CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.
ALL IN A GARDEN FAIR.
The next afternoon a party of friends had been bidden for tennis. Forthe morning no plans had been made, but throughout its length MrsFanshawe fought a gallant fight against overwhelming odds, and washopelessly beaten for her pains. It was her strong determination thather son should be prevented from holding another _tete-a-tete_ withClaire Gifford. Erskine actively, and Claire passively, desired andintended to bring about just that very consummation, while MajorHumphreys, shrewdly aware of the purpose for which he had been invited,aided and abetted their efforts by the development of a veritable frenzyof gardening enthusiasm. He questioned, he disputed, he meeklyacknowledged his mistakes; he propounded schemes for fresh developments,the scenes of which lay invariably at the opposite end of the groundsfrom that in which the young people were ensconced.
Mrs Fanshawe struggled valiantly, but the Triple Entente won the day,and for a good two hours before lunch, Erskine and Claire remainedhappily lost to sight in the farthest recesses of the grounds. They hadleft behind the region of formal seats and benches, and sat on the grassat the foot of a great chestnut, whose dark green foliage made a havenof shade in the midst of the noonday glare. Claire wore her bargainfrock, and felt thankful for the extravagant impulse of that Januarymorn. Erskine was in flannels, cool and becoming as a man's _neglige_invariably is; both had discarded hats, and sat bareheaded in theblessed shade, and Erskine asked questions, dozens of questions, a very_viva voce_ examination, the subject being the life, history, thoughts,hopes, ambitions, and dreams of the girl by his side.
"You were an only child. So was I. Were you a lonely little kiddie?"
"No, I don't think I was. My mother was a child with me. We wereblissfully happy manufacturing a doll's house out of a packing chest,and furnishing it with beds made out of cardboard boxes, and sofas madeout of pin-cushions. I used to feel other children a bore because theydistracted her attention."
"That would be when you were--how old? Six or seven? And you are now--what is it? Twenty-two? I must have been a schoolboy of seventeen atthat time, imagining myself a man. Ten years makes a lot of differenceat that age. It doesn't count so much later on. At least I shouldthink not. Do I appear to you very old?"
"Hoary!"
"No, but I say... Honestly!"
"Don't be conceited. You know perfectly well--"
"But I wanted to make sure! And then you went to school. Did you havea bad time at first among the other girls?"
"No. I'm afraid the other girls had a bad time with me. I was veryuppish and British, and insisted on getting my own way. Did _you_ havea bad time?"
"Yes, I did," he said simply. "Small boys have a pretty stiff time ofit during their first term, and my time happened to be stiffer thanmost. I may be as miserable again. I hope I never may be! But I'mpretty sure it's impossible to be _more_ miserable than I was at nineyears old, bullied on every side, breaking my heart with home sickness,and too proud to show a sign."
"Poor little lad!" sighed Claire softly, and for a long minute the twopairs of eyes met, and exchanged a message. "But afterwards? It grewbetter after that?"
"Oh, yes. I learnt to stand up for myself, and moved up in the school,and began to bully on my own... Did you make many real friends in yourschool days?"
"No real lasting friends. They were French girls, you see, and therewas the difference of race, and religion, to divide us as we grew up.And we were birds of passage, mother and I; always moving about."
"You felt the need of companionship?"
"No. I had mother, and we were like girls together." The twin dimplesshowed in a mischievous smile. "You seem very anxious to hear that Iwas lonely!"
"Well!" said Erskine, and hesitated as though he found it impossible todeny the accusation. "I wanted to feel that you could sympathise withme! I've been more or less lonely all my life, but I have always feltthat a time would come when it would be all right--when I'd meet someone who'd understand. I was great chums with my father, but he diedwhen I was twelve, and my school chum went off to China, and comes homefor a few months every three years, when it has usually happened thatI've been abroad. There are nice enough fellows in the regiment, but Isuppose I'm not quick at making friends--"
Strive as she would Claire could not resist a twinkle of amusement,their eyes met, and both went off into a peal of laughter.
"Oh, well, there are exceptions! That's different. I felt that I knewyou at once, without any preliminary stages. It must always be likethat when people really fit." And then after a short pause he added inboyish, ingenuous tones, "Did you feel that you knew me?"
"I--I think I did!" Claire acknowledged. To both it seemed the mostwonderful, the most absorbing of conversations. They were blissfullyunconscious that it was old as the hills themselves, and had beenrepeated with ceaseless reiteration from prehistoric periods. Only oncewas there an interruption of the deep mutual happiness and that camewithout warning. Claire was smiling in blissful contentment,unconscious of a care, when suddenly a knife-like pain stabbed herheart. Imagination had wafted her back to Staff-Room. She saw thefaces of the fifteen women seated around the table, women who were withbut one exception past their youth, approaching nearer and nearer todreaded age, and an inward voice whispered that to each in her turn hadcome this golden hour, the hour of dreams, of sweet, illuminative hope.The hour had come, and the hour had passed, leaving behind nothing but amemory and a regret. Why should she herself be more blessed thanothers? She looked forward and saw a vision of herself ten years hencestill hurrying along the well-known street looking up at the clock inthe church tower to assure herself that she was in time, still mountingthe same bare staircase, still hanging up her hat on the same peg. Theprose of it in contradistinction with the poetry of the present wasterrifying to Claire's youthful mind, and her look was so white, sostrained, that Erskine took instant alarm.
"What is it? What is it? Are you ill? Have I said anything to upsetyou? I say, what _is_ the matter!"
"Nothing. Nothing! I had a--thought! Talk hard, please, and make meforget!"
The end of the two hours found the cross-questioning still in fullforce; the man and the girl alike still feeling that the half was notyet told. They resented the quick passage of time, resented thedisturbance of the afternoon hours.
"What on earth do we want with a tennis party?" grumbled the Captain."Wish to goodness we could be left alone. I suppose the mater wantedthem to amuse you before I came back."
Claire murmured incoherently. She knew better, but she was not going tosay so! They turned unwillingly towards the house.
In the afternoon the guests arrived. They came early, for the Fanshawetennis courts were in fine condition, and the prospect of meeting a newman and a new girl, plus the son of the house, was a treat in itself inthe quiet countryside where the members of the same set met regularly atevery function of the year. One of the courts was reserved for men'sfours, for Mrs Fanshawe believed in giving her guests what they liked,and there is no doubt that men as a rule are ungallant enough to prefertheir own sex in outdoor games.
In the second court the younger girls took part in mixed fours, whileothers sat about, or took part in lengthy croquet contests on thefurthest of the three lawns. Claire as a member of the house-party hada good deal of time on her hands, and helped Mrs Fanshawe with theentertainment of the older guests, who one and all eyed her withspeculative interest.
One thin, faded woman had spent a few years in Bombay and was roused tointerest by hearing that Claire's mother was now settled in that city.Yes! she had met a Mr Judge. Robert Judge, was it not? Her husbandknew him quite well. He had dined at their house. Quite a dear man.She had heard of his marriage, "but"--here came a look ofmystification--"to a _young_ wife; very pretty, very charming--"
Claire laughed, and held out a little coloured photograph in a roundglass frame which hung by a chain round her neck.
"That is my mother. She is thirty-nine, and looks thirty. And she isprettier than that."
The faded lady looked, and sighed. Mrs Fanshawe brightened into vividinterest. "You know Mr Judge, then? You have met him? That's quiteinteresting. That's very interesting!" Claire realised with someirritability that the fact that one of her own acquaintances knew andapproved, instantaneously raised Mr Judge in her hostess's estimation.Hitherto he had been a name, a nobody; now he became a real man, "quitea dear man," a man one could know! The result was satisfactory enough,but Claire was irritated by the means. She was irritated also by thesubtle but very real change in her hostess's manner to herself in thelast twenty-four hours; irritated because the precious hours werepassing, and Erskine was surrounded by his guests, playing endless setson the hot lawn. He looked as though he were enjoying himself, too, andthat added to her annoyance, for like many another girl she had not yetrealised that a man can forget even his love in his whole-heartedenjoyment of sport!
At tea-time, however, there was a lull when Erskine carried a chair toClaire's side, and seated himself with an air of contentment. Once andagain as the meal progressed she saw his eyes rove around, and then comeback to dwell upon herself. She knew that he was comparing her with theother girls who were present, knew also by the deep glow of thatreturning glance, that in his eyes she was fairest and best. The formerirritation dropped from her like a cloak.
Tea was over, the guests rose from their seats. Erskine stood byClaire's side looking down at her with a quizzical smile.
"Er--did you notice that man who came in just before tea, with the girlin the pink frock? He was sitting over there, on the right?"
"Yes, I noticed him. I could see him quite well. Why?"
"What did you think of him?"
"Quite nice. I liked his face. Good-natured and interesting."
Erskine laughed.
"Sure?"
"Quite sure. Why?"
"Don't recognise him at all? Doesn't remind you of any one you know?"
"Not in the least. Why should he?"
Erskine laughed again.
"I'm afraid your memory is defective. I must introduce you again!" Hewalked away, laid his hand on the arm of the new-comer, and led him backto Claire's side. "Miss Gifford," he said gravely, "allow me tointroduce--Major Carew!"