CHAPTER SEVEN.
TRANSFORMATION OF CECIL.
In the days to come when Claire looked back and reviewed the course ofevents which followed, she realised that Mrs Willoughby's invitationhad been a starting-point from which to date happenings to others aswell as herself. It was, for instance, on the morning after its arrivalthat Cecil's chronic discontent reached an acute stage. She appeared atbreakfast with a clouded face, grumbled incessantly throughout the meal,and snapped at everything Claire said, until the latter was provokedinto snapping in return. In the old days of idleness Claire had beennoted for the sunny sweetness of her disposition, but she was alreadydiscovering that teaching lays a severe strain on the nerves, and at theend of a week's work endurance seemed at its lowest ebb. So, when hersoft answers met rebuff after rebuff, she began to grumble in her turn,and to give back as good as she got.
"Really, Cecil, I am exceedingly sorry that your form is so stupid, andyour work so hard, but I am neither a pupil nor a chief, so I fail tosee where my responsibility comes in. Wouldn't it be better if youinterviewed Miss Farnborough instead of me?"
It was the first time that Claire had answered sharply, and for themoment surprise held Cecil dumb. Then the colour flamed into hercheeks, and her eyes sparkled with anger. Though forbearance had failedto soothe her, opposition evidently added fuel to the fire.
"Miss Farnborough!" she repeated jeeringly. "What does Miss Farnboroughcare for the welfare of her mistresses, so long as they grind throughtheir daily tasks? It is the pupils she thinks about, not us. Thepupils who are to be pampered and considered, and studied, and amused inschool and out. They have to have games in summer, and a mistress hasto give up her spare time to watch the pretty dears to see that theydon't get into trouble; and they must have parties, and concerts, andsilly entertainments in winter, with some poor wretch of a mistress todo all the work so that they may enjoy the fun. Miss Farnborough is anexemplary Head so far as her scholars are concerned, but what does shedo for her mistresses? I ask you, does she do anything at all?"
Claire considered, and was silent. Her first term was nearly over, andshe could not truthfully say that the Head had taken any concern for heras an individual who might be expected to feel some interest in lifebeyond the school door. It is true that almost every day brought thetwo in contact for the exchange of a few words which, if strictly onbusiness, were always pleasant and kindly, but except for the oneinvitation to tea on the day before work began, they had never met outof school hours. Claire was a stranger in London, yet the Head hadnever inquired as to her leisure hours, never invited her to her house,or offered, her an introduction to friends, never even engaged thesympathies of other mistresses on her behalf. Claire had expected avery different treatment, and had struggled against a sense of injury,but she would not acknowledge as much in words.
"I suppose Miss Farnborough is even more tired than we are. She has atremendous amount of responsibility. And she has a brother and sisterat home. Perhaps they object to an incursion of school in free hours."
"Then she ought to leave them, and live where she can do her dutywithout interference. After all mistresses are girls, too, not verymuch older than some of the pupils when we begin work; it's inhuman totake _no_ interest in our welfare. It wouldn't kill a Head to give up anight a month to ask us to meet possible friends, or to write a fewletters of introduction. You agree with me in your heart, so it's nouse pretending. It's a moral obligation, if it isn't legal, and I saypart of the responsibility is hers if things go wrong. It's inhuman toleave a young girl alone in lodgings without even troubling to inquireif she has anywhere to go in her leisure hours. But it's the same taleall round. Nobody thinks. Nobody cares. I've gone to the same churchfor three years, and not a soul has spoken to me all that time. I've notime to give to Church work, and the seats are free, so there's no wayof getting into touch. I don't suppose any one has ever noticed theshabby school-mistress in her shabby blue serge."
Suddenly Mary Rhodes thrust back her chair, and rising impetuously beganto storm up and down the room.
"Oh, I'm tired, I'm tired of this second-hand life. Living in otherpeople's houses, teaching other people's children, obeying otherpeople's orders. I'm sick of it. I can't stand it a moment longer.I'd rather take any risk to be out of it. After all, what could beworse? Any sort of life lived on one's own must be better than this.Nearly twelve years of it--and if I have twenty more, what's the end?What is there to look forward to? Slow starvation in a bed-sitting-room, for perhaps thirty years. I won't do it, I won't! I've hadenough. Now I shall choose for myself!"
Like a whirlwind she dashed out of the room, and Claire put her elbow onthe table and leant her head on her hands, feeling shaken, anddiscouraged, and oppressed. For the first time a doubt entered her mindas to whether she could continue to live with Mary Rhodes. In herbrighter modes there was much that was attractive in her personality,but to live with a chronic grumbler sapped one's own powers ofresistance. Claire felt that for the sake of her own happiness andefficiency it would be wiser to make a change, but her heart sank at thethought of making a fresh start, of perhaps having to live alone with noone to speak to in the long evenings. The life of a bachelor girl madelittle appeal at that moment. Liberty seemed dearly bought at the priceof companionship.
Claire spent the morning writing to her mother and reading over theseries of happy letters which had reached her week after week. MrsJudge was in radiant spirits, delighted with the conditions of her newlife, full of praise of her husband and the many friends to whom she hadbeen introduced. Three-fourths of the letter were taken up withdescriptions of her own gay doings, the remaining fourth with optimisticremarks on her daughter's life. How delightful to share rooms withanother girl! What a nice break to have every Saturday and Sunday free!What economical rooms! Claire must feel quite rich. What fun to havethe girls so devoted!
Claire made an expressive grimace as she read that "quite rich." Thislast week she had been obliged to buy new gloves, and to have her bootsmended. A new umbrella had been torn by the carelessness with whichanother teacher had thrust her own into the crowded stand, and one nightshe had been seized with a longing for a dainty well-cooked meal, andhad recklessly stood treat at a restaurant. She did not feel at all"rich" as she made up the week's account, and reflected that next weekthe expense of driving to Mrs Willoughby's "At Home" would again swellup the total of these exasperating "extras" which made such havoc ofadvance calculations.
Cecil did not appear until lunch was on the table, when she flung thedoor wide open and marched in with an air of bravado, as if wanting hercompanion to stare at once and get over it. It would have beenimpossible not to stare, for the change in her appearance was positivelystartling to behold. Her dark hair was waved and fashionably coiffed.Her best coat and skirt had been embellished with frills of lace at neckand sleeves, a pretty little waistcoat had been manufactured out of alength of blue ribbon and a few paste buttons, while a blue feathernecklet had been promoted a step higher, and encircled an old straw hat.The ribbon bow at the end of the boa exactly matched the shade of thewaistcoat, and was cocked up at a daring angle, while a becoming newveil and a pair of immaculate new gloves added still further to theeffect.
Claire had always suspected that Cecil could be pretty if she chose totake the trouble, and now she knew it for a fact. It was difficult torealise that this well-groomed-looking girl, with the bright eyes andsoftly-flushed cheeks, could really be the same person as the frumpy-looking individual who every morning hurried along the street.
Involuntarily Claire threw up her hands; involuntarily she cried aloudin delight "Cheers! Cheers! How do you do, Cecil? Welcome home,Cecil!--the real Cecil! How pretty you are, Cecil! How well that bluesuits you! Don't dare to go back to your dull navy and black. I shallinsist that you always wear blue. I feel quite proud of having such afine lady to lunch. You are going to have lunch, aren't you? Why thosegloves and veil?"
"Oh, well--I'm not hungry. I'll have some coffee. I may have lunch intown." Cecil was plainly embarrassed under her companion's scrutiny.She pushed up her veil, so that it rested in a little ridge across hernose, craned forward her head, sipping her coffee with exaggerated care,so that no drop should fall on her lacy frills.
Claire longed to ask a dozen questions, but something in Cecil's mannerheld her at bay, and she contented herself with one inquiry--
"What time will you be home?"
Cecil shrugged her shoulders.
"Don't know. Perhaps not till late." She was silent for a moment, thenadded with sudden bitterness, "You are not the _only_ person who hasinvitations. If I chose, I could go out every Saturday."
"Then why on earth are you always grumbling about your loneliness?"thought Claire swiftly, but she did not put the thought into words.After the warmth of her own welcome, a kinder response was surely herdue; she was angry, and would not condescend to reply.
The meal was finished in silence, but when Cecil rose to depart, theusual compunction seized her in its grip. She stood arranging her veilbefore the mirror over the mantelpiece, uttering the usual interjectoryexpressions of regret.
"Sorry, Claire. I'm a wretch. You must hate me. I ought to be shot.Nice Saturday morning I've given you! What are you going to do thisafternoon?"
Claire's eyes turned towards the window with an expression sad to see onso young a face--an imprisoned look. Her voice seemed to lose all itstimbre as she replied in one flat dreary word--
"Nothing!"
A spasm of irresolution passed across Cecil's face. For a moment shelooked as if she were about to throw aside her own project and cast inher lot with her friend's. Then her face hardened, and she turnedtowards the door.
"Why not call for Sophie Blake, and see if she will go a walk? Sheasked you once before."
With that she was gone, and Claire was left to consider the proposition.Sophie Blake, the Games mistress, was the single member of the staffwho had shown any disposition towards real friendship, though theintimacy was so far confined to one afternoon's walk, and an occasionalchat in the dinner hour, but this afternoon the thought of her merrysmile acted as an irresistible magnet. Claire ran upstairs to getready, in a panic lest she might arrive at Sophie's lodgings to find shehad already gone out for the afternoon. Cecil had hinted that she mightnot return until late, and suddenly it seemed unbearable to spend therest of the day in solitude. Restlessness was in the air, first thepleasurable restlessness caused by the receipt of Mrs Willoughby'sinvitation, then the disagreeable restlessness caused by Cecil's erraticbehaviour. As she hurried through the streets towards Sophie Blake'slodgings, Claire pondered over the mystery of this sudden development onCecil's part. Where was she going? Whom was she going to see? Whydeclare with one breath that she was without a friend, and with the nextthat if she chose she might accept invitations every week? What specialreason had to-day inspired such unusual care in her appearance?
Sophie was at home. Lonely Claire felt quite a throb of relief as sheheard the welcome words. She entered the oil-clothed passage and wasshown into a small, very warm, very untidy front parlour wherein stoodSophie herself, staring with widened eyes at the opening door.
"Oh, it's _you_!" she cried. "What a fright you gave me! I couldn'tthink _who_ it could be. Come in! Sit down! Can you find a freechair? Saturday is my work day. I've been darning stockings, andtrimming a hat, and ironing a blouse, and washing lace, and writingletters all in a rush. I love a muddle on Saturdays. It's such achange after routine all the week. What do you think of the hat? Sevenand sixpence, all told. I flatter myself it looks worth every penny often. Don't pull down that cloth. The iron's underneath. Be careful ofthat table! The ink-pot's somewhere about. How sweet of you to call!I'll clear this muddle away and then we can talk ... Oh, my arm!"
"What's the matter with the arm?"
Sophie shrugged carelessly.
"Rheumatism, my dear. Cheerful, isn't it, for a gym. mistress? It'sbeen giving me fits all the week."
"The east winds, I suppose. I know they make rheumatism worse."
"They do. So does damp. So does snow. So does fog. So does cold. Sodoes heat. If you could tell me of anything that makes it _better_, I'dbe obliged. Bother rheumatism! Don't let's talk of it... It'sSaturday, my dear. I never think of disagreeables on Saturday. Where'sMiss Rhodes this afternoon?"
"I don't know. She made herself look very nice and smart--she can bevery nice-looking when she likes!--and went out for the day."
"Humph!" Sophie pursed her lips and contracted her brows as if inconsideration of a knotty point. "She was awfully pretty when I came tothe school ten years ago. And quite jolly and bright. You wouldn'tknow her for the same girl. She's a worrier, of course, but it's morethan that. Something happened about six years ago, which took thestarch out of her once for all. A love affair, I expect. Perhaps she'stold you... I'm not fishing, and it's not my business, but I'm sorryfor the poor thing, and I was sorry for you when I heard you were goingto share her room. She can't be the most cheerful companion in theworld!"
"Oh, she's quite lively at times," Claire said loyally, "and veryappreciative. I'm fond of her, you know, but I wish she didn't grumblequite so much." She looked round the parlour, which was at once biggerand better furnished than the joint apartment in Laburnum Crescent, andseized upon an opportunity of changing the subject. "You have a verynice room."
Sophie Blake looked round with an air half proud, half guilty.
"Y-es. Too nice. I've no business to spend so much, but I simply can'tstand those dreadful cheap houses. People are always fussing andtelling one to save up for old age. I think it matters far more to havethings nice in one's youth. I get a hundred and thirty a year, and haveto keep myself all the year round and help to educate a young sister.We are orphans, and the grown-ups have to keep her between us. Icouldn't save if I wanted to, so what's the use of worrying? I don'tcare very much what happens after fifty-five. Perhaps I shall bemarried. Perhaps I shall be dead. Perhaps some nice kind millionairewill have taken a fancy to me, and left me a fortune. If the worstcomes to the worst, I'll go into a home for decayed gentlewomen and knitstockings--no, not stockings, I should never be able to turn the heels--long armlet things, like mittens, without the thumbs. Look here. Whereshall we go? Isn't it a shame that all the nice shops close early onSaturday? We might have had such sport walking along Knightsbridge,choosing what we'd like best from every window. Have you ever donethat? It's ripping fun. What about Museums? Do you like Museums?Rather cold for the feet, don't you think? What can we do that's warmand interesting, and exciting, and doesn't cost more thaneighteenpence?"
Claire laughed gleefully, not at the thought of the eighteenpennyrestriction, but from pure joy at finding a companion who could facelife with a smile, and find enjoyment from such simple means asimaginary purchases from shop windows. Oh, the blessed effect of acheerful spirit! How inspiriting it was after the constant douche ofdiscouragement from which she had suffered for the last nine weeks!
"Oh, bother eighteenpence! This is my treat, and we are going to enjoyourselves, or know the reason why. I've got a lot of money in the bank,and I'm just in the mood to spend. We'll go to the Queen's Hall, andthen on to have tea in a restaurant. You would like to hear somemusic?"
"So long as it is not a chorus of female voices--I _should_! I'm atrifle fed up with female voices," cried Sophie gaily. She picked upher newly-trimmed hat from the table and caressed it fondly. "Comealong, darling. You're going to make your _debut_!"
The Independence of Claire Page 7
