The Independence of Claire Part 11

Janet Willoughby's smile showed a quick approval.

"That was kind! Thanks for the good intention, but I can't let you be victimised any more. I want to talk to you myself, and half-a-dozen men have been asking for introductions to the girl with the green sash. You know Mrs Fanshawe, don't you? Isn't she charming? She and I are the greatest of chums. I always say she has never succeeded in growing older than seventeen. She is so delightfully irresponsible and impulsive. She wrote mother a charming letter about you. It made us quite anxious to meet you, but you know what town life is--a continual rush! Everything gets put off."

"It was awfully good of you to ask me at all, and very kind of Mrs Fanshawe to write. I only know her in the most casual way. We crossed over from Antwerp together, and her maid was ill, and I was able to be of some use, and when she heard that I was coming to work in London and that I knew n.o.body 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 some unexplained reason Miss Willoughby was more pleased than annoyed by the intelligence. An air of something extraordinarily like relief pa.s.sed over her features. She laughed gaily and said--

"I don't think anything at all except that it is delightfully like Mrs Fanshawe. She wrote as if she had known you for ages. As a matter of fact she probably _does_ know you quite well. She is so extraordinarily quick and clever, that she crowds as much life into an hour as an ordinary person does into a week. She told us that you had chosen to come 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... You don't look in the least like a school-mistress."

"Ah! I'm off duty to-night! You should see me in the morning, in my working clothes. You should see me at night, correcting exercises on the dining-table in a lodging-house parlour, and cooking sausages in a chafing-dish for our evening meal. I 'dig' with the English mistress, and do most of our cooking myself, as the landlady's tastes and ours don't agree. I'm getting to be quite an expert at manufacturing sixpenny dainties."

Janet Willoughby breathed a deep sigh; the diamond star on her neck sent out vivid gleams of light.

"What fun!" she sighed enviously. "What fun!" and as she spoke there flashed suddenly before the eyes of her listener a picture of the English mistress lying on the green plush sofa, her shabby slippers showing beneath the hem of her shabby skirt, spending the holiday Sat.u.r.day evening at home because she had no invitations to go out, and no money to spare for an entertainment. "Oh, I _do_ envy you!" sighed Janet deeply. "It's one of my greatest ambitions to share rooms with a nice girl, and live the simple life, and be free to do whatever one liked. Mother loves independence in other girls, but her principles don't extend to me. She says an only daughter's place is at home. But you are an only daughter, too."

"I am; but other circ.u.mstances were different. It was a case of being dependent 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' work I have a conviction that I shall regret it more and more as time goes on; but if I had to decide again, I'd do just the same. It's a question of principle versus so many things--laziness and self-indulgence, and wanting to have a good time, and the habits of a lifetime, and irritation 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 get tired 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 inventing new ways to help the girls. It's the all work and no play that gets on one's nerves, and the feeling of being cut off from the world by an impa.s.sable barrier of something that really doesn't exist. People have a prejudice against school-mistresses. They think they are dull, and proper, and pedantic. If they want to be complimentary they say, 'You don't look like a school-mistress.' You did yourself, not two minutes ago. 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 the chance of putting on pretty things again."

Janet Willoughby put her hand on Claire's arm and piloted her deftly through the crowd.

"Now," she said firmly, "you just stay here, and I'll bring up all the nicest men in the room, and introduce them in turns. You _shall_ have a good time, and you are wearing the very prettiest things in the room--if it's any comfort to you to hear it. We won't talk about school any more. To-night is for fun!"

The next hour pa.s.sed on flying feet, while Claire sat the queen of a little court, and Janet Willoughby flitted to and fro, bringing up fresh arrivals to be introduced, and drafting off the last batch to other parts of the crowded rooms. All the men were agreeable and amusing, and showed a flattering appreciation of their position. Claire felt no more interest in one than in another, but she liked them all, and felt a distinct pleasure in talking to men again after the convent-like existence 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 crash of the piano, but always before the end of each performance it rose again, and steadily swelled in volume. In truth, the excellence of the performance was no great inducement to listen, and Mrs Willoughby's forehead showed a pucker of anxiety. She drifted across to Claire's corner, and spoke a few kindly words of welcome, which ended in a half apology.

"I am sorry the music is so poor. It varies so much on different nights. Sometimes we have quite a number of good singers, but to-night there 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 hesitation in Claire's voice. Mrs Willoughby's glance sharpened.

"But you do something? Play? Recite? What is it? My dear, I should be so grateful!"

"I--whistle!" confessed Claire with a blush, and a little babble of delight greeted the words. Every one who heard hailed the chance of a variety in the monotonous programme. Mrs Willoughby beamed with all the relief of a hostess unexpectedly relieved of anxiety.

"Delightful! Charming! My dear, it will be such a help! You would like an accompaniment? I'll introduce you to Mr Helder. He can play anything you like. Will you come now! I am sure every one will be charmed."

There was no time for a second thought. The next moment the long-haired Mr Helder was bowing over Claire's hand, and professing his delight.

The little group in the corner were pressing forward to obtain a point of vantage, and throughout the company in general was pa.s.sing a wordless hum of excitement. Mr Helder was seating himself at the piano, a girl in a white dress had ascended the impromptu platform and now stood by his side, a pretty girl, a very pretty girl, a girl who acknowledged the scattered applause with a smile which showed two dimples on one cheek, a girl who looked neither shy nor conceited, but simply as if she were enjoying herself very much, and expected everybody to do the same. She was going to sing. It would be a relief to listen to singing after the continued performances upon the piano. They hoped sincerely that she could sing well. Why didn't the accompaniment begin?

Then suddenly a white-gloved hand gave a signal, Mr Helder's hands descended on the keys, and at the same instant from between Claire's pursed-up lips there flowed a stream of high, flute-like notes, repeating the air with a bird-like fluency and ease. She had chosen the old-world ballad, "Cherry Ripe," the quaint turns and trills of which lent themselves peculiarly well to this method of interpretation, and the swing and gaiety of the measure carried the audience by storm.

Looking down from her platform Claire could see the indifferent faces suddenly lighten into interest, into smiles, into positive beams of approval. At the second verse heads began to wag; unconsciously to their owners lips began to purse. It was inspiring to watch those faces, to know that it was she herself who had wrought the magic change.

Those moments for Claire were pure undiluted joy. Whistling had come to her as a natural gift, compensating to some extent for the lack of a singing voice; later on she had taken lessons, and practised seriously to perfect her facility. At school in Paris, later on in attending social gatherings with her mother, she had had abundant opportunities of overcoming the initial shyness; but indeed shyness was never a serious trouble with Claire Gifford, who was gifted with that very agreeable combination of qualities,--an amiable desire to please other people, and a comfortable a.s.surance 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 strenuously that Claire was not permitted even to descend from her platform. Mrs Willoughby rustled forward full of grat.i.tude and thanks. Mr Helder rubbed his hands, and beamingly awaited further commands... What would Cecil have to say to a success like this?

Claire's second choice was one of Mendelssohn's "Songs without Words," a quieter measure this time, sweet and flowing, and giving opportunity for a world of delicate phrasing. It was one of the pieces which she had practised with a master, and with which she felt most completely at home; and if the audience found it agreeable to hear, they also, to judge from their faces, found it equally agreeable to watch. Claire's cheeks were flushed to a soft rose-pink, her head moved to and fro, unconsciously keeping time with the air; one little golden shoe softly tapped the floor. Her unconsciousness of self added to the charm of the performance. But once the audience noticed, with sympathetic amus.e.m.e.nt, her composure was seriously threatened, so that the bird-like notes quavered ominously, and the twin dimples deepened into veritable holes.

Claire had caught sight of Great-aunt Jane standing in solitary state at the rear of the throng of listeners, her mittened fingers still plucking, her eyes frosty with disapproval.

After that Claire safeguarded her composure by looking steadily downward at the points of her shoes until the end of the song approached, when it seemed 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 was already on her lips, for there, standing in the doorway, his face upraised to hers, stood her knight of the railway station, the rescuer of the lost box--Erskine Fanshawe himself!

CHAPTER NINE.

THE SUPPER.

Claire stepped down from the platform to be surrounded by a throng of guests all eager to express their admiration of her interesting performance, to marvel how she could "do it," and to congratulate her upon so unusual an accomplishment; and she smiled and bowed, declared that it was quite easy, and perjured herself by maintaining that anyone could do as well, acutely conscious all the time that Captain Fanshawe was drawing nearer with determined steps, edging his way towards the front of the crowd. The next moment her hand was in his, and he was greeting her with the a.s.surance of a lifelong friend.

"Good evening, Miss Gifford. Hadn't we better make straight for supper now? I am sure you must need it."

It was practically the ordinary invitation. There was nothing to find fault with in the words themselves, yet the impression of a previous arrangement was obviously left with the hearers, who fell back, giving way as to a superior right. As for Claire, she laid her hand on the extended arm, with all the good will in the world, and made a triumphant pa.s.sage through the crowd, which smiled upon her as though agreeing that it was now her turn to be amused.

"This table, I think!" Captain Fanshawe said, leading the way to the furthest corner of the dining-room, and Claire found herself sipping a hot cup of soup, and realising that the world was an agreeable place, and that it was folly ever to allow oneself to be downhearted, since such delightful surprises awaited round corners ready to transform the grey into gold!

Captain Fanshawe looked exactly as memory had pictured him--plain of feature, distinguished in bearing, grave, self-contained, yet with that lurking light in his eyes which showed that humour lay beneath. Claire smiled at him across the table, and asked an obvious question--

"Rather a different meeting-place from our last! Did you know me at once?"

"I did," he said, and added deliberately, "Just as you knew me."

"Oh, well!" Claire tried to look unconcerned. "Men are always pretty much the same. Evening dress does not make the same difference to them."