CHAPTER EIGHT.
THE RECEPTION.
It was almost worth while leading a life of all work and no play for sixweeks on end, for the sheer delight of being frivolous once more; ofdressing oneself in one's prettiest frock, drawing on filmy silkstockings and golden shoes, clasping a pearl necklace round a whitethroat and cocking a feathery aigrette at just the right angle amongcoppery swathes of hair. No single detail was wanting to complete thewhole, for in the old careless days Claire's garments had been purchasedwith a lavish hand, the only anxiety being to secure the most becomingspecimen of its kind. There were long crinkly gloves, and a lacehandkerchief, and a fan composed of curling feathers and mother-of-pearlsticks, and a dainty bag hanging by golden cords, and a cloak of thenewest shape, composed of layers of different-tinted chiffons, whichlooked more like a cloud at sunset than a garment manufactured by humanhands and supposed to be of use!
Claire tilted her little mirror to an acute angle, gave a little skip ofdelight as she surveyed the completed whole, and then whirled down thenarrow staircase, a flying mist of draperies, through which the littlegold-clad feet gleamed in and out. She whirled into the sitting-room,where the solitary lamp stood on the table, and Cecil lay on the humpygreen plush sofa reading a novel from the Free Library. She put downthe book and stared with wide eyes as Claire gave an extra whirl for herbenefit, and cried jubilantly--
"Admire me! Admire me! I'm dying to be admired! Don't I look fine,and smart, and unsuitable! Will any one in the world mistake me for aHigh School-mistress!"
Cecil rose from the sofa, and made a solemn tour of inspection.Obviously she was impressed, obviously she admired, obviously also shefound something startling in her inspection. There was pure feminineinterest in the manner in which she fingered each delicate fabric inturn, there was pure feminine kindness in the little pat on the armwhich announced the close of the inspection.
"My dear, it's ripping! Rich and rare isn't in it. You look a dream.Poor kiddie! If this is the sort of thing you've been used to, it'sbeen harder for you than I thought! Yes, horribly unsuitable, and whenit's worn-out, you'll never be able to have another like it. Whiteponge will be your next effort."
"Bless your heart, I've three others just as fine, and these skimpyskirts last for an age. No chance of any one planting a great foot onthe folds and tearing them to ribbons as in the old days. There _are_no folds to tread on."
But Cecil as usual was ready with her croak.
"Next year," she said darkly, "there will be flounces. Before you havea chance of wearing your four dresses, everybody will be fussy andfrilly, and they'll be hopelessly out of date."
"Then I'll cut up two and turn them into flounces to fuss out theothers!" cried Claire, the optimist, and gave another caper from sheerlightness of heart. "How do you like my feet?"
"I suppose you mean shoes. A pretty price you paid for those. I'm surethey're too tight!"
"Boats, my dear, boats! I've had to put in a sole. Didn't you know myfeet were so small? How do you like my cloak? It's meant to look likea cloud. Layers of blue, pink and grey, `superimposed,' as the fashionpapers have it. Or should you say it was more like an opal?"
"No, I should not. Neither one nor the other. Considered as a cloakfor a foggy November evening, I should call it a delusion and a fraud.You'll get a chill. I've a Shetland shawl. I'll lend it to you to wrapround your shoulders."
"No, you won't!" Claire cried defiantly. "Shetland shawl indeed! Whoever heard of a girl of twenty-one in a Shetland shawl? I'm going to aparty, my dear. The joy of that thought would keep me warm through adozen fogs."
"You'll have to come back from the party, however, and you mayn't feelso jubilant then. It's not too exciting when you don't know a soul, andsit on one seat all evening. I knew a girl who went to a big crush anddidn't even get a cup of coffee. Nobody asked her to go down."
Claire swept her cloak to one side, and sat down on a chair facing thesofa, her white gloves clasped on her knee, the embroidered bag hangingby its golden cords to the tip of the golden slippers. She fixed hereyes steadily on her companion, and there was in them a spark of anger,before which Cecil had the grace to flush.
"Sorry! Really I am sorry--"
"`Repentance is to _leave_ The sins we loved before, And show that we in earnest grieve By doing so No More!'"
quoted Claire sternly. "Really, Cecil, you are the champion wet blanketof your age. It is too bad. I have to do all the perking up, and youcan't even let me go to a party without damping my ardour. I wasthinking it over the other night, and I've hit on a promising plan. I'mgoing to allow you a grumble day a week--but only one. On that day youcan grumble as much as ever you like, from the moment you get up tillthe moment you go to bed. You'll be within your rights, and I shall notcomplain. I'll have my own day, too, when you can find out what itfeels like to listen, but won't be allowed to say a word in return. Forthe rest of the week you'll just have to grin and bear it. You won't beallowed a single growl."
Cecil knitted her brows, and looked ashamed and uncomfortable, as sheinvariably did when taxed with her besetting sin. Claire's charge onmental poisoning had struck home, and she had honestly determined toturn over a new leaf; but the habit had been indulged too long to beeasily abandoned. Unconsciously, as it were, disparaging remarks flowedfrom her lips, combined with a steady string of objections, adversecriticisms, and presentiments of darkness and gloom. At the presentmoment she felt a little startled to realise how firmly the habit wasestablished, and the proposal of a licenced grumble day held out somepromise of a cure.
"Then I'll have Monday!" she cried briskly. "I am always in a badtemper on Mondays, so I shall be able to make the most of my chance."She was silent for a moment considering the prospect, then was struckwith a sudden thought. "But now and then I _do_ have a nice week-end,and then I shouldn't want to grumble at all. I suppose I could changethe day?"
There was a ring of triumph in Claire's laugh.
"Not you! My dear girl, that's just what I am counting upon! Sometimesthe sun will shine, sometimes you'll get a nice letter, sometimes thegirls will be intelligent and interesting, and then, my dear, you'llforget, and the day will skip past, and before you know where you are itwill be Tuesday morning and your chance will have gone. Cecil, fancyit! A whole fortnight without a grumble. It seems almost too good tobe true!"
"It does!" said the English mistress eloquently. She sat upright on thegreen plush sofa, her shabby slippers well in evidence beneath the edgeof her shabby skirt, staring with curious eyes at the radiant figure ofthe girl in the opposite chair. "I don't think you need a day at all!"
"Because I'm going to a solitary party? Only two minutes ago, my love,you were sympathising with my hard lot! I shall have Fridays. I'mtired on Fridays, and it's getting near the time for making up accounts.I can be quite a creditable grumbler on Fridays."
"Well, just as you like! You _are_ going to the party, I suppose?Haven't changed your mind by any chance, and determined to spend theevening hectoring me! If you are going, you'd better go. I'll sit upfor you and keep some cocoa--"
Claire rose with a smile.
"I appreciate the inference! Starved and disillusioned, I am to creephome and weep on your bosom. Well, we'll see! Good-bye for thepresent. I'll tell you all about it when I get back..."
A minute's whistling at the front door produced a taxi, in which Claireseated herself and was whirled westward through brightly lightedstreets. In the less fashionable neighbourhoods the usual Saturdaycrowd thronged round the shops and booths, making their purchases at anhour when perishable goods could be obtained at bargain prices. Claireand Cecil had themselves made such expeditions before now, coming hometriumphant with some savoury morsel for supper, and with quite a lavishsupply of flowers to deck the little room. At the time the expeditionshad been pleasant enough, and there had seemed nothing in the least_infra dig_ in taking advantage of the opportunity; but to-ni
ght thegirl in the cloudy cloak looked through the windows of her chariot withan ineffable condescension, and found it difficult to believe that sheherself had ever made one of so insignificant a throng!
"How I do love luxury! It's the breath of my nostrils," she said toherself with a little sigh of content, as she straightened herself inher seat, and smiled back at her own reflection in the strip of mirroropposite. Her hair had "gone" just right. What a comfort that was!Sometimes it took a stupid turn and could not be induced to obey. Sheopened the cloak at the top and peeped at the dainty whiteness within,with the daring, thoroughly French touch of vivid emerald green whichgave a _cachet_ to the whole. Yes, it was quite as pretty as she hadbelieved. Every whit as becoming. "I don't look a bit like a school-mistress!" smiled Claire, and snoodled back again against the cushionswith a deep breath of content.
She was not in the least shy. Many a girl about to make her _entree_into a strange house would have been suffering qualms of misgiving bythis time, but Claire had spent her life more or less in public, and wasaccustomed to meet strangers as a matter of course, so there was nodread to take the edge off her enjoyment.
Even when the taxi slowed down to take its place in the stream ofvehicles which were drawn up before Mrs Willoughby's house, she knewonly a heightened enjoyment in the realisation that it was not a partyat all, but a real big fashionable At Home.
The usual crowd of onlookers stood on either side of the door, and asClaire descended from the taxi, the sight of her golden slippers andfloating clouds of gauze evoked a gratifying murmur of admiration. Shepassed on with her head in the air, looking neither to right nor left,but close against the rails stood a couple of working girls whosewistful eyes drew her own as with a magnet. In their expression was awhole world of awe, of admiration; they looked at her as at a denizen ofanother sphere, hardly presuming even to be envious, so infinitely wasshe removed from their grey-hued life. As Claire met their eyes, animpulse seized her to stop and tell them that she was just a workinggirl like themselves, but convention being too strong to allow of suchfamiliarities, she smiled instead, with such a frank and friendlyacknowledgment of their admiration as brought a flash of pleasure totheir faces.
"She's a real laidy, she is!" said Gladys to Maud; and Maud sniffed inassent, and answered strongly, "You bet your life!"
The inside of the house seemed out of all proportion with the outsideappearance. This is a special peculiarity of the West End, which haspuzzled many a visitor besides Claire Gifford. What _is_ the magicwhich transforms narrow slips of buildings into spacious halls andimposing flights of stairways? Viewed from the street, the town housesof well-known personages seem quite inadequate for their purpose; viewedfrom within, they are all that is stately and appropriate. Those of uswho live in less favoured neighbourhoods would fain solve the riddle.
Mrs Willoughby stood at the top of her own staircase, shaking handswith the stream of ascending guests, and motioning them forward to thesuite of entertaining rooms from which came a steady murmur of voices.She was a stout woman, with a vast expanse of white shoulders whichseemed to join right on to her head without any preliminary in the shapeof a neck. Her hair was dark, and a plain face was lightened by a pairof exceedingly pleasant, exceedingly alert brown eyes. As soon as shemet those eyes Claire felt assured that the kindness of which she hadheard was a real thing, and that this woman could be counted upon as afriend. There was, it is true, a slight vagueness in the manner inwhich she made her greeting, but a murmur of "Mrs Fanshawe" instantlyrevived recollections.
"Of course--of course!" she cried heartily. "So glad you could come, mydear. I must see you later on. Reginald!"--she beckoned to a lad in anEton suit--"I want you to take charge of Miss Gifford. Take her to havesome coffee, and introduce her to some one nice."
A nod and a smile, and Mrs Willoughby had turned back to welcome thenext guest in order, while the Eton boy offered his arm with the air ofa prince of the blood, and led the way to a refreshment buffet aroundwhich the guests were swarming with an eagerness astonishing to beholdwhen one realised how lately they must have risen from the dinner-table.Claire found her young cavalier very efficient in his attentions. Hesettled her in a comfortable corner, brought her a cup of coffee heapedwith foaming cream, and gave it as his opinion that it was going to be"a beastly crush." Claire wondered if it would be tactful to inquirehow he happened to be at home in the middle of a term; but while shehesitated he supplied the information himself.
"I'm home on leave. Appendicitis. Left the nursing home three weeksago. Been at the sea, and came back yesterday in time for this show.Getting a bit tired of slacking!"
"You must be. Dear me! I _am_ sorry. Too bad to begin so soon,"murmured Claire pitifully; but Master Reginald disdained sympathy.
"Oh, I dunno," he said calmly. "It's quite the correct thing, don't youknow? Everybody's doing it. Just as well to get it through. Itmight"--he opened his pale eyes with a startled look--"it might havecome on in the hols! Pretty fool I should have looked if I'd been doneout of winter sports."
"There's that way of looking at it!" Claire said demurely. For amoment she debated whether she should break the fact that she herselfwas a school-mistress, but decided that it would be wiser to refrainsince the boy would certainly feel more at ease with her in her privatecapacity. So for the next half-hour they sat happily together in theircorner, while the boy discoursed on the subjects nearest his heart, andthe girl deftly switched him back to the subjects more congenial.
"Yes, I love cricket. At least I'm sure I should do, if I understood itbetter... _Do_ tell me who is the big old lady with the eyeglass andthe diamond tiara?"
"Couldn't tell you to save my life. Rather an out-size, isn't she?Towers over the men. I say! you ought to go to Lord's Will you turn upat Lord's next year to see our match? We might meet somewhere and I'dgive you tea. Harrow won't have a chance. We've got a bowler who--"
"Can he really? How nice! Oh, that _is_ a curious-looking man with thelong hair! I'm sure he is something, or does something different fromother people. Is he a musician, do you think? Do you ever have musicon these evenings?"
"Rather! Sometimes the mater hires a big swell, sometimes she letsloose the amateurs. She knows lots of amateurs, y'know. People who aretrying to be big-wigs, and want the chance to show off. The materencourages them. Great mistake if you ask me, but you needn't listen ifyou don't want. She has one of these crushes once a month. Beastlydull, I call them. Can't think why the people come. But she gives thema rattling good feed. Supper comes on at twelve, in the dining-roomdownstairs."
But Claire was not interested in supper. All her attention was taken upin watching the stream of people passing by, and for a time the youth ofher companion had seemed an advantage, since it made it easy to indulgeher curiosity concerning her fellow-guests by a succession of questionswhich might have been boring to an adult. As time passed on, however,and she became conscious that more than one pair of masculine eyesturned in her direction, she wished frankly Master Reginald wouldremember his mother's instructions and proceed without further delay tointroduce her to "someone nice." To return home and confess to Cecilthat she had spent the evening in company with a schoolboy would bealmost as humiliating as sitting alone in a corner.
It was at this point that Claire became aware of the presence of a verysmall, very wizened old woman sitting alone at the opposite side of theroom, her mittened hands clawing each other restlessly in her lap, hersunken eyes glancing to right and left with a glance distinctly hostile.The passing of guests frequently hid her from view, but when a gap cameagain, there she sat, still alone, still twisting her mittened hands,still coldly staring around. Claire thought she looked a verydisagreeable old lady, but she was sorry for her all the same. Horridto be old and cross, and to be alone in a crowd! She put yet anotherquestion to the boy by her side.
"That," said Master Willoughby seriously, "is Great-aunt Jane. Great-aunt Jane is the s
keleton in our cupboard. The mater says so, and sheought to know. Every time the mater has a show, the moment the door isopened, in comes Great-aunt Jane, and sits it out until every one hasgone. If any one dares speak to her she snaps his head off, and if theylet her alone, she's furious, and gives it to the mater after they'regone. Most of the crowd know her by now, and pretend they don't see,... and she gets waxier and waxier. Would you like to be introduced?"
"Yes, please!" said Claire unexpectedly. She was tired of sitting inone corner, and wanted to move her position, but she was also quitegenuinely anxious to try her hand at cheering poor cross Great-auntJane. The old lady _pensionnaires_ in the "Villa Beau Sejour" had madea point of petting and flattering the pretty English girl, and Clairewas complacently assured that this old lady would follow their example.But she was mistaken.
"Aunt Jane, Miss Gifford asks to be introduced to you. Miss Gifford--Lady Jane Willoughby."
Reginald beat a hurried retreat, and Claire seated herself at the end ofthe sofa and smilingly awaited her companion's lead. It did not come.After one automatic nod of the head, Lady Jane resumed her formerposition, taking no more notice of the new-comer than if she hadremained at the far end of the room. Claire felt her cheeks begin toburn. Her complacence had suffered a shock, but pride came to herrescue, and she made a determined effort at conversation.
"That nice boy has been telling me that he has had appendicitis."
Lady Jane favoured her with a frosty glance.
"Yes, he has. Perhaps you will excuse me from talking about it. Iobject to the discussion of diseases at social gatherings."
Claire's cheeks grew hotter still. A quick retort came to her lips.
"I wasn't going to discuss it! I only mentioned it for--for somethingto say. I couldn't think how else to begin!"
The droop of Lady Jane's eyelids inferred that it was really quitesuperfluous to begin at all. Claire waited a whole two minutes by theclock, and then made another effort.
"I hear we are to have some music later on."
"Sorry to hear it," said Great-aunt Jane.
"Really! I was so glad. Aren't you fond of music, then?"
"I am very fond of music," said Aunt Jane, and there was a world ofinsinuation in her voice. Without a definite word being spoken, thehearer was informed that good music, real music, music worthy the name,was a thing that no sane person would expect to hear at MrsWilloughby's "At Homes." She was really the most terrifying anddisconcerting of old ladies, and Claire heartily repented the impulsewhich had brought her to her side. A pretty thing it would be if shewere left alone on this sofa for the rest of the evening!
But fortune was kind, and from across the room came a good angel who wasso exactly a reproduction of Mrs Willoughby herself, minus half herage, that it must obviously be her daughter. Janet Willoughby was not apretty girl, but she looked gay, and bright, and beaming with goodhumour, and at this moment with a spice of mischief into the bargain.The manner in which she held out her hand to Claire was as friendly asthough the two girls had been friends for years.
"Miss Gifford? I was sure it must be you. Mother told me to look foryou. Aunt Jane, will you excuse my running away with Miss Gifford?Several people are asking to be introduced. Will you come with me, MissGifford? I want to take you into the music room."
Claire rose with a very leap of eagerness, and as soon as they hadgained a safe distance, Miss Willoughby turned to her with twinklingeyes.
"I am afraid you were having a bad time! I caught sight of you acrossthe room and was so sorry. Who took you over there? Was it thatnaughty Reginald?"
"He did, but I asked him. I thought she looked lonely. I thoughtperhaps she would be pleased."
Janet Willoughby's smile showed a quick approval.
"That was kind! Thanks for the good intention, but I can't let you bevictimised any more. I want to talk to you myself, and half-a-dozen menhave been asking for introductions to the girl with the green sash. Youknow Mrs Fanshawe, don't you? Isn't she charming? She and I are thegreatest of chums. I always say she has never succeeded in growingolder than seventeen. She is so delightfully irresponsible andimpulsive. She wrote mother a charming letter about you. It made usquite anxious to meet you, but you know what town life is--a continualrush! Everything gets put off."
"It was awfully good of you to ask me at all, and very kind of MrsFanshawe to write. I only know her in the most casual way. We crossedover from Antwerp together, and her maid was ill, and I was able to beof some use, and when she heard that I was coming to work in London andthat I knew nobody here--she--"
Jane Willoughby stared in frank amazement.
"Do you really mean that that was all? You met her only that one time?You know nothing of her home or her people?"
"Only that time. I hope--I hope you don't think--"
Claire suffered an anxious moment before she realised that for someunexplained reason Miss Willoughby was more pleased than annoyed by theintelligence. An air of something extraordinarily like relief passedover her features. She laughed gaily and said--
"I don't think anything at all except that it is delightfully like MrsFanshawe. She wrote as if she had known you for ages. As a matter offact she probably _does_ know you quite well. She is so extraordinarilyquick and clever, that she crowds as much life into an hour as anordinary person does into a week. She told us that you had chosen tocome to London to work, rather than go to India and have a good time.How plucky of you! And you teach at one of the big High Schools... Youdon't look in the least like a school-mistress."
"Ah! I'm off duty to-night! You should see me in the morning, in myworking clothes. You should see me at night, correcting exercises onthe dining-table in a lodging-house parlour, and cooking sausages in achafing-dish for our evening meal. I `dig' with the English mistress,and do most of our cooking myself, as the landlady's tastes and oursdon't agree. I'm getting to be quite an expert at manufacturingsixpenny dainties."
Janet Willoughby breathed a deep sigh; the diamond star on her neck sentout vivid gleams of light.
"What fun!" she sighed enviously. "What fun!" and as she spoke thereflashed suddenly before the eyes of her listener a picture of theEnglish mistress lying on the green plush sofa, her shabby slippersshowing beneath the hem of her shabby skirt, spending the holidaySaturday evening at home because she had no invitations to go out, andno money to spare for an entertainment. "Oh, I _do_ envy you!" sighedJanet deeply. "It's one of my greatest ambitions to share rooms with anice girl, and live the simple life, and be free to do whatever oneliked. Mother loves independence in other girls, but her principlesdon't extend to me. She says an only daughter's place is at home. Butyou are an only daughter, too."
"I am; but other circumstances were different. It was a case of beingdependent on a stepfather or of working for myself--so I chose to work,and--"
"And I'm sure you never regret it!"
Claire extended her hands in the expressive French shrug.
"Ah, but I do! Horribly, at times. Even now, after three months' workI have a conviction that I shall regret it more and more as time goeson; but if I had to decide again, I'd do just the same. It's a questionof principle versus so many things--laziness and self-indulgence, andwanting to have a good time, and the habits of a lifetime, andirritation with stupid girls who won't work."
Janet Willoughby gave a soft murmur of understanding.
"Yes, of course. Stupid of me to say that! Of course, you must gettired when you've never taught before. Does it bore you very much?"
"Teaching? Oh, no. As a rule I love it, and take a pride in inventingnew ways to help the girls. It's the all work and no play that gets onone's nerves, and the feeling of being cut off from the world by animpassable barrier of something that really doesn't exist. People havea prejudice against school-mistresses. They think they are dull, andproper, and pedantic. If they want to be complimentary they say, `Youdon't look like a school-mistress.
' You did yourself, not two minutesago. But really and truly they are just natural, everyday girls,wanting to have a good time in their leisure hours like other girls.You can't think how happy I was to come here to-night and have thechance of putting on pretty things again."
Janet Willoughby put her hand on Claire's arm and piloted her deftlythrough the crowd.
"Now," she said firmly, "you just stay here, and I'll bring up all thenicest men in the room, and introduce them in turns. You _shall_ have agood time, and you are wearing the very prettiest things in the room--ifit's any comfort to you to hear it. We won't talk about school anymore. To-night is for fun!"
The next hour passed on flying feet, while Claire sat the queen of alittle court, and Janet Willoughby flitted to and fro, bringing up fresharrivals to be introduced, and drafting off the last batch to otherparts of the crowded rooms. All the men were agreeable and amusing, andshowed a flattering appreciation of their position. Claire felt no moreinterest in one than in another, but she liked them all, and felt adistinct pleasure in talking to men again after the convent-likeexistence of the last months. She was pleased to welcome a new-comer,smiled unconcerned at a farewell.
From time to time the buzz of voices was temporarily broken by the crashof the piano, but always before the end of each performance it roseagain, and steadily swelled in volume. In truth, the excellence of theperformance was no great inducement to listen, and Mrs Willoughby'sforehead showed a pucker of anxiety. She drifted across to Claire'scorner, and spoke a few kindly words of welcome, which ended in a halfapology.
"I am sorry the music is so poor. It varies so much on differentnights. Sometimes we have quite a number of good singers, but to-nightthere are none. I am afraid so much piano grows a little boring."
She looked in the girl's face with a quick inquiry.
"Do _you_ sing?"
"No-o." The word seemed final, yet there was an unmistakable hesitationin Claire's voice. Mrs Willoughby's glance sharpened.
"But you do something? Play? Recite? What is it? My dear, I shouldbe so grateful!"
"I--whistle!" confessed Claire with a blush, and a little babble ofdelight greeted the words. Every one who heard hailed the chance of avariety in the monotonous programme. Mrs Willoughby beamed with allthe relief of a hostess unexpectedly relieved of anxiety.
"Delightful! Charming! My dear, it will be such a help! You wouldlike an accompaniment? I'll introduce you to Mr Helder. He can playanything you like. Will you come now! I am sure every one will becharmed."
There was no time for a second thought. The next moment the long-hairedMr Helder was bowing over Claire's hand, and professing his delight.The little group in the corner were pressing forward to obtain a pointof vantage, and throughout the company in general was passing a wordlesshum of excitement. Mr Helder was seating himself at the piano, a girlin a white dress had ascended the impromptu platform and now stood byhis side, a pretty girl, a very pretty girl, a girl who acknowledged thescattered applause with a smile which showed two dimples on one cheek, agirl who looked neither shy nor conceited, but simply as if she wereenjoying herself very much, and expected everybody to do the same. Shewas going to sing. It would be a relief to listen to singing after thecontinued performances upon the piano. They hoped sincerely that shecould sing well. Why didn't the accompaniment begin?
Then suddenly a white-gloved hand gave a signal, Mr Helder's handsdescended on the keys, and at the same instant from between Claire'spursed-up lips there flowed a stream of high, flute-like notes,repeating the air with a bird-like fluency and ease. She had chosen theold-world ballad, "Cherry Ripe," the quaint turns and trills of whichlent themselves peculiarly well to this method of interpretation, andthe swing and gaiety of the measure carried the audience by storm.Looking down from her platform Claire could see the indifferent facessuddenly lighten into interest, into smiles, into positive beams ofapproval. At the second verse heads began to wag; unconsciously totheir owners lips began to purse. It was inspiring to watch thosefaces, to know that it was she herself who had wrought the magic change.
Those moments for Claire were pure undiluted joy. Whistling had come toher as a natural gift, compensating to some extent for the lack of asinging voice; later on she had taken lessons, and practised seriouslyto perfect her facility. At school in Paris, later on in attendingsocial gatherings with her mother, she had had abundant opportunities ofovercoming the initial shyness; but indeed shyness was never a serioustrouble with Claire Gifford, who was gifted with that very agreeablecombination of qualities,--an amiable desire to please other people, anda comfortable assurance of her own powers.
At the end of the third verse the applause burst out with a roar."Bravos" sounded from every side, and "Encores" persisted so strenuouslythat Claire was not permitted even to descend from her platform. MrsWilloughby rustled forward full of gratitude and thanks. Mr Helderrubbed his hands, and beamingly awaited further commands... What wouldCecil have to say to a success like this?
Claire's second choice was one of Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words," aquieter measure this time, sweet and flowing, and giving opportunity fora world of delicate phrasing. It was one of the pieces which she hadpractised with a master, and with which she felt most completely athome; and if the audience found it agreeable to hear, they also, tojudge from their faces, found it equally agreeable to watch. Claire'scheeks were flushed to a soft rose-pink, her head moved to and fro,unconsciously keeping time with the air; one little golden shoe softlytapped the floor. Her unconsciousness of self added to the charm of theperformance. But once the audience noticed, with sympathetic amusement,her composure was seriously threatened, so that the bird-like notesquavered ominously, and the twin dimples deepened into veritable holes.Claire had caught sight of Great-aunt Jane standing in solitary state atthe rear of the throng of listeners, her mittened fingers stillplucking, her eyes frosty with disapproval.
After that Claire safeguarded her composure by looking steadily downwardat the points of her shoes until the end of the song approached, when itseemed courteous, once more, to face her audience. She raised her eyes,and as she did so her heart leapt within her with a startling force.She was thankful that it _was_ the end, that the long final note wasalready on her lips, for there, standing in the doorway, his faceupraised to hers, stood her knight of the railway station, the rescuerof the lost box--Erskine Fanshawe himself!
The Independence of Claire Page 8
