It was a very limp and exhausted Claire who arrived at the farm that evening, and if she had had her own way she would have hurried to bed without waiting for a meal, but the kind countrywoman displayed such disappointment at the idea that she allowed herself to be dissuaded, sat down to a table spread with home-made dainties and discovered that she was hungrier than she had believed.  The fried ham and eggs, the fresh butter, the thick yellow cream, the sweet coarse bread, were all the best of their kind, and Claire smiled at her own expense as she looked at the emptied dishes, and reflected that, for a person who had professed herself unable to eat a bite, she had made a pretty good sweep!

The bed was somewhat bumpy, as farmhouse beds have a habit of being; there was one big ball in especial which took many wrigglings to avoid; but on the other hand the sheets smelt deliciously, not of lavender, but of lemon thyme, and the prevailing air of cleanliness was delicious after the smoke-laden atmosphere of town.  Claire told herself that she could not expect to sleep.  She resigned herself to hear the clock strike every hour-and as a matter of fact after ten o’clock she was unconscious of the whole world, until her breakfast-tray was carried into the room next morning.

After breakfast she had another nap, and after lunch still another, and in the intervals wandered about the farm-yard, laboriously striving to take an interest in what really interested her not at all.  Hens seemed to her the dullest of created creatures, pigs repelled, cows were regarded with uneasy suspicion, and sheep, seen close at hand, lost all the picturesque quality of a distant flock, and became stupid long-faced creatures, by no means as clean as they might be.  Milking-time aroused no ambition to experiment on her own account, and a glass of foaming new milk proved unexpectedly nauseous.  Sad as it was to confess it, she infinitely preferred the chalked and watered edition of the city!

Indoors things were no better, for the tiny sitting-room stood by itself at the end of a passage, cut off from the life of the house.  It was spotlessly clean and the pride of its owner’s heart, but contained nothing of interest to an outsider.  Pictures there were none, with the exception of portraits of the farmer and his wife, of the enlarged photograph type, and a selection of framed funeral cards in a corner.  Books there were none, with the exception of a catalogue of an Agricultural Show, and a school prize copy of Black Beauty.  Before the second night was over Claire had read Black Beauty from cover to cover; the next morning she was dipping into the catalogue, and trying to concentrate her attention on “stock.”

As her body grew rested, Claire’s mind became increasingly active.  It was inevitable, but the second stage was infinitely harder to bear.  For the first hours after her arrival her supreme longing had been to lie down and shut her eyes; but now restlessness overtook her, and with every fresh hour drove her more helplessly to and fro.  She went out for long walks over the countryside, her thoughts so engrossingly turned inward that she saw nothing of the landscape on either hand; she returned to the house and endeavoured to write, to read, to sew, only to give up the attempt at the end of half an hour, and once more wander helplessly forth.

The good countrywoman was quick to sense that some hidden trouble was preying on her guest, and showed her sympathy in practical fashion.

“A bit piney-like, aren’t you?  I seed from the first that you was piney-like,” she said, standing tray in hand on the threshold of the little parlour, her fresh, highly-coloured face smiling kindly upon the pale girl.  “I always do say that I pities ladies when they has anything on their minds; sitting about, same as you do now, with nothing to take them off theirselves.  A body like me that has to keep a house clean, and cook and wash, and mind the children, to say naught of the sewing and the mending, and looking after the cows and the hens, and all the extra fusses and worries that come along, she hasn’t got no time to remember herself, and when she gets to bed she’s too tired to think.  Now if you was to have some work-”

Claire’s face brightened with a sudden inspiration.

“Will you give me some work?  Let me help you!  Do, please, Mrs Corby; I’d be so grateful.  Let me come into the kitchen and do something now.  I feel so lonely shut off here, all by myself.”

Mrs Corby laughed, her fat comfortable laugh.

“Bless your ’art, you can come along and welcome.  I’ll be proud to have you.  It ain’t much you know of housework, I expect, but it’ll do you no harm to learn.  I’ll find you some little jobs.”

“Oh, I’m not so useless as you think.  I can brush and dust, and polish, and wash up, and I know a good deal about cooking.  I’ll make a salad to eat with the cold meat-a real French salad.  I’m sure Mr Corby would enjoy a French salad,” cried Claire, glancing out of the window at the well-stocked kitchen garden, and thinking of the wet lettuce and uncut onions, which were the good woman’s idea of the dish in question.  “May I make one to-day?”

Mrs Corby smiled with a fine resignation.  Personally she wanted none of them nasty messy foods, but there! the poor thing meant well, and if it would make her happy, let her have her way.  So Claire collected her materials, and washed and mixed, and filled a great bowl, and decorated the top with slices of hardboiled eggs, and a few bright nasturtium blossoms, while three linty-locked children stood by, watching with fascinated attention.  At dinner Claire thoroughly enjoyed her share of her own salad, but the verdict of the country-people was far from enthusiastic.

“I don’t go for to deny that it tasted well enough,” Mrs Corby said with magnanimous candour, “but what I argue is, what’s the sense of using up all them extras-eggs, and oil, and what not-when you can manage just as well without?  I’ve never seen the day when I couldn’t relish a bit o’ plain lettuce and a plate of good spring onions!”

“But the eggs and the dressing make it more nourishing,” Claire maintained.  “In France the peasants have very often nothing but salad for their dinner-great dishes of salad, with plenty of eggs.”

“Eh, poor creatures!  It makes your heart bleed to think of it.  We may be thankful we are not foreign born!” Mrs Corby pronounced with unction, and Claire retired from the struggle, and decided that for the future it would be more tactful to learn, rather than to endeavour to teach.  The next morning, therefore, she worked under Mrs Corby’s supervision, picking fruit, feeding chickens, searching for eggs, and other light tasks designed to keep her in the open air; and in the afternoon accompanied the children on a message to a farm some distance away.  The path lay across the fields, away from the main road, and on returning an hour later, Mrs Corby’s figure was seen standing by her own gate, her hand raised to her eyes, as though watching for their approach.  The children broke into a run, and Claire hurried forward, her heart beating with deep excited throbs.  What was it? Who was it?  Nobody but Sophie and Cecil knew her address, but still, but still- For a moment hope soared, then sank heavily down as Mrs Corby announced-

“A lady, miss.  Come to see you almost as soon as you left.  She’s waiting in the parlour.”

Cecil!  Claire hardly knew if she were sorry or relieved.  It would be a blessing to have some one to whom she could speak, but, on the other hand, what poor Cecil had to say would not fail to be depressing.  She went slowly down the passage, taking a grip over her own courage, opened the door, and stood transfixed.

In the middle of the hard horsehair sofa sat Mrs Fanshawe herself, her elaborately coiffured, elaborately attired figure looking extraordinarily out of place in the prim bareness of the little room.  Her gloved hands were crossed on her lap, she sat ostentatiously erect, her satin cloak falling around her in regal folds; her face was a trifle paler than usual, but the mocking light shone in her eyes.  At Claire’s entrance she stood up, and crossed the little room to her side.

“My dear,” she said calmly, “I am an obstinate old woman, but I have the sense to know when I’m beaten.  I have come to offer my apologies.”

A generous heart is quick to forgive.  At that moment Claire felt a pang indeed, but it came not from the remembrance of her own wrongs, but from the sight of this proud, domineering woman humbling herself to a girl.  Impulsively she threw out both hands, impulsively she stopped Mrs Fanshawe’s lips with the kiss which she had refused at parting.

“Oh, stop!  Please don’t!  Don’t say any more.  I was wrong, too.  I took offence too quickly.  You were thinking of me, as well as of yourself.”

“Oh, no, I was not,” the elder woman corrected quietly.  “Neither of you, nor your friend, my dear, though I took advantage of the excuse.  You came between me and my plans, and I wanted to get you out of the way.  You saw through me, and I suppose I deserved to be seen through.  It’s an unpleasant experience, but if it’s any satisfaction to you to know it, I’ve been well punished for interfering.  Erskine has seen to my punishment.”

The blood rushed to Claire’s face.  How much did Mrs Fanshawe know?  Had Erskine told her of that hurried interview upon the station?  Had he by any possibility told what he had asked?  The blazing cheeks asked the question as plainly as any words, and Mrs Fanshawe replied to it without delay.

“Oh, yes, my dear, I know all about it.  It was because I guessed that was coming that I wanted to clear the coast; but it appears that I was too late.  Shall we sit down and talk this out, and for pity’s sake see that that woman doesn’t come blundering in.  It’s such an anti-climax to have to deal with a tea-tray in the midst of personal explanations.  I’m not accustomed to eating humble pie, and if I am obliged to do it at all, I prefer to do it in private.”

“She won’t come.  I don’t have tea for another hour,” Claire assured her.  “And please don’t eat humble pie for me.  I was angry at the time, but you had been very kind to me before.  I-I enjoyed that first week very much.”

“And so did I!” Mrs Fanshawe gave one of her dry, humorous, little laughs.  “You are a charming companion, my dear.  I was a little in love with you myself, but- Well! to be honest, it did not please me that my son should follow my example.  He is my only child, and I am proud and ambitious for him, as any mother would be.  I did not wish him to marry a-a-”

“A gentlewoman who was honourably working at an honourable profession!” concluded Claire for her, with a general stiffening of pose, voice and manner; but Mrs Fanshawe only laughed once more, totally unaffected by the pose.

“No, my dear, I did not!  It’s very praiseworthy, no doubt, to train the next generation, but it doesn’t appeal to me in the present connection.  I was thinking of my son, and I wanted him to have a wife of position and fortune, who would be able to help his career.  If you had been a girl of fortune and position, I should have been quite ready to welcome you.  You are a pretty creature, and much more intelligent than most girls of your age, but, you see, you are not-”

“I have no money but what I earn, but I belong to a good family.  I object to your saying that I have no position, Mrs Fanshawe, simply because I live in lodgings and work for my living!”

Mrs Fanshawe shrugged with a touch of impatience.

“Oh, well, my dear, why bandy words?  I have told you that I am beaten, so it’s useless to argue the point.  Erskine has decided for himself, and, as I told you before, one might as well try to bend a granite wall as move him when he has once made up his mind.  I’ve planned, and schemed, and hoped, and prayed for the last dozen years, and at the first sight of that pretty face of yours all my plans went to the wall.  If I’d been a wise woman I would have recognised the inevitable, and given in with a good grace, but I never was wise, never shall be, so I ran my head up against the wall.  I’ve been through a bad time since you left me, my dear, and I was forgiven only on the understanding that I came here and made my peace with you.  Have I made peace?  Do you understand what I mean?  That I withdraw my opposition, and if you accept my boy, you shall have nothing to fear.  I’ll make you welcome; and I’ll be as good to you as it’s in my nature to be.  I’ll treat you with every courtesy.  Upon my word, my dear, as mothers-in-law go, I think you would come off pretty well!”

“I-I-I’m sure-You’re very kind...”  Claire stammered in helpless embarrassment; and Mrs Fanshawe, watching her, first smiled, then sighed, and said in a quick low voice-

“Ah, my dear, you can afford to be generous!  If you live to be my age, and have a son of your own, whom you have loved, and cherished, and mothered for over thirty years, and at the end he speaks harshly to you for the sake of a girl whom he has known a few short months, puts her before you, finds it hard to forgive you because you have wounded her pride-ah, well, it’s hard to bear!  I don’t want to whine, but-don’t make it more difficult for me than you can help!  I have apologised.  Now it’s for you-”

Claire put both arms round the erect figure, and rested her head on the folds of the black satin cloak.  Neither spoke, but Mrs Fanshawe lifted a little lace-edged handkerchief to her eyes, and her shoulders heaved once and again.  Then suddenly she arose and walked towards the door.

“The car is waiting.  Don’t come with me, my dear.  I’ll see you again.”

She waived Claire back in the old imperious way against which there was no appeal.  Evidently she wished to be alone, and Claire re-seated herself on the sofa, flushed, trembling, so shaken out of her bearings that it was difficult to keep hold of connected thought.  The impossible had happened.  In the course of a few short minutes difficulties which had seemed insurmountable had been swept from her path.  Within her grasp was happiness so great, so dazzling that the very thought of it took away her breath.

Her eyes fell on the watch at her wrist.  Ten minutes to four!  Twenty minutes ago-barely twenty minutes-at the end of the field path she had looked at that little gold face with a dreamy indifference, wondering only how many minutes remained to be whiled away before it was time for tea.  Even a solitary tea-drinking had seemed an epoch in the uneventful day.  Uneventful!  Claire mentally repeated the word, the while her eyes glowed, and her heart beat in joyful exultation.  Surely, surely in after-remembrance this day would stand out as one all-important, epoch-making.

And then suddenly came a breathless question.  How had Mrs Fanshawe discovered her retreat?  No address had been left at Laburnum Crescent; no address had been given to Janet Willoughby.  Cecil was in her mother’s home; Sophie in hospital.  In the name of all that was mysterious and inexplicable, how had she been tracked?

Claire sat bolt upright on her sofa, her grey eyes widened in amaze, her breath coming sharply through her parted lips.  She thrilled at the realisation that Erskine’s will had overcome all difficulties.  Had not Mrs Fanshawe declared that she came at his instigation?  And where the mother had come, would not the son follow?

At that moment a shadow fell across the floor; against the open space of the window a tall figure stood, blocking the light.  Erskine’s eager eyes met her own.  Before the first gasp of surprise had left her lips, his strong hands had gripped the sill, he had vaulted over and stood by her side.

“I sent on my advance guard, and waited till her return.  Did you think you had hidden yourself where I could not find you?  I should have found you wherever you had gone; but as it happens it was easy enough.  You forgot that you had forwarded flowers to your friend in hospital!  She was ready enough to give me your address.  And now-Claire”-he held out his hands, gazing down into her face-“what have you to say to me now?”

Instinctively Claire’s hands stretched out to meet his, but on the following impulse she drew back, clasping them nervously behind her back.

“Oh, are you sure?” she cried breathlessly.  “Are you sure you are sure?  Think what it means!  Think of the difference it might make!  I have no money, no influence; I’d be an expense to you, and a drag when another girl might help.  Think!  Think!  Oh, do be quite sure!”

Erskine’s stern eyes melted into a beautiful tenderness as he looked at her troubled face.  He waited no longer, but came a step nearer, and took forcible possession of the hidden hands.

“It is not my feelings which are in question; it is yours.  There has been no doubt in my mind for months past.  I think you know that, Claire!”

“But-your career?”

“I can look after my own career.  Do you think it is the straight thing to suggest to a soldier that he needs a woman to help him in his work?  It’s not as a soldier I need you, but as a man.  I need you there, Claire.  I need you badly!  No one else could help me as you can!”

Claire’s lips quivered, but still she hung back, standing away from him at the length of her stretched arms.

“I’ve no money.  I’m a-a school-mistress.  Your friends will think-”

“I am not considering what my friends will think.”

“Your mother thought-”

“I am not asking you to marry my mother.  Mothers of only sons are hard to please, but you know as well as I can tell you that the mater is fond of you at heart, and that she will grow fonder still.  She had her own ideas, and she fought for them, but she won’t fight any more.  You mustn’t be hard on the mater, Claire.  She has done her best for me to-day.”

“I know!  I know!  I was sorry for her.  Sorrier than I was for myself.  It’s so hard that I should have come between you two!”

At that Erskine laughed, a short, impatient laugh.

“Oh, Claire, Claire, how long are you going to waste time in discussing other people’s feelings, before you tell me about your own?  Darling, I’m in love with you!-I’m in love for the first time in my life.  I’m impatient.  I’m waiting.  There’s no one in the world for me at this moment but just yourself; I’m waiting for you to forget every one but me.  Do you love me, Claire?”

“You know I do!  You know I do!  Oh!” cried Claire, yielding to the strength of the strong arms, and resting her head on the broad shoulder with an unspeakable rush of joy and rest.  “Oh, but you don’t know how much!  I can’t tell you-I can’t put it into words, but it’s my whole heart, my whole life!  Oh, every thought has been with you for such a long, long time.”

“My darling!  My own sweet, brave little girl!  And my thoughts with you!  Thank God, we shall be together now.  We have had enough of separation and chance meetings.  There must be an end of that.  You’ll have to marry me at once!”

This was rushing ahead with a vengeance!  Claire shook her head, with a little laugh sweet as a chime of joy bells.

“You ridiculous-boy!  I can’t.  It’s impossible.  You forget my work.  There’s all next term.  I couldn’t possibly leave without giving notice.”

“Couldn’t you!  We’ll see to that.  Do you seriously believe that I’m going to let you go back to that drudgery, and kick my heels waiting for four months?  You don’t understand the kind of man you are marrying, my lass!”

Claire loved the sound of that “my lass,” loved the close grip of the arms, the feel of the rough cheek against her own.  For a few minutes neither spoke, too utterly, completely absorbed in each other’s presence.  To Claire, as to Erskine, a four months’ delay seemed an aeon of time through which to wade before the consummation of a perfect happiness, but it seemed impossible that it could be avoided.

“Miss Farnborough would never let me off.  She would be indignant with me for asking.”

“I’ll tackle Miss Farnborough.  Leave Miss Farnborough to me!” returned Erskine with so confident an air that Claire shook with amusement, seeing before her a picture of her lover seated tete-a-tete with the formidable “Head,” breaking to her the news that one of her staff intended to play truant.

“It’s very easy to say that.  You don’t know her.  She thinks everything in the world comes second to education.”

“What if she does?  I’ll agree with her.  You’re the most precious darling in all the world, but you can’t honestly believe that there aren’t a thousand other mistresses who could teach those flappers as well, or better!  Whereas for me-well! it’s Claire, or no one.  I’ll throw myself on the good lady’s tender mercies, and ask for your release as a favour to myself, and I bet you anything you like that I succeed.  Miss Farnborough was a woman before she was a school-mistress.  She’ll set you free all right!”

“Perhaps-perhaps possibly at the half term.”

“Rubbish-the half term!  We’ll be married and settled down before we get near then...  Where will you go for our marriage, Claire?  To Mrs Willoughby?  I’m sure she’d be willing.”

“No!-no!” Claire marvelled at the obtuseness of men; at the utter unconsciousness of this particular man of the reason why Mrs Willoughby’s house should be the last one on earth from which his marriage should take place.  And then in the midst of these questionings, to her own surprise a sudden pricking of tears came to her eyes, and she cried sharply, “I want mother!  I must have mother.  She must come home.  She’ll come at once, when she hears-”

“We’ll cable to-day.  That will be best of all.  I’m longing to meet your mother, and you ought to have her with you, little lass!  Poor, little, lonely lass!  Please God, you shall never be lonely any more.”

“Ah, Erskine darling, but the other women!” Claire cried, and there was the sharpness of pain in her voice.

From within the shelter of her lover’s arms her heart went out in a wave of tenderness towards her sisters who stood apart from the royal feast; towards Cecil with her blighted love, Sophie with her blighted health, with the thousand others for whom they stood as types; the countless hordes of women workers for whom life was a monotonous round of grey-hued days, shadowed by the prospect of age and want.  From the shelter of her lover’s arms, Claire Gifford vowed herself to the service of her working sisters.  From the bottom of her heart she thanked God for the year of work which had taught her to understand.