The Independence of Claire Part 13

What a perfect dear Miss Willoughby seems to be!"

"Janet? She _is_!" he said warmly. "She is a girl who has had everything the world can give her, and yet has come through unspoiled.

It's not often one can say that. Many society girls are selfish and vain, but Janet never seems to think of herself. You'd find her an ideal friend."

Claire's brain leapt swiftly to several conclusions. Janet Willoughby was devoted to Mrs Fanshawe; Mrs Fanshawe returned her devotion.

Janet Willoughby was rich, and of good birth. Mrs Fanshawe had mentally adopted her as a daughter-in-law. Given the non-appearance of a rival on the scene, her desire would probably be fulfilled, since such sincere liking could easily ripen into love. Just for a moment Claire felt a stab of that lone and lorn feeling which comes to solitary females at the realisation of another's happiness; then she rallied herself and said regretfully--

"I'm afraid I shan't have the chance! Our lives lie too far apart, and my time is not my own. It is only an occasional Sat.u.r.day-night that I can play Cinderella."

"What do you do on Sundays?"

"Go to church in the morning, and sleep in the afternoon. Sounds elderly, doesn't it? But I do enjoy that sleep. The hour after lunch is the most trying of the school day. It's all I can do sometimes to smother my yawns, and not upset the whole cla.s.s. It's part of the Sunday rest to be able to let go, lie down hugging a hot bottle, and sleep steadily till it's time for tea."

"Where do you go to church?"

"Oh!" Claire waved an airy hand, "it depends! I've not settled down.

I am still trying which I like best."

Across the table the two pairs of eyes met. The man's questioning, protesting, the girl's steadily defiant. "Why won't you tell me?" came the unspoken question. "Why won't you give me a chance?"

"I am too proud," came the unspoken answer. "Your mother did not think me good enough. I will accept no acquaintance by stealth."

Interruption came in the shape of the waiter bearing a tray of little silver dishes filled with dainties, which he proceeded to arrange in rows on the table. Claire relapsed into giggles at the sight, and Captain Fanshawe took refuge, man-like, in preternatural solemnity; but he made no comment, and the moment that the man had disappeared, both heads craned eagerly to examine the spoils.

"Chocolates, _marrons glacis_, crystallised peaches, French bon-bons, plums. I don't recognise them by head mark. These are too sticky...

These look uncommonly good!" The big fingers hovered over each dish in turn, lifting sample specimens, and placing them on Claire's plate, whence they were swiftly conveyed to her bag. Not a single sweetmeat touched her own lips. The unconventionality of the action seemed to receive some justification from the fact that she was confiscating only her own share. When the waiter returned with ices, the little bag bulged suspiciously, and the silver dishes were no longer required. The waiter was ordered to carry them away, and plainly considered that some people did not know what they wanted.

"The only thing lacking is a cracker. I invariably purloined a cracker, and doubled up the ends. I suppose we are hardly near enough to Christmas. By the by, what are you doing for Christmas? You will have holidays, of course," Captain Fanshawe said, with an elaborate unconsciousness, and Claire kept her eyes on her plate.

"I may go to Belgium. I haven't decided."

"There seem to be a good many things you cannot--decide. Miss Gifford, you haven't forgotten what I asked you?"

"What did you ask?"

"That if ever I could help--if you ever needed help--"

"I shall want help badly during the next few weeks, when the examinations come on, and I have all the papers to set and correct."

Captain Fanshawe refused to smile.

"The kind of help that a man can give--"

"Yes, I remember. You were very kind, and I am still so much under the influence of the old life that I do feel you might be a comfort; but no doubt, after some more months of school-mistressing, I shall resent the idea that a man could do any more than I could myself. So it's a case of soon or never. You will hardly be cruel enough to wish to hasten my extremity!"

"I'm not so sure about that, if I could have the satisfaction of putting things to rights!"

It was while she was smiling her acknowledgment of this pretty speech that Claire became conscious of Janet Willoughby's eyes bent searchingly upon her. She had entered the room on the arm of her supper partner, and came to a pause not a yard away from the table where a very animated, apparently very intimate conversation was taking place between the son of her old friend and the girl to whom she had believed him to be unknown. As she met Claire's glance, Janet smiled automatically, but the friendliness was gone from her glance. The next moment Captain Fanshawe, had turned, seen her, and sprung to his feet.

"Janet! Are you waiting for a table? We have nearly finished. Won't you sit down and talk to Miss Gifford?"

"Oh, please don't hurry... We'll find another place. You have met before, then? I didn't know."

"I saw Miss Gifford when she was befriending my mother at Liverpool Street Station, and recognised her upstairs just now. Do sit down, Janet. You look tired."

Janet Willoughby took the offered chair and exchanged a few words with Claire as she gathered together her possessions, but the subtle change persisted. Claire felt vaguely disturbed, but the next half-hour pa.s.sed so pleasantly that she had no time to puzzle over the explanation.

Captain Fanshawe never left her side; they sat together on the same sofa which Great-aunt Jane had monopolised for the earlier part of the evening, and talked of many things, and discussed many problems, and sometimes agreed, and oftener disagreed, and when they disagreed most widely, looked into each other's eyes and smiled, as who should say, "What do words matter? We understand!"

At one o'clock Claire rose to depart, and said her adieu to her hostess and her daughter, who were standing side by side.

"My dear, it is too bad. I have had _no_ time with you, and I am so grateful for the charming way in which you came to the rescue! We shall hope to see you often again. Shan't we, Janet? You girls must arrange a day which suits you both."

"Oh, yes, we must!" Janet said, as she shook hands, but she made no attempt to make the arrangement there and then, as her mother obviously expected, and Claire realised, with a sinking of the heart, that a promised friendship had received a check.

When she descended to the hall wrapped in her filmy cloak it was to find Captain Fanshawe waiting at the foot of the stairs. He looked worried and grave, and the front door was reached before he made the first remark. Then, lingering tentatively on the threshold, he looked down at her with a searching glance.

"Is--er--is your address still the Grand Hotel?"

Claire's face set into firm lines.

"Still the Grand Hotel!"

For a moment he looked her steadily in the eyes, then said quietly--

"And my address is still the Carlton Club!" He bowed, and turned into the house.

The footman banged the door of the taxi, and stood awaiting instructions.

"T-wenty-two, Laburnum Crescent," said Claire weakly. Halfway through the words a sudden obstacle arose in her throat. It was all she could do to struggle through. She hoped to goodness the footman did not notice.

"There now! what did I tell you? You look f.a.gged to death, and as cross as two sticks. Five shillings wasted on taxis, and nothing for it but getting thoroughly upset. Next time I hope you will take my advice!"

said Cecil, and took up her candle to grope her way up the dark stairway to bed.

CHAPTER TEN.

NOWHERE TO GO.

Cecil's observance of her day of licenced grumbling was somewhat obstructed by the fact that for several weeks after Mrs Willoughby's At Home, Monday mornings found her in a condition of excitement and gaiety.

It was a restless gaiety, which seemed to spring rather from the head than the heart, and Claire looking on with puzzled eyes had an instinct that her companion was a.s.siduously whipping up her own spirits, playing the part of happiness with all her force, with the object of convincing the most critical of all audiences--her own heart! Life was a lonely thing to Claire in these days, for Cecil went out regularly every Sat.u.r.day and Sunday, returning so late that the two girls did not meet from lunch one day until breakfast the next. She vouchsafed no explanation of her sudden plunge into society, neither beforehand when she sat st.i.tching at pathetic little pieces of finery, nor afterwards when 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 first suggested the idea of a man to Claire's mind. However dear and intimate a woman friend may be, the prospect of meeting her does not inspire a fellow-woman with sufficient energy to sit up until after midnight to cover a shabby lace blouse with ninon, or to put a new silk collar and cuffs on a half-worn coat. It is only the prospect of meeting the eyes of some male creature, who in all probability will remain supremely unconscious of the result, which stimulates such effort, and Claire, noting Cecil's restless excitement, cast anxious thoughts towards the particular man in this case.

Was Sophie Blake correct in her deduction as to a previous unhappy romance? Claire had no tangible grounds to lead her to a conclusion, but instinct induced her to agree. Something beyond the troubles of her professional life had gone towards warping a nature that was naturally generous and warm. In imagination Claire lived over the pitiful romance. Poor Cecil had been badly treated. Some selfish man had made love to her, amusing his idle hours with the society of a pretty, clever woman; he had never seriously intended marriage, but Cecil had believed in his sincerity, had given him her whole heart, had dreamt dreams which had turned the grey of life to gold.

And then had come the end. How had the end come? Some day when they were walking together, had he suddenly announced: "I am sailing to India next month!" or, "We have been such capital friends, you and I. I should like you to be the first to hear my news. I am engaged to be married to the dearest girl in the world!" Then, because convention decrees that when her heart is wounded a woman may make no moan, had Cecil twisted her lips into a smile, and cried, "I am so glad to hear it. I hope you will be very happy," while the solid earth rocked around her? At such thoughts as these Claire flared with righteous anger. "If that should ever happen to me, I wouldn't pretend! I wouldn't spare him. I should look him straight in the face, and say, 'And all this time you have been pretending to love me.--I thank G.o.d that it _was_ pretence. I thank G.o.d that He has preserved me from being the wife of man who could act a double part!'"

But perhaps there had been no real ending. Perhaps the man had simply grown tired, and ceased to call, ceased to write. Oh, surely that would be the greatest tragedy of all! Claire's quick brain summoned pictures of Cecil creeping down the oil-clothed stairs in her dressing-gown at the sound of the postman's earliest knock, and creeping back with no letter in her hand; of Cecil entering the little parlour on her return from work with a swift hungry look at the table on which the day's letters were displayed; seeing no letter lying there; never, never the letter for which she watched! And the days would pa.s.s, and the weeks, and the months, and the old routine of life would go on just the same.