-bye, my dear. Let me hear soon. All good wishes for your recovery.”Sophie left the room, and made her way upstairs to the Staff-Room. She moved very slowly, partly because every movement was an effort, partly because the familiar objects on which her eyes rested became suddenly instinct with new interest. For ten long working years she had passed them daily with indifference, but this afternoon it was borne in upon her that she would never see them again, and the conviction brought with it a bitter pang. After all, they had been happy years, spent in a bustle of youthful life and energy, in an atmosphere of affection, too, for the girls were warm-hearted, and the “Gym. mistress” had been universally popular. Even as the thought passed through Sophie’s mind, one of her special adorers appeared suddenly at the far end of the corridor and hurried forward to meet her.“Miss Blake! Darling! You look so white. Are you faint? Take my arm; lean on me. Were you going to lie down?”“I’m going to the Staff-Room. I can manage myself; but, Gladys, find Miss Gifford, and ask her to come to me as soon as she is free. Tell her I’m not well. You’re a dear girl, Gladys. Thank you for being so kind to me all these years.”Gladys rolled adoring blue eyes, and sped on her mission. The next morning she realised that those thanks had been darling Miss Blake’s farewell, and shed bitter tears; but for the moment she was filled with complaisance.Claire appeared in due time, heard what had happened, and helped Sophie to collect her various small belongings. The other teachers had already dispersed, so the ordeal of leave-taking was avoided.“You can explain when you meet them next term!” said Claire.“I can write my good-byes,” corrected Sophie. She blinked away a few tears and said piteously, “Not much chance for me if she consults Dr Blank! He’s as much discouraged as I am myself. What do you suppose he will advise now? I suppose I’ll have to see him to-morrow.”“And lie awake all to-night, wondering what he will say! We’ll do better than that—we’ll call this very afternoon. If he is in, I’m sure he will see us, and a day saved is a day gained. I’ll get a taxi.”“Another taxi! I’m ruining you, Claire. How I do hate sponging on other people!”“Wouldn’t you do it for me, if things were reversed?”“Of course I should, but it’s so much more agreeable to help than to be helped. It’s ignoble, I suppose, but I do hate to feel grateful!”“Well! No one could by any possibility call yougracious, my dear. Is that any consolation?” cried Claire mischievously, and Sophie was surprised into the travesty of a smile.Dr Blank was at home, and listened to what Sophie had to tell him with grave attention. He expressed satisfaction to hear that her holidays had begun, but when questioned as to his probable report to Miss Farnborough, had no consolation to offer.“I am afraid I must tell you honestly that you are not fit for the work. Of course, it is quite possible that there may be a great improvement by September, but, even so, you would be retarding your recovery by going on with such exhausting work. You must try to find something lighter.”Sophie laughed, and her laugh was not good to hear.Claire said firmly—“Sheshallfind it! I will find it for her. There’s no need to worry about September. What we want to know is what she is to donow?—to-morrow—for the rest of the holidays?”“I can’t afford any more injections! They’ve done me no good, and they cost too much. I can’t afford any more treatments. I can only take medicines. If you will give me some medicines—”Dr Blank sat silent; tapping his desk with noiseless fingers; staring thoughtfully across the room. It was evident that he had a proposition to make; evident also that he doubted its reception.“The best thing under the circumstances—the wisest thing,” he said slowly at last, “would be for you to go into hospital as an ordinary patient. I could get you a bed in one of my own wards, where I could look after you myself, in consultation with the first men in town. You could have massage, electricity, radium, heat baths, every appliance that could possibly be of use, and you could stay on long enough to give them a chance. It would be an ordinary ward, remember, an ordinary bed in an ordinary ward, and your neighbours would not be up to Newnham standard! You would be awakened at five in the morning, and settled for the night at eight. You would have to obey rules, which would seem to you unnecessary and tiresome. You would be, I am afraid, profoundly bored. On the other hand, you would have every attention that skill and science can devise. You would not have to pay a penny, and you would have a better chance than a duchess in a ducal palace. Think it over, and let me know! If you decide to go, I’ll manage the rest. Take a day—a couple of days.”“I won’t take two minutes, thank you! I’ll decide now. I’ll go, of course, and thank you very much!”Dr Blank beamed with satisfaction.“Sensible girl! Sensible girl! That’s right! That’s right! That’s very good! You are doing the right thing, and we’ll all do our best for you, and your friend here will come to see you and help to make the time pass. Interesting study, you know; valuable opportunity of studying character if you look at it in that light! Why not turn it into literary capital? ‘Sketches from a Hospital Bed,’ ‘My Neighbours in B Ward,’ might make an uncommonly good series. Who knows? We may have you turning out quite a literary star!”Sophie smiled faintly, being one of the people who would rather walk five miles than write the shortest letter. Many unexpected things happen in this world, but it was certain that her own rise to literary eminence would never swell the number! But she knew that Dr Blank was trying to cheer her, so she kept that certainty to herself.The two girls made their way back to Sophie’s lodgings, and discussed the situation over the ever-comforting tea.“I shall have to give my landlady notice,” Sophie said, looking wistfully round the little room which had been so truly a home. “If I’m to be in hospital for many weeks, it’s folly to go on paying the rent; and in any case I can’t afford so much now. One can’t have doctor’s bills, and other luxuries as well. What shall I have to take into hospital? Will they allow me to wear my own things? I don’t think Icouldget better in a calico night-dress! Pretty frills and a blue ribbon bow are as good as a tonic, but will the authorities permit? Have you ever seen ribbon bows in a hospital bed?”“I haven’t had much experience, but I should think they would be encouraged, as a ward decoration! I hope so, I’m sure, for I mean to present you with a duck of a dressing-jacket!”“Oh, nothing more, Claire; don’t give me anything more. I shall never be able to pay you back,” cried Sophie; then, in a voice of poignant suffering, she cried sharply, “Oh, Claire, my little sister!Whatis to become of my little sister? If I am not able to help, if I need to be helped myself, her education will be interrupted, for it will be impossible to go on paying. Oh, it’s too hard—too dreadful! Everything seems so hopeless and black!”“Yes, it does. The way seems blocked. One can’t see a step ahead.Man’s extremity, Sophie!” cried Claire deeply—“Man’s extremity;” and at that a gleam of light came into Sophie’s eyes.“Yes, yes! That’s just what it is. Thanks for reminding me.God’s opportunity!” Sophie leant back in her chair, staring dreamily into space, till presently something of the old bright look came back to her face. “And that,” she said softly, “that’s the kind of help it is sweet to accept!”
After the meeting with Captain Fanshawe in the Park, Claire’s relationship with Mary Rhodes sensibly improved. In the first place, her own happiness made her softer and more lenient in her judgment, for shewasdeeply, intensely happy, with a happiness which all her reasonings were powerless to destroy.
“My dear, what nonsense!” she preached to herself in elderly remonstrating fashion. “You met the man, and he was pleased to see you—he seemed quite anxious to meet you again. Perfectly natural! Pray don’t imagine any special meaning inthat! You looked quite an attractive little girl in your pretty blue dress, and men like to talk to attractive little girls. I dare say he says just the same to dozens of girls!” So spake the inner voice, but spoke in vain. The best things of life are beyond reasoning. As in religion reason leads us, as it were, to the very edge of the rock of proven fact, then faith takes wing, and soars above the things of earth into the great silence where the soul communes with God, so in love there comes to the heart a sweetness, a certainty, which no reasoning can shake. As Erskine’s eyes had looked into hers in those moments of farewell, Claire had realised that between this man and herself there existed a bond which was stronger than spoken word.
So far as she could foresee, they were hopelessly divided by the circumstances of life, but in the first dawn of love no lover troubles himself about what the future may bring; the sweetness of the present is all-sufficient. Claire was happy, and longed for every one else to be as happy as herself. Moreover, her suspicions concerning Major Carew had been lulled to rest by Erskine’s favourable pronouncement. Personally she did not like him, but this was, after all, a matter of taste; she could not approve his actions, but conceivably there might be explanations of which she was unaware. Her manner to Cecil regained its old spontaneous friendliness, and Cecil responded with almost pathetic readiness. In her ungracious way she had grown fond of her pretty, kindly companion, and had missed the atmosphere of home which her presence had given to the saffron parlour. As they sat over their simple supper, she would study Claire’s face with a questioning glance, and one night the question found vent in words.
“You look mightily pleased with yourself, young woman! Your eyes are sparkling as if you were having a firework exhibition on your own account. I never saw a school-mistress look so perky at the end of the summer term! Look as if you’d come into a fortune!”
“Wish I had!” sighed Claire, thankful to switch the conversation on to a safe topic. “It would come in most usefully at the moment. What are you going to do for the summer hols, Cecil? Is there any possibility of—”
“No,” Cecil said shortly. “And the regiment is going into camp, so he will be out of town. I’m not bothering my head about holidays—quite enough to do with this wretched Matric. The Head is keen to make a good show this year, for the Dulwich School beat us last year, and, as usual, all the responsibility and all the blame is put on the poor mistresses. You can’t make girls work if they don’t want, you can’t cram their brains when they’ve no brains to cram; but those wretched examiners send a record of all the marks, so you can see exactly where they fall short. Woe betide the mistress who is responsible for that branch! I wouldn’t mind prophesying that if the German doesn’t come out better than last year, Fräulein will be packed off. I wouldn’t be too sure of myself. I’ve done all right so far, but the Head is not as devoted to me as she might be. I don’t think she’d be sorry to have an excuse for getting rid of me. That’s one of the delightful aspects of our position—we are absolutely at the mercy of a woman who, from sheer force of circumstances, becomes more of an autocrat every year. The Committee listen to her, and accept every word she says; the staff know better than to dispute a single order. We’d stand on our head in rows if she made it a rule! The pupils scuttle like rabbits when they see her coming, and cheer themselves hoarse every time she speaks. No human woman can live in that atmosphere for years and keep a cool head!”
“She’s rather a dear, though, all the same!” Claire said loyally. She had been hurt by the lack of personal interest which Miss Farnborough showed in the different members of her staff, but she was unwilling to brand her as a heartless tyrant. “Anyway,” she added hastily, “you are not satisfied here. If you were going on teaching I should have thought you’d be glad of a change. It would be easy to get another school.”
Mary Rhodes looked at her; a long eloquent glance.
“With a good testimonial—yes! Without a good testimonial—no! A testimonial for twelve years’ work depends on one woman, remember—on her prejudice or good nature, on the mood in which she happens to be on one particular day. It might read quite differently because she happened to have a chill on her liver.”
“My dear! thereisa sense of justice! There is such a thing as honesty.”
“My dear, I agree. Even so, would you dare to say that the wording of a testimonial would be unaffected by the writer’s mood?”
“Surely twelve years in one school—”
“No, it wouldn’t! Not necessarily. ‘Miss Rhodes has been English Mistress at Saint Cuthbert’s for twelve years. Of late has been erratic in temper. Health uncertain. Examination records less satisfactory.’ Well! If you represented another school, wouldyouengage Miss Rhodes?”
Claire was silent. For the first time she realised the danger of this single-handed power. It meant—what might it not mean? It might mean that the mistress who was unfortunate enough to incur the dislike of her chief, mightneverbe able to procure another post! She might be efficient, she might be hard-working; given congenial surroundings she might develop into a treasure untold, yet just because of a depreciating phrase in the wording of a testimonial, no chance would be vouchsafed. No doubt the vast majority of head mistresses were women of judgment, possessing a keen sense of justice and responsibility, yet the fact remained that a hasty impulse, a little access of temper in penning those all-important lines, might mean the end of a career, might mean poverty, might mean ruin!
Claire shivered, looked across the table at the thin, fretted face and made a hesitating appeal—
“Cecil dear, I know you are a good teacher. I just love to hear you talking over your lessons, but youareirritable! One of my girls was crying the other day. You had given so much homework, and she didn’t understand what was to be done, and said she daren’t ask. You had been ‘so cross!’ I made a guess at what you wanted, and by good chance I was right; but if I’d been wrong, the poor thing would have been in disgrace, and honestly it wasn’t her fault! She was willing enough.”
“Oh, that imbecile Gladys Brown! I know what you mean. I’d explained it a hundred times. If she’d the brains of a cow she’d have understood. No wonder I was cross. I should have been a saint if I wasn’t, and no one can be a saint in the summer term. Did—did any one else see her cry?”
“I think not. No, I managed to comfort her; but if Miss Farnborough had happened to come in just at that moment—”
Cecil shrugged and turned the subject, but she took the hint, to the benefit of her pupils during the next few weeks.
July came in, and with it a spell of unbearable heat. In country places and by the seashore there was space and air, and clean fragrant surroundings; but over London hung a misty pall, and not a branch of the dusty trees quivered to the movement of a passing breeze. It was a thunderous, unnatural heat which sapped every scrap of vitality, and made every movement a dread.
Claire was horrified at the effect of this heat wave on Sophie Blake. In superficial fashion she had always believed that rheumatism must be better in hot weather; but, according to the specialist, such heat as this was more trying than damp or cold, and Sophie’s stiffness increased with alarming suddenness.
There came a day when by no effort of will could she get through her classes, when sheer necessity drove her to do the thing she had dreaded most of all—inform the Head that she could not go on with her work.
Miss Farnborough was seated in her private room, and listened with grave attention to what the Games mistress had to say. Her forehead puckered in surprise as she noted Sophie’s halting gait, and the while she listened, her keen brain was diving back into the past, collecting impressions. She had seen less than usual of Miss Blake during the term; once or twice she had received the impression that Miss Blake avoided her approach; Miss Blake had been looking pale. She waited until Sophie had finished speaking, her hands folded on her knee, her penetrating eye fixed on the girl’s face. Then she spoke—
“I am sorry to hear this, Miss Blake. Your work has been excellent hitherto, but rheumatism is a serious handicap. You say that this heat is responsible for the present attack? Am I to understand that it is a first attack—that you have had no threatening before?”
“I have been rheumatic all winter, more or less. Before the Easter holidays it was pretty bad. I began to feel stiff.”
Miss Farnborough repeated the word gravely.
“Stiff! That was bad; that was very bad! How could you take your classes if you were feeling stiff?”
“I managed somehow!” Sophie said.
For a moment she had imagined that the Head Mistress’s concern had been on her account; she believed it no longer when she saw the flash of indignation which lighted the grey eyes.
“Managed—somehow? And you went on in that fashion—you were content to go on!”
“No. I was not content. I was very far from content. I suffered horrible pain. I went to a specialist and paid him two guineas for his advice. Since then I have paid twenty pounds for treatment.”
On Miss Farnborough’s face the disapproval grew more and more pronounced.
“Miss Blake, I am afraid you have not been quite straightforward in this matter. It appears that you have been ill for months, with an illness which must necessarily have interfered with your work, and this is the first time I hear about it. I am Head Mistress of this school; if anything is wrong with a member of the staff, it is her first duty to come to me. You tell me now that you have been ill for three months, since before the last holidays, and acknowledge that you can go on no longer.”
“In ten days we break up. I ask you to allow me ten extra days. The weather is so hot that the girls would be thankful to escape the exercises. By the end of the holidays I hope to be quite better.”
“The Easter holidays do not seem to have done you much good,” Miss Farnborough said cruelly. Then, seeing the girl flush, she added, “Of course you shall have your ten days. I can see that you are unfit for work, and we must manage without you till the end of the term. I am very sorry for you, Miss Blake; very sorry, indeed. It is very trying and upsetting and—and expensive into the bargain. Twenty pounds, did you say? That is surely a great deal! Have you tried the shilling bottles of gout and rheumatic pills? I have been told they are quite excellent. But I must repeat that you have been wrong in not coming to me sooner. As a pure matter of honesty, do you think that you were justified in continuing to take classes for which you were unfit?”
The tears started to Sophie’s eyes; she lowered her lids to hide them from sight.
“The girls did not suffer,” she said deeply. “I did the suffering!”
Miss Farnborough moved impatiently. She was intensely practical and matter-of-fact, and with all her heart hated any approach to sentiment.
“You sufferedbecauseyou were unfit,” she repeated coldly, “and your obvious duty was to come to me. You must have known that under the circumstances I should not have wished you to continue the classes!”
Sophie was silent for a moment, then she said very quietly, very deliberately—
“Yes, I did know; but I also knew that if I could nerve myself to bear the pain and the fatigue, Icouldtrain the girls as well as ever, and I knew, too, that if you sent me away in the middle of term you would be less likely to take me back. It means everything to me, you see. What would happen to me if I were permanently invalided—without a pension—at thirty-one?”
“You have been paid a good salary, Miss Blake—an exceptionally good salary—because it is realised that your work is especially wearing. You ought to have saved—”
“If I had had no home claims I might have been able to save one or two hundred pounds—not a very big life provision! As it happens, however, I have given thirty pounds a year towards the education of a young sister, and it has been impossible to save at all.”
“But now, of course, your sister will helpyou,” Miss Farnborough said, and turned briskly to another topic. “You said that you have been to a specialist? Will you give me his address? I should like to communicate with him direct. You understand, Miss Blake, that if this stiffness continues, it will be impossible for you to continue your duties here?”
“Quite impossible,” faltered Sophie, in low tones.
Miss Farnborough pushed back her chair, and rose to her feet.
“But one hopes, of course, that all may go well. I have never had any complaint to make with respect to your work. You have been very successful, very popular with the girls. I should be sorry to lose you. Be sure to let me know how you go on. Perhaps I had better be guided by Dr Blank. I should try the pills, I think; they are worth trying. And avoid the sea; sea air is bad for rheumatism. Try some high inland place. We had better say good-bye, now, I suppose, as you will not come back after to-night. Good-bye, my dear. Let me hear soon. All good wishes for your recovery.”
Sophie left the room, and made her way upstairs to the Staff-Room. She moved very slowly, partly because every movement was an effort, partly because the familiar objects on which her eyes rested became suddenly instinct with new interest. For ten long working years she had passed them daily with indifference, but this afternoon it was borne in upon her that she would never see them again, and the conviction brought with it a bitter pang. After all, they had been happy years, spent in a bustle of youthful life and energy, in an atmosphere of affection, too, for the girls were warm-hearted, and the “Gym. mistress” had been universally popular. Even as the thought passed through Sophie’s mind, one of her special adorers appeared suddenly at the far end of the corridor and hurried forward to meet her.
“Miss Blake! Darling! You look so white. Are you faint? Take my arm; lean on me. Were you going to lie down?”
“I’m going to the Staff-Room. I can manage myself; but, Gladys, find Miss Gifford, and ask her to come to me as soon as she is free. Tell her I’m not well. You’re a dear girl, Gladys. Thank you for being so kind to me all these years.”
Gladys rolled adoring blue eyes, and sped on her mission. The next morning she realised that those thanks had been darling Miss Blake’s farewell, and shed bitter tears; but for the moment she was filled with complaisance.
Claire appeared in due time, heard what had happened, and helped Sophie to collect her various small belongings. The other teachers had already dispersed, so the ordeal of leave-taking was avoided.
“You can explain when you meet them next term!” said Claire.
“I can write my good-byes,” corrected Sophie. She blinked away a few tears and said piteously, “Not much chance for me if she consults Dr Blank! He’s as much discouraged as I am myself. What do you suppose he will advise now? I suppose I’ll have to see him to-morrow.”
“And lie awake all to-night, wondering what he will say! We’ll do better than that—we’ll call this very afternoon. If he is in, I’m sure he will see us, and a day saved is a day gained. I’ll get a taxi.”
“Another taxi! I’m ruining you, Claire. How I do hate sponging on other people!”
“Wouldn’t you do it for me, if things were reversed?”
“Of course I should, but it’s so much more agreeable to help than to be helped. It’s ignoble, I suppose, but I do hate to feel grateful!”
“Well! No one could by any possibility call yougracious, my dear. Is that any consolation?” cried Claire mischievously, and Sophie was surprised into the travesty of a smile.
Dr Blank was at home, and listened to what Sophie had to tell him with grave attention. He expressed satisfaction to hear that her holidays had begun, but when questioned as to his probable report to Miss Farnborough, had no consolation to offer.
“I am afraid I must tell you honestly that you are not fit for the work. Of course, it is quite possible that there may be a great improvement by September, but, even so, you would be retarding your recovery by going on with such exhausting work. You must try to find something lighter.”
Sophie laughed, and her laugh was not good to hear.
Claire said firmly—
“Sheshallfind it! I will find it for her. There’s no need to worry about September. What we want to know is what she is to donow?—to-morrow—for the rest of the holidays?”
“I can’t afford any more injections! They’ve done me no good, and they cost too much. I can’t afford any more treatments. I can only take medicines. If you will give me some medicines—”
Dr Blank sat silent; tapping his desk with noiseless fingers; staring thoughtfully across the room. It was evident that he had a proposition to make; evident also that he doubted its reception.
“The best thing under the circumstances—the wisest thing,” he said slowly at last, “would be for you to go into hospital as an ordinary patient. I could get you a bed in one of my own wards, where I could look after you myself, in consultation with the first men in town. You could have massage, electricity, radium, heat baths, every appliance that could possibly be of use, and you could stay on long enough to give them a chance. It would be an ordinary ward, remember, an ordinary bed in an ordinary ward, and your neighbours would not be up to Newnham standard! You would be awakened at five in the morning, and settled for the night at eight. You would have to obey rules, which would seem to you unnecessary and tiresome. You would be, I am afraid, profoundly bored. On the other hand, you would have every attention that skill and science can devise. You would not have to pay a penny, and you would have a better chance than a duchess in a ducal palace. Think it over, and let me know! If you decide to go, I’ll manage the rest. Take a day—a couple of days.”
“I won’t take two minutes, thank you! I’ll decide now. I’ll go, of course, and thank you very much!”
Dr Blank beamed with satisfaction.
“Sensible girl! Sensible girl! That’s right! That’s right! That’s very good! You are doing the right thing, and we’ll all do our best for you, and your friend here will come to see you and help to make the time pass. Interesting study, you know; valuable opportunity of studying character if you look at it in that light! Why not turn it into literary capital? ‘Sketches from a Hospital Bed,’ ‘My Neighbours in B Ward,’ might make an uncommonly good series. Who knows? We may have you turning out quite a literary star!”
Sophie smiled faintly, being one of the people who would rather walk five miles than write the shortest letter. Many unexpected things happen in this world, but it was certain that her own rise to literary eminence would never swell the number! But she knew that Dr Blank was trying to cheer her, so she kept that certainty to herself.
The two girls made their way back to Sophie’s lodgings, and discussed the situation over the ever-comforting tea.
“I shall have to give my landlady notice,” Sophie said, looking wistfully round the little room which had been so truly a home. “If I’m to be in hospital for many weeks, it’s folly to go on paying the rent; and in any case I can’t afford so much now. One can’t have doctor’s bills, and other luxuries as well. What shall I have to take into hospital? Will they allow me to wear my own things? I don’t think Icouldget better in a calico night-dress! Pretty frills and a blue ribbon bow are as good as a tonic, but will the authorities permit? Have you ever seen ribbon bows in a hospital bed?”
“I haven’t had much experience, but I should think they would be encouraged, as a ward decoration! I hope so, I’m sure, for I mean to present you with a duck of a dressing-jacket!”
“Oh, nothing more, Claire; don’t give me anything more. I shall never be able to pay you back,” cried Sophie; then, in a voice of poignant suffering, she cried sharply, “Oh, Claire, my little sister!Whatis to become of my little sister? If I am not able to help, if I need to be helped myself, her education will be interrupted, for it will be impossible to go on paying. Oh, it’s too hard—too dreadful! Everything seems so hopeless and black!”
“Yes, it does. The way seems blocked. One can’t see a step ahead.Man’s extremity, Sophie!” cried Claire deeply—“Man’s extremity;” and at that a gleam of light came into Sophie’s eyes.
“Yes, yes! That’s just what it is. Thanks for reminding me.God’s opportunity!” Sophie leant back in her chair, staring dreamily into space, till presently something of the old bright look came back to her face. “And that,” she said softly, “that’s the kind of help it is sweet to accept!”