CHAPTER TEN.
NOWHERE TO GO.
Cecil's observance of her day of licenced grumbling was somewhatobstructed by the fact that for several weeks after Mrs Willoughby's AtHome, Monday mornings found her in a condition of excitement and gaiety.It was a restless gaiety, which seemed to spring rather from the headthan the heart, and Claire looking on with puzzled eyes had an instinctthat her companion was assiduously whipping up her own spirits, playingthe part of happiness with all her force, with the object of convincingthe most critical of all audiences--her own heart! Life was a lonelything to Claire in these days, for Cecil went out regularly everySaturday and Sunday, returning so late that the two girls did not meetfrom lunch one day until breakfast the next. She vouchsafed noexplanation of her sudden plunge into society, neither beforehand whenshe sat stitching at pathetic little pieces of finery, nor afterwardswhen letting herself in with her latch-key she crept slowly to bed,never deigning to enter Claire's room for one of those "tell-all-about-it" _seances_ dear to a girl's heart.
It was the sight of those pathetic little pieces of finery which firstsuggested the idea of a man to Claire's mind. However dear and intimatea woman friend may be, the prospect of meeting her does not inspire afellow-woman with sufficient energy to sit up until after midnight tocover a shabby lace blouse with ninon, or to put a new silk collar andcuffs on a half-worn coat. It is only the prospect of meeting the eyesof some male creature, who in all probability will remain supremelyunconscious of the result, which stimulates such effort, and Claire,noting Cecil's restless excitement, cast anxious thoughts towards theparticular man in this case.
Was Sophie Blake correct in her deduction as to a previous unhappyromance? Claire had no tangible grounds to lead her to a conclusion,but instinct induced her to agree. Something beyond the troubles of herprofessional life had gone towards warping a nature that was naturallygenerous and warm. In imagination Claire lived over the pitifulromance. Poor Cecil had been badly treated. Some selfish man had madelove to her, amusing his idle hours with the society of a pretty, cleverwoman; he had never seriously intended marriage, but Cecil had believedin his sincerity, had given him her whole heart, had dreamt dreams whichhad turned the grey of life to gold.
And then had come the end. How had the end come? Some day when theywere walking together, had he suddenly announced: "I am sailing to Indianext month!" or, "We have been such capital friends, you and I. Ishould like you to be the first to hear my news. I am engaged to bemarried to the dearest girl in the world!" Then, because conventiondecrees that when her heart is wounded a woman may make no moan, hadCecil twisted her lips into a smile, and cried, "I am so glad to hearit. I hope you will be very happy," while the solid earth rocked aroundher? At such thoughts as these Claire flared with righteous anger. "Ifthat should ever happen to me, I wouldn't pretend! I wouldn't sparehim. I should look him straight in the face, and say, `And all thistime you have been pretending to love me.--I thank God that it _was_pretence. I thank God that He has preserved me from being the wife ofman who could act a double part!'"
But perhaps there had been no real ending. Perhaps the man had simplygrown tired, and ceased to call, ceased to write. Oh, surely that wouldbe the greatest tragedy of all! Claire's quick brain summoned picturesof Cecil creeping down the oil-clothed stairs in her dressing-gown atthe sound of the postman's earliest knock, and creeping back with noletter in her hand; of Cecil entering the little parlour on her returnfrom work with a swift hungry look at the table on which the day'sletters were displayed; seeing no letter lying there; never, never theletter for which she watched! And the days would pass, and the weeks,and the months, and the old routine of life would go on just the same.Whatever might be her private sufferings, the English mistress must beat her post each morning at nine o'clock; she must wrestle all day withthe minds of dull girls, listless girls, clever girls, girls who wereeager to learn, and girls whose energies seemed condensed in the effortto avoid learning at all. However sore might be the English mistress'sheart, it was her duty to be bright and alert; however exhausted her ownstock of patience, she must still be a female Job in her treatment ofher many pupils. A school-mistress must banish her individuality as awoman on the threshold of the form-room; while on duty she must banishevery outside interest from her mind. No lying in bed, with her face tothe pillow; no weeping far into the night. Headache and swollen eyelidsare not for her. If her love-story goes wrong, she must lock her sorrowin her own heart. What wonder if, as a result, her mind grows bitterand her tongue grows sharp!
"That's a lesson for me! I must never, never allow myself to fall inlove!" sighed Claire to herself. It was a depressing necessity, butvaguely she allowed herself to dream of a distant Someday, when the banshould be removed. Something might happen to set her free. Somethingmost certainly _would_ happen! Optimistic one-and-twenty is readyenough to face a short term of renunciation, but it resolutely refusesto believe in its continuance.
A shadow fell over Claire's happy face as the practical application ofthis resolve came into her mind. Erskine Fanshawe! At the moment hewas the one masculine figure on her horizon, but she did not disguisefrom herself that of all the men she had met, he attracted her the most.What a mercy that she had had the resolution to put a stop to afriendship which might have ended in unfitting her for the work in hand!It had been hard to refuse the desired information, but the fact thatthe second refusal had been twice as hard as the first was in itself aproof of the wisdom of her decision. And then, in illogical girlishfashion, Claire fell to wondering if perchance Captain Fanshawe woulddiscover her address for himself? It would be the easiest of tasks,since he had nothing to do but to put the question to Mrs Willoughby.At one moment Claire openly hoped that he would; at the next sherecalled the expression on Janet Willoughby's face as she stood staringacross the supper room, and then she was not so sure. What if thecontinuance of the friendship brought trouble on Janet as well asherself?
Laboriously Claire thrust the thought of Erskine Fanshawe from her mind,but just because inclination would have led her to so blithely meet him,she felt a keener sympathy with her companion's preparations for similarmeetings.
The time of examinations had come, and night after night the dining-table of the little parlour was littered with the sheets of foolscapwhich were to test the progress of the pupils throughout the term.Cecil's older forms had been studying _The Merchant of Venice, Richardthe Second_, and the _Essays of Elia_; the younger forms, _TanglewoodTales_ and Kingsley's _Heroes_. She had set the questions not only as atest of memory, but with a view of drawing out original thought. But,to judge from her groans and lamentations, the result was poor.
"Of all the dull, stupid, unimaginative--_sheep_! Not an original ideabetween them. Every answer exactly like the last--a hash-up of my ownremarks in class. If there's a creature on earth I despise more thananother, it's an English flapper. Silly, vain, egotistical--"
Then the French mistress would scowl across the table, and say, "Nowyou've put me out! I was just counting up my marks. Oh, do be quiet!"
"Sorry!" Cecil would say shortly, and taking up her pencil slashscathing comments at the side of the foolscap sheets. Anon she wouldsmile, and smile again, and forgetting Claire's request, would interruptonce more.
"Can you remember the name of Florence Mason?"
"If I strain my intellect to its utmost, I believe I can."
"Well, remember, then! It will be worth while. She'll do something--that girl. When you are an insignificant old woman, you may be proud toboast that you used to sit at the very table on which her first Englishessays were corrected."
"So they are not all dull, stupid, unimaginative?"
"The exception proves the rule!" cried Cecil, and swept the paperstogether with a sigh of relief. "Done at last. Now for my blouse."
Claire cast a glance at the clock.
"Half-past ten. And you are so tired. Surely you won't begin to sew atthis hour?"
/> "I must. I want it for Saturday. I tried it on last night, and itwasn't a bit nice at the neck. I've got to alter it somehow."
"I have some trimming upstairs. Just be quiet for five minutes, while Ifinish my list, and then I'll bring down my scrap-box, and we'll seewhat we can find."
That scrap-box was in constant request during the next weeks. It wasfilled with the dainty oddments which a woman of means and tastecollects in the course of years; trimmings and laces, and scraps of finebrocades; belts and buckles, and buttons of silver and paste; glitteringends of tinsel, ends of silk and ribbons that were really too pretty tothrow away, and cunning little motifs which had the magic quality ofdisguising deficiencies and making both ends meet. Claire gave with alavish hand, and Cecil's gratitude was pathetic in its intensity. Moreand more as the weeks passed on did she become obsessed with the crazefor decking herself in fine garments; new gloves, shoes, and veils werepurchased to supplement the home-made garments, and one memorable nightthere arrived a large dress-box containing an evening dress and cloak.
"I have been out so little these last years. I have no clothes towear," Cecil said in explanation. "It's not fair to--er--people, whenthey take you about, to look as if you had come out of the Ark... Andthese ready-made things are _so_ cheap!"
She spoke with an air of excusing herself, and with a flush ofembarrassment on her cheeks, and Claire hastened to sympathise andagree. She wondered if the embarrassment arose from the fact that forthe last two weeks Cecil had not paid her share of the joint expenses!The omission had happened naturally enough, for on each occasion whenthe landlady appeared with the bill, Cecil had been absent on one of hernow frequent excursions, when it had seemed the simplest thing to settlein full, and await repayment next day.
Repayment, however, had not come. Half a dozen times over Cecil hadexclaimed, "Oh, dear, there's that money. I _must_ remember!" butapparently she never had remembered at a moment when her purse was athand.
Claire was honestly indifferent. The hundred pounds which she haddeposited in a bank was considerably diminished, since it had been drawnon for all her needs, but the term's salary would be paid in a shorttime, and the thought of that, added to the remainder, gave her apleasant feeling of ease. It was only when for the third Saturday Cecilhurried off with an air of fluster and embarrassment, that an unpleasantsuspicion arose. The weekly bill was again due, and Cecil had notforgotten, she was only elaborately pretending to forget! Claire wasnot angry, she was perfectly willing to play the part of banker untilthe end of the term, but she hated the thought that Cecil was acting apart, and deliberately trying to deceive. What if she had beenextravagant in her expenditure on clothes and had run herself short fornecessary expenses, there was nothing criminal in that! Foolish itmight be, but a fellow-girl would understand that, after being staid andsensible for a long, long time, it was a blessed relief to the femininemind to have a little spell of recklessness for a change. Cecil hadonly to say, "I've run myself horribly short. Can you pay up till I getmy screw?" and the whole matter would have been settled in a trice. Butto pretend to forget was so _mean_!
The next morning after breakfast the vexed question of the Christmasholidays came up for discussion for the twentieth time. Cecil hadpreviously stated that she always spent the time with her mother, but itnow appeared that to a certain extent she had changed her plans.
"I shall have to go down over Christmas Day and the New Year, I suppose.Old people make such a fuss over those stupid anniversaries, but Ishall come up again on the second. I prefer to be in town. We have topay for the rooms in any case, so we may as well use them."
Claire's face lengthened.
"_Pay_ for them! Even if we go away?"
"Of course. What did you expect? The landlady isn't let off her ownrent, because we choose to take a holiday. There's no saving except forthe light and coal. By the way, I owe you for a third week now. I_must_ remember! Have you decided what you are going to do?"
Claire shook her head. It was a forlorn feeling that Christmas wascoming, and she had nowhere to go. Until now she had gone on in faith,feeling sure that before the time arrived, some one would remember herloneliness, and invite her if only for the day itself. Possibly Cecilin virtue of three months' daily companionship would ask her mother'spermission to invite her friend, if only for a couple of days. Orbright, friendly Sophie Blake, who had sympathised with her loneliness,might have some proposition to make, or Mrs Willoughby, who was sointerested in girls who were working for themselves, or MissFarnborough, who knew that it was the French mistress's first Christmaswithout her mother; but no such suggestion had been made. No one seemedto care.
"I must say it's _strange_ that no one has invited you!" said Cecilsharply. "I don't think much of your grand friends if they can't lookafter you on Christmas Day. What about the people in Brussels? Did noone send you an invitation? If you lived there for three years, surelyyou must know some one intimately enough to offer to go, even if theydon't suggest it."
"It is not necessary, thank you," said Claire with an air. "I have anopen invitation to several houses, but I am saving up Brussels forEaster, when the weather will be better, and it will be more of achange. And I have an old grand-aunt in the North, but she is aninvalid, confined to her room. I should be an extra trouble in thehouse. I shall manage to amuse myself somehow. It will be anopportunity for exploring London."
"Oh well," Cecil said vaguely, "when I come back!" but she spoke no wordof Christmas Day.
The next week brought the various festivities with which SaintCuthbert's celebrated the end of the Christmas term. There was a schooldance in the big class-room, a Christmas-tree party, given to thechildren in an East End parish, and last and most important of all thebreaking-up ceremony in the local Town Hall, when an old girl, nowdeveloped into a celebrated authoress, presented the prizes, and gave anamusing account of her own schooldays, which evoked storms of applausefrom the audience, even Miss Farnborough smiling benignly at the recitalof misdoings which would have evoked her sternest displeasure on thepart of present-day pupils! Then the singing-class girls sang a shortcantata, and the eldest girls gave a scene from Shakespeare, very dulland exceedingly correct, and the youngest girls acted a little Frenchplay, while the French mistress stood in the wings, ready to prompt, herface very hot, and her feet very cold, and her heart beating at expressspeed.
This moment was a public test of her work during the term, and she had ahorror that the children would forget their parts and disgrace theirleader as well as themselves. She need not have feared, however, forthe publicity which she dreaded was just the stimulus needed to spur thejuvenile actors to do their very best, and they shrugged, theygesticulated, they rolled their r's, they reproduced Claire's own littlemannerisms with an _aplomb_ which brought down the house. Claire's lackof teaching experience might make her less sound on rules and routine,but it was obvious that she had succeeded in one important point; shehad lifted "French" from the level of a task, and converted it into aliving tongue.
Miss Farnborough was very gracious in her parting words to her newmistress.
"I have not come to my present position without learning to trust myperceptions," said she. "I recognised at once that you possessed thetrue teaching instinct, and to-day you have justified my choice. I havehad many congratulations on your pupils' performance." Then she heldout her hand with a charming smile. "I hope you will have very pleasantholidays!"
She made no inquiries as to the way in which this young girl was tospend her leisure. She herself was worn-out with the strain of the longterm, and when the morrow came she intended to pack her bag, and startoff for a sunny Swiss height, where for the next few weeks it would beher chief aim to forget that she had ever seen a school. But the newFrench mistress turned away with a heavy heart. It seemed at thatmoment as if nobody cared.
That year Christmas fell on a Monday. On the Saturday morning Cecilpacked up her bag, and departed, grumbling, for h
er week at home.Before she left, Claire presented her with a Christmas gift in the shapeof a charming embroidered scarf, and Cecil kissed her, and flushed, andlooked at the same time pleased and oppressed, and hastily pulling outher purse extracted two sovereigns and laid them down on the table.
"I keep forgetting that money! Three weeks, wasn't it? There's twopounds; let me know the rest when I come back and I'll settle up.Christmas is an awful time. The money simply melts."
Claire had an uncomfortable and wholly unreasonable feeling of beingpaid for her present as she put the two sovereigns in her purse. Cecilhad given her no gift, and the lack of the kindly attention increasedthe feeling of desolation with which she returned to her empty room.Even the tiniest offering to show that she had been thought of, wouldhave been a comfort!
The landlady came into the room to remove the luncheon tray, her lipspursed into an expression which her lodger recognised as the preliminaryto "a bit of my mind." When the outlying cruets and dishes had beencrowded together in a perilous pile, the bit of her mind came out.
"I was going to say, miss, that of course you will arrange to dine outon Christmas Day. I never take ladies as a rule, but Miss Rhodes, shesaid, being teachers, you would be away all holiday time. I never had alodger before who stayed in the house over Christmas, and of course youmust understand that we go over to Highgate to my mother's for the dayand the girl goes out, and I couldn't possibly think of cooking--"
"Don't be afraid, Mrs Mason. I am going out for the day."
Mrs Mason lifted the tray and carried it out of the room, shutting thedoor behind her by the skilful insertion of a large foot encased in acashmere boot, and Claire stood staring at her, wondering if it werereally her own voice which had spoken those last words, and from whatsource had sprung the confidence which had suddenly flooded her heart.At this last blow of all, when even the little saffron-coloured parlourclosed the door against her, the logical course would have been tocollapse into utter despair, instead of which the moment had brought thefirst gleam of hope.
"Now," said the voice in her heart, "everyone has failed me. I amhelpless, I am alone. This is God's moment. I will worry no more, butleave it to Him. Something will open for me when the time arrives!"
She went upstairs, put on her hat, and sallied out into the busystreets. All the world was abroad, men and women and small eagerchildren all bent on the same task, thronging the shops to the doors,waiting in rows for the favour of being served, emerging triumphant witharms laden with spoils. On every side fragments of the sameconversation floated to the ears. "What can I get for Kate?"
"I can't think what in the world to buy for John."
"Do try to give me an idea what Rose would like!..."
Claire mingled with the throng, pushed her way towards the crowdedcounters, waited a preposterous time for her change, and then hurriedoff to another department to go through the same struggle once more.Deliberately she threw herself into the Christmas feeling, turning herthoughts from herself, considering only how she could add to the generalhappiness. She bought presents for everybody, for the cross landlady,for the untidy servant girl, for Sophie Blake, and Flora Ross, for themaid at Saint Cuthbert's who waited upon the Staff-Room, with aselection of dainty oddments for girl friends at Brussels, and when thepresents themselves had been secured she bought prettily tinted paper,and fancy ribbons, and decorated name cards for the adornment of theparcels.
The saffron parlour looked quite Christmas-like that evening, and Claireknew a happy hour as she made up her gifts in their dainty wrappings.They looked so gay and seasonable that she decided to defer putting theminto the sober outer covering of brown paper as long as possible. Theywere all the Christmas decoration she would have!
On Sunday morning the feeling of loneliness took an acute turn. Clairelonged for a church which long association had made into a home; for aclergyman who was also a friend; for a congregation of people who knewher, and cared for her well-being, instead of the long rows of strangefaces. She remembered how Cecil had declared that in London a girlmight attend the same church for years on end, and never hear a word ofwelcome, and hope died low in her breast. The moment of exaltation hadpassed, and she told herself drearily that on Christmas afternoon shemust take a book and sit by the fire in the waiting-room of some greatstation, dine at a restaurant, and perhaps go to a concert at night.
For weeks past Claire had been intending to go to a West End church tohear one of the finest of modern preachers. She decided to go thismorning, since the length of journey now seemed rather an advantage thana drawback, as helping to fill up another of the long, dragging hours.
She dressed herself with the care and nicety which was the result of herFrench training, and which had of late become almost a religious duty,for the study of the fifteen women who daily assembled round the tablein the Staff-Room was as a danger signal to warn new-comers of theperils ahead. With the one exception of Sophie Blake, not one of thenumber seemed to make any effort to preserve their feminine charm. Theydressed their hair in the quickest and easiest fashion withoutconsidering the question of appearance; they wore dun-coloured garmentswith collars of the same material; though severely neat, all theirskirts seemed to suffer from the same depressing tendency to drop at theback; their bony wrists emerged from tightly-buttoned sleeves. Thepoint of view adopted was that appearance did not matter, that it waswaste of time to consider the adornment of the outer woman. Brain wasthe all-important factor; every possible moment must be devoted to thecultivation of brain; but an outsider could not fail to note that, withthis destroying of a natural instinct, something which went deeper thanthe surface was also lost; with the grace of the body certain femininegraces of soul died also, and the world was poorer for their loss.
The untidy servant maid peered out of the window to watch Claire as sheleft the house that morning, and evolved a whole feuilleton to accountfor the inconsistency of her appearance with her position as a firstfloor front. "You'd take her for a lady to look at her! P'raps she_is_ a lady in disguise!" and from, this point the making of thefeuilleton began.
The service that morning was food to Claire's hungering soul, for thewords of the preacher might have been designed to meet her own need. Asshe listened she realised that the bitterness of loneliness wasimpossible to one who believed and trusted in the great, all-compassinglove. Sad one might still be, so long as the human heart demanded ahuman companionship, but the sting of feeling uncared for, could nevertouch a child of God. She took the comfort home to her heart, andstored it there to help her through the difficult time ahead, and on herknees at the end of the service she sent up her own little petition forhelp.
"There are so many homes in this great city! Is there no home for me onChristmas Day?" With the words the tears sprang, and Claire mopped hereyes with her handkerchief, thankful that she was surrounded bystrangers by whom her reddened eyes would pass unnoticed. Then risingto her feet, she turned to lift the furs which hung on the back of thepew, and met the brown eyes of a girl who had been sitting behind herthe whole of the service.
The girl was Janet Willoughby.
The Independence of Claire Page 10
